The Other, Better Me Read online

  “You know where that is, right?”

  “Yeah . . . I think.”

  Mallory spins around. “It’s ten thousand miles away. And you’re wasting your time.” Then she returns to her work.

  “Ignore her,” says Kiana, taking my hand. “Before this project is over, she’ll be admitting you’re a genius.”

  Okay, so that might be too much. But, whatever. I’d settle for just showing Mallory she’s wrong.

  10

  Prize-Winning Lemonade

  Mallory’s sitting at the back of the bus on the way home, so Nick and I sit at the front. That’s how we choose our seats—we go wherever Mallory isn’t.

  Tiffany got a ride home, so I don’t have to read about Krunden’s latest alien victims. More important, I don’t have to see the shmorpels’ brains exploding in slow motion over several gunky green pages. I’d never let on to Tiffany, but I’m starting to feel sorry for the shmorpels.

  At 2:55, Nick and I press ourselves against the bus windows and wave like crazy as we pass Gregoria’s Trattoria. Momma waves back. Frankie has wrapped his hands around his head and looks like he’s tearing his mouth open. I wonder if he reads the Krunden books too?

  “What’s his deal?” Mallory calls out as we leave the restaurant behind.

  I turn around without thinking. “Whose deal?” I call back.

  “That guy with your mom.”

  “Frankie? He’s a friend.”

  “Right. A friend.” Mallory adjusts her heavy black boots on the seat back. Her feet must be really hot and sweaty. I’m glad I don’t have to share a bedroom with her. “A friend who hangs out with your mom all the time and tries to impress you every time the bus goes by.”

  I huff. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing.” Mallory gives a little smirk. “Just makes me wonder why you’re wasting your time looking for your dad.”

  My stomach does a little flip. I don’t like having this conversation along the whole length of the bus. “It’s none of your business,” I say defiantly.

  “Oh, come on. I really want to know.”

  I don’t believe her for a second. But Ms. A says the best way to avoid a misunderstanding is to take people at their word. So I say, “Maybe I just want to know who he is.”

  Mallory grunts. “I can answer that. He’s a guy who doesn’t want to see you.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “How many times has he visited? It’s not like you’re hard to find. You’ve been living in that trailer for ten years.”

  “It’s not a trailer.”

  “Fine. Mobile home. Same difference.”

  I hate her for saying that. It’s not our fault we don’t have much money. And it’s not like Mallory’s house is so amazing either. Not like Nick’s.

  “If you must know, my daddy has seen me. And I’ve seen him. On the computer.”

  Mallory slides her feet onto the floor with a thump. “That was years ago, right? When did he stop calling? When you were still a baby?”

  I glare at her. Actually, I was three, but that’s still a lot of years of silence. He doesn’t even send a card on my birthday.

  “Thought so,” she says when I don’t answer.

  In my lap, my hands ball into tight little fists. I’m not crazy enough to fight Mallory Lewis, but I feel like Krunden with a shmorpel in his sights. “You’re . . . mean!” I growl.

  Mallory rolls her eyes. “Yeah. And you’re stupid. Guess we’re even.”

  The bus slows down. Nick taps me on the arm. “Come on. Let’s get off.”

  “This isn’t her stop, genius!” Mallory shouts.

  “No,” says Nick calmly. “But Lola’s coming to my house. That’s how it works with friends. Not that you’d know anything about it.”

  I follow Nick down the bus steps. I can’t believe he just said that. Like me, he’ll usually do anything to avoid an argument, especially with Mallory. And although I like that he stood up for me, I still don’t think I would’ve said it. Calling someone out for not having friends feels worse than calling someone mean.

  We cross the road while the bus’s red STOP sign is still flashing. As the bus pulls away, I steal a glance at Mallory. She’s scowling at us through the window. I don’t think that scowl is going to disappear anytime soon either. She’s gone all igneous on us. And an igneous Mallory can’t be good.

