The Other, Better Me Read online

  Dear Mr. Howell . . .

  Next, I try to think of a good introduction: Is spring in Australia as nice as fall in North Myrtle Beach? Boring! Do you miss the ocean, or are you near the ocean in Australia? Still boring! Are you planning to return to North Myrtle Beach anytime soon? I guess not, or he probably would’ve come already.

  Geez! I’ve been at it ten minutes and I still don’t have a single sentence. But maybe that’s because I don’t know him. It’s like trying to say something thoughtful to a person you’re meeting for the first time. I’ll just keep it simple:

  This is your daughter, Lola. I would like it if you could write back to me.

  Sincerely, Lola

  I take one of the envelopes in Jayda’s desk drawer and put the letter inside. Then I lick the flap, glue it shut, and tuck the envelope in my pocket.

  By the time I’m done, it’s almost six o’clock. The corpses should be waking up about now . . . or not. Just thinking about it makes me shiver.

  I go to the teen room to say goodbye to Jayda, then I walk outside. A few minutes later, Ms. Archambault takes me home and feeds me dinner. At seven o’clock, she walks me over to our empty house. As soon as she’s gone, I sneak into Momma’s room. I know those old letters from my daddy are in here somewhere.

  I find them in a dresser drawer. It feels weird to be going through Momma’s things. I don’t think Hortense would do it, and I don’t think she’d lie to Jayda either. But maybe my mission is more complicated than hers.

  If my daddy writes back to me, it’ll all be worth it.

  I take my daddy’s letters through to the kitchen and address my envelope. I don’t know how many stamps I need, so I use five. That ought to do it.

  Finally, I write my name in the top left-hand corner. But a little voice in my head is telling me to be careful now. So instead of writing my home address, I use Kiana’s. She’ll probably think it’s a stroke of genius.

  At least Hortense and I have that in common.

  12

  Kat, Lifestyle Coach

  It’s Saturday afternoon, I’m at Nick’s house, and my swimsuit doesn’t fit.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t know this until a moment ago. Now I’m standing in front of the gigantic mirror in Katherine’s bathroom, and I don’t know what to do.

  I can’t imagine having my own bathroom. Or even needing one. Then again, I also don’t have trays of makeup and two open jewelry boxes stuffed with enough rings and bracelets and earrings to stock a store.

  “You ready?” Kat calls through the door.

  “Almost,” I say.

  Another lie. Why didn’t I try the swimsuit on at home first?

  Kat waits a few moments. “Do you . . . need a hand?”

  “No. No, I just . . .” I just what? Grew two inches? Shrunk my swimsuit in the dryer? “Well, actually, yeah, I do. Sorry.”

  Kat opens the door and glides in. She’s pulled her streaked hair into a high ponytail, and her hoop earrings dance every time she moves. She looks so cool. Unlike me.

  “You’re wearing that?” she asks, pointing at the dark gray one-piece stretched tight across my body.

  “Uh, yeah?” I say, reddening.

  “It looks too small.”

  “And stupid too,” I add.

  “I don’t think it looks stupid,” she says, frowning. “Just too small.”

  She wanders back into her bedroom and starts opening drawers. I stay in the bathroom and look at the suit. Why did I say it looks stupid? Sure, it’s kind of boring—Momma picked it out, not me—but we were both pleased to get it for three dollars when it still had the tags on.

  “How about this one?” she asks.

  My heartbeat suddenly gets a whole lot faster. It’s a two-piece suit with pretty swirling designs. The fabric is so shiny, it reflects the light. It’s exactly the kind of thing Momma would never let me wear.

  “I, uh . . . I can’t,” I say.

  “Sure you can. It’s way too small for me. I only kept it because it used to be my favorite.” She holds it up to my chest, and I get even redder. “I want you to have it.”

  “You mean, keep it?”

  “Yeah. You think I should try to squeeze into a two-piece I outgrew years ago? News flash, Lola. That would not end well!”