  We walk up the pathway to Nick’s house. It’s huge, with bright red bricks and a pair of gleaming white columns on either side of the front door. Before Nick can put his key in the lock, the door opens wide.

  Katherine, Nick’s sister, stands in the doorway. “Looks like you grew again, Lola.”

  “I guess,” I say. But I still feel small and young beside Kat. She’s a full foot taller than me. The thick red streaks in her hair match her lip gloss. And her clothes . . . let’s just say I don’t think Momma’s going to let me dress like that when I’m sixteen.

  Kat curls an arm around Nick’s shoulders and pulls him close as he struggles to break free. He pretends to hate it when Kat hugs him in front of his friends, but I’ve seen the way they look at each other when the other isn’t watching. It makes me wish more than ever that I had a sibling.

  We all head to the kitchen for a glass of Nick’s lemonade. He made his own recipe for a science fair project last year, and it’s seriously the best lemonade I’ve ever tasted. Everyone in class agreed, even the science teacher. She said it was a clear A grade, just as long as he supplied his “data” and the final recipe.

  Nick said his recipe was secret and took a B.

  He takes a jug from the fridge and pours three tall glasses. He hands one to me. It’s just as good as I remember.

  “So what’s new in school these days?” Kat asks.

  “We’re doing a writing project,” says Nick. “It’s called ‘The Other Me.’ It’s about who we might’ve been if we weren’t who we are.”

  Kat looks confused. “Like, you might’ve been Abraham Lincoln.”

  “No. We have to be us, only different.”

  “Oh. Like, if you’d been born in Kentucky in 1809, you could’ve become a super tall president who liked strange hats.”

  “No!” groans Nick. “I mean—”

  “I’m kidding!” says Kat. “I get it. Other you. Same but different. What’s yours about, Lola?”

  “I’m going to find my daddy.”

  She’s about to take a sip but hesitates. “You mean, you’re going to imagine what it would be like if he were around?”

  “Exactly. And then I’m going to try to find him for real.”

  She bounces the rim of the glass against her lip. “Does your mom know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Hmm. Do you think she’ll be okay with it?”

  “I, uh, think so,” I say as Nick eyes me curiously. “The other day, we were looking at pictures of the two of them together. I think she misses him.”

  “Hmm,” she says again.

  “What’s your project about, Nick?” I ask, so I won’t have to answer any more questions.

  He turns red. “Promise not to tell anyone?”

  “Uh, sure.” I don’t point out that everyone’ll find out when he reads it aloud at the end of the month.

  “I’m imagining what it’d be like to pull off a seven-twenty backflip. Like, flip over twice before landing!”

  “On a bicycle?”

  “No. I’m not crazy! In our swimming pool,” he says, flicking his head toward the large fenced area beyond the patio doors.

  I look at Kat. Kat looks at me. Then Nick.

  “That’s it?” she says. “No offense, Nick, but Lola’s project is way cooler than yours.” She reaches for a magazine on the kitchen countertop to show she’s done with the conversation.

  I walk over to the patio doors. Nick follows me. “Must be nice to have a pool,” I say.

  “Yeah. But Kat and me are the only ones who use it. Dad said he needed it for parties with his
big clients. But all they ever do is stand around eating.”

  I could enjoy eating food in Nick’s backyard. It’s pretty big, and whatever they’re putting on the grass to make it grow works a whole lot better than the stuff Ned uses.

  “What does your dad do again?” I ask.

  “Corporate hospitality. When companies come to Myrtle Beach for retreats and stuff, he organizes everything for them. Rooms at the best hotels. Tables at the nicest restaurants. Shows, fishing trips . . . you name it, he does it. He works crazy long hours, but it means we get free tickets to a bunch of different places.”

  “My momma gets free food from Gregoria’s,” I say.

  “We should trade!”

  “Deal.” I shake his hand. “Oh, but the food might be cold by then.”

  “Then you should just use our pool anyway.”

  “Better make it this weekend, then,” says Kat, closing her magazine. She opens the fridge and helps herself to another glass of Nick’s lemonade. “Dad’s talking about shutting it down for the winter.”

  “What?” grumbles Nick. “It’s only October!”

  “Says the boy who doesn’t have to pay the pool guy.” Kat takes a sip and lets out a satisfied “Ahhhhh.” She leans against the counter. “You free on Saturday, Lola?”

  “I think so. I should probably check . . .” with Momma, I’m about to say. But does Hortense check with her parents before making a decision? No. And neither will I. “Actually, I think I’m free.”

  Kat holds up her hand for us to bump fists. “Cool.”

  11

  Libraries Are for Letters

  “Where have you been?” demands Ms. Archambault.

  She’s standing on her porch. Her hands are jammed against her hips. This is code for I’m not happy. She’s also wearing yoga pants, which reminds me that it’s Monday afternoon and she has to teach a class in—

  “Fifteen minutes!” she snaps. She shows me her watch face. “I should be at the fitness center already!”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  She makes a sound like a horse sneezing. I’m not off the hook yet.

  “So,” she says, quickly marching to the golf cart. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Nick’s house,” I say, climbing onto the golf cart seat beside her.

  Ms. Archambault doesn’t start the engine. Instead, she purses her lips, which is even more serious than hands on hips. “No one told me about you going to Nick’s house today.”

  “No,” I agree. “I was on the bus and . . .”

  Wait! If I tell her about the argument with Mallory, Ms. A will ask what it was about, and I’ll have to tell her about the project and looking for my daddy. Then Ms. A will tell Momma. Which didn’t seem like such a big deal until this afternoon. But Kat sure seemed to think it was.

  “Nick wanted me to try his lemonade,” I say finally. “It was so good, I forgot the time.”

  It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. And now I’m turning bright red, which is not very helpful but completely typical. Momma calls it my “acute guilt complex.” I think that sounds terrible, like a disease, but she says it’ll be very helpful to her when I’m older and want to stay out past curfew.

  Ms. Archambault doesn’t seem so annoyed anymore. “Oh,” she murmurs. “You and Nick . . .” She nods to herself. “Look, just call me in future, okay? That way, I won’t worry.”

  She starts the engine and pulls away. We rumble along the gravel and onto the street. The golf cart is electric, so it’s really quiet. So quiet, I can hear my brain trying to work out what just happened. A moment ago, Ms. Archambault was really ticked off. Now she’s letting me off completely. It doesn’t make sense.

  “He’s a nice boy, Nick,” she continues, not looking at me anymore. “Very polite too. He was talking about you when I chaperoned that class trip to the history museum last year. Remember that?”

  “Uh, yeah.” I remember that trip, all right. But I wasn’t in Ms. Archambault’s group. I was stuck with Mallory’s mom. She spent the whole day snapping at Mallory. If you ask me, you’ve got to be doing something real bad if your own momma doesn’t like you.

  “Are you seeing him again?” Ms. Archambault asks. “Nick, I mean.”

  “Yeah. He and his sister invited me to go use their pool this Saturday. Have I told you about their house? They’ve got five bedrooms, even though there are only four people! I think they might have a cat too, but she doesn’t have her own bedroom.”

  “Poor cat.”

  “Right? Oh, and they’ve got a game room too. And a mini movie theater in the basement.”

  “Hmm.” Ms. Archambault hangs a sharp left. I slide along the seat a little, which is kind of fun.

  “I’m telling you, Ms. A, you could play hide-and-seek in that place and never find someone until their body starts to decompose and get smelly.” Then I remember what happened at last Friday’s yoga class, and I kick myself.

  Ms. Archambault doesn’t seem to notice. “Sounds to me like young Nick has made quite an impression on you.” Then she winks.

  Does she think I have a crush on Nick? Does she think he has a crush on me? That’s crazy! We’ve known each other since kindergarten. That’d be like me having a crush on Kiana. Which I don’t, although I really like her hair.

  “It was really his sister who invited me over,” I say.

  “Sure it was.”