  Kat chuckles. Normally, I’d be worried that she’s laughing at me, but I can tell she isn’t.

  “I don’t know,” I murmur, but she can probably see in my face how much I want it.

  “Fine. Squeeze into your old one-piece, then. Just don’t make any sudden movements, okay?” Now she’s cracking up, and so am I. Because it is kind of a funny thought. Horrible, but funny.

  She’s still holding out the swimsuit. The top and bottom together are so thin and small, they fit in the palm of her hand. My heart flutters as I take them from her. “Thanks, Kat,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I love the softness of the material. The brightness of the fabric. But most of all, I like knowing I’ll feel different when I’m wearing it.

  Kat turns to leave. Just before she slips through the open door, I reach out and touch her arm. “Can I ask you something?”

  She steps back inside. “Sure.”

  “You and your mom used to argue a lot, right?”

  “You could say that, yes.” She looks like she’s trying not to laugh again. “We fought all the time.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Specifically? I slammed a lot of doors, got grounded most evenings, and told my mom I wished they’d let me move out.”

  “No. I mean, why did you stop fighting?”

  “Oh! That’s easy. Instead of arguing, I started writing down a list of reasons why Mom and Dad should let me do something. Then I’d give them time to read it. When they were ready, we’d talk about it. At least that way, we’d all go into it feeling calm.”

  “Wow. That’s . . .” Exactly the kind of thing Hortense would do. “Amazing. What did your mom say the first time you did it?”

  She breathes in slowly. “At first, she was shocked. Then she was annoyed for, like, a split second. After that, she had this weird smile like she admired me and wanted to destroy me at the same time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I got the idea from her website. She’s a lifestyle coach, so her entire job is about making people’s lives run more smoothly. But you know what? It worked. Mom and Dad admitted that I was probably ready to have more control over my life. In return, I promised to listen to what they had to say and to be respectful. It’s all about compromise.”

  “So everything worked out?”

  “Well, I still don’t have a car. But at least I get to choose my own clothes now. I’d call that a win.”

  “Me too.”

  “Good,” she says, eyeing me in the mirror. “Now get that swimsuit on. Nick isn’t going to wait for us forever.”

  Nick! I’d forgotten about him. I can’t believe I’m about to wear a tiny two-piece swimsuit in front of a boy. Especially one who gets uncomfortable hearing about shmorpel brains.

  “It’s just a swimsuit, Lola,” Kat says as she leaves.

  I peel off my old suit and pull on the new, gulping as the elastic snaps into place. I feel almost naked, and it’s a strange feeling—not completely nice, but definitely not horrible either.

  As I look at myself in the mirror, I know one thing for sure: This doesn’t feel like just a swimsuit. It’s feels like a step toward another me—the Other Me—and it’s scary and thrilling all at once.

  13

  Dangerous Dives and Dumpster Demons

  “Is that my sister’s swimsuit?” Nick asks, staring at me.

  “Yes,” I say, shrinking a little.

  “Oh.” He does a backflip off the side of the pool, and that’s the end of that.

  I jump in too. The water’s chilly, so I do a few lengths to warm up. Nick hops in and out so he can work on his legendary 720-degree flip. Kat and I clap for him every time he res
urfaces, but to be honest, it just looks painful. His back is so red, it looks like he’s been sunburned.

  Eventually, he gets bored and asks to play tag instead. Kat says she’ll go first, and for the next half hour, we’re flying around the pool and climbing out and jumping back in again, and I totally forget about my new swimsuit.

  We’re still splashing around when Mrs. Merlo brings us a tray of drinks with little umbrellas in them. There’s a plate of sandwiches with the crusts cut off too. I once asked Momma if she could cut off the crusts for me. At first, she got quiet. Then she said we could eat for a week on the food that Gregoria’s diners waste every day. Thinking about that made me sad because Gregoria’s food is amazing. So now I always eat the crusts.

  “Would you like a drink, Lola?” Nick’s mom crouches beside the pool and hands me a plastic cup.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Merlo,” I say.

  “Please, call me Tricia.”

  “Uh . . .” There’s no way I’m calling her by her first name. Momma would kill me, if Ms. Archambault didn’t get to me first. “Thanks,” I say again.

  Mrs. Merlo leaves the sandwiches on the metal deck table. Kat climbs out of the pool and helps herself. So does Nick. I get out too and feel the breeze blowing over parts of me that don’t normally feel the breeze.

  “Towels are on the chair,” says Kat, pointing.

  Nick bounds over and grabs two of them. He hands one to me.

  We sit on black metal chairs that are warm from the sun. Nick stuffs his face with sandwiches, and Kat stares beyond the pool to the Intracoastal Waterway at the end of their yard. The waterway looks like a river, but it’s actually a canal. A few miles to the right is the town of Little River, where the waterway meets the ocean. That’s probably where Nick’s dad goes on the speedboat that’s tied to their wooden dock.

  “What’s in that direction?” I ask, pointing to the left.

  Kat peers at me over her thick-rimmed sunglasses. “Goes all the way to Georgetown,” she says. “It’d probably take all day to get there and back, though.” She pushes her sunglasses back up her nose and stares into the distance again as a couple Jet Skis weave lazily along the canal.

  The patio doors slide open, and Mrs. Merlo appears with another jug of Nick’s lemonade. She refills my glass.

  “Thanks,” I say. “And for the sandwiches too. They’re great.”

  She beams. “You’re welcome, Lola. And so are both of you,” she tells Kat and Nick.

  “Thanks, Mom,” says Nick.

  “Mmm-mmm,” says Kat, pretending she’s got a mouthful of food.

  “And when you’re done eating, I could use a hand with something,” Mrs. Merlo continues. “I’ve been cleaning out.”

  Kat deflates like a balloon. Nick sinks deeper into his chair. If Ms. Archambault were here, she’d have strong words with them about being respectful.

  “Sure thing, Mrs. Merlo,” I say. “Let’s do it now!”

  Sighing, Kat and Nick follow me into the house. Thick carpet scrunches beneath my feet and massages my toes. The walls are the color of the summer sky and are dotted with watercolor paintings of the ocean.

  We wind along a hallway and into a room at the far end. It’s got almost as much exercise equipment as the fitness center. Or maybe it just seems that way because of the mirrors on the walls.

  “Now that I’ve bought a proper exercise bike, I can retire this old stationary trainer,” Mrs. Merlo tells her kids. She taps her foot against a triangular stand planted firmly on the floor. The back wheel of a space-age-looking bicycle is bolted into it. The tire presses against a metal roller. I guess it’s so she can stay in place while she works out on her bike, instead of accidentally flying into one of the enormous mirrors. “Once you take the bike off the trainer, just pop it in the garage. Okay?”

  “Where do we put the old trainer?” Kat asks.

  “Might as well stick it next to the dumpsters. Someone’ll take it.”

  Nick unscrews large bolts from either side of the bike’s back wheel while I hold the bike to stop it from falling over. When the wheel is free, Kat picks up the bike and carries it out of the room like it weighs nothing.

  “Kat’s strong,” I say.

  “Nah,” says Nick. “But she’s smart. She knows this trainer is way heavier than that bike.”

  I think he may be right. It takes both of us to carry the metal contraption down the hall. I’m out of breath when we reach the front door. Luckily, Kat reappears to lend a hand.

  For the next few minutes, we carry the bicycle trainer along their empty street. I feel a little self-conscious in the new swimsuit. I sure hope Momma doesn’t decide to pay us a visit.

  It’s only a short block, about ten houses long. At the end, the road almost bumps into the waterway before curving sharply left. There’s a pair of dumpsters on the corner, almost hidden behind a pretty wooden fence