  As we pull into the library parking lot, she turns on the music. Then she notices her fairy lights aren’t on and fixes things just in time. My being late has really thrown her off her game.

  “And did his sister give you anything to eat?” she asks.

  “A snack, yeah. And he gave me some lemonade.”

  “You told me: Nick’s famous recipe.”

  Hearing his name makes me blush again, which is really annoying. Ms. Archambault cackles. She’d make a great movie villain.

  “I’ll meet you outside the library when I’m done,” she says. “Okay?”

  What she really means is that I won’t be counting corpses in her class today. Which is fine, because I don’t want to. Not after Mrs. Samuelson went into eternal Savasana last week. It must be hard for Ms. A, knowing that her friend won’t ever come to class again. Sort of how Momma must have felt when she found out my daddy had been deported. Except there’s still a chance I could bring my daddy back.

  I head straight to the kids’ room. Jayda’s checking out books to a couple of preschool boys. They might even be twins. One thing’s for sure, though: If they keep wrestling those books away from each other the way they are now, there won’t be anything left for Jayda to check back in.

  She’s smiling as they trot away.

  “Glad to see them go?” I ask.

  “No. Just happy they chose good books.”

  “Uh-huh.” I try to cock an eyebrow the way Kiana does, but I can’t pull it off. “Did you give them any choice?”

  She has a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Let’s just say I can be very persuasive when it comes to literature. Exhibit A: that book I gave you on Friday. How is it?”

  “Amazing. Of course.”

  She gives a slight bow. “And you see what I mean about Hortense being your alter ego?”

  “Nope. But I wish I could be more like her.”

  “Interesting,” she says, closing the window on her computer. “I think Hortense could learn a thing or two from you as well. But she’s an aspirational character for sure.”

  “A what?”

  “Aspirational. The kind of person you aspire to be. Someone who has qualities you wish you had.”

  “Exactly, yeah. . . . So, uh, what’s the opposite of aspi-thingy?”

  “Aspirational,” she repeats, only in an English accent this time, so it sounds even more impressive. “I suppose the opposite would be a ‘cautionary’ character. Someone who has the kind of qualities you don’t want to copy.”

  I can think of one cautionary character who rides my bus every day. />
  Jayda curls around her desk and signals for me to follow. “So how has Hortense inspired you?” she asks.

  “She’s smart, for one thing. She’s not afraid to say what she thinks. And she wants to make things better.”

  “All good qualities,” Jayda agrees. She opens the door to the teen room next door. “There’s a reading group in here tonight. So now you can make things better by helping me move the chairs.”

  I’m about to roll my eyes, but I don’t want to be a cautionary character. So I think of Hortense and get on with it.

  Jayda places the chairs in a gentle arc. “Do you have something in mind you want to make better?” she asks.

  “Actually, yeah. I’m trying to find . . .” I pause. Jayda’s real smart, and I could use her help. But what if she thinks it’s not such a great idea to track down a father I’ve never met? What if she asks if Momma knows what I’m doing? “Well, there’s this old friend of my momma’s that I’m trying to track down.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard,” she says. “Have you got an address?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t know if it’s the right one anymore.”

  “How old is it?”

  I have to think about that. It’s from the handwritten letters he wrote to me when I was a baby, so . . .

  “Pretty old,” I say.

  “Well, I’d start by dropping a note. If you get a reply, you nailed it. If not, maybe whoever lives there now will forward it for you.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. As long as the new person who lives in the house mails it on, it might reach my daddy. It’s worth a try.

  The chairs are in place now, but Jayda’s still busy. That’s okay, though. I’ve got a letter to write. And something tells me the best place to do it is right here in the library . . . so that Momma doesn’t catch me doing it.

  I go back into the kids’ room. Jayda has a stack of printer paper on her desk, so I take one sheet and begin to write. I put his address on the left like we learned to do in third grade, and then I begin: Dear . . .

  What do I call him? “Daddy” feels weird. His name is Robbie Howell, but no kid calls her daddy by his first name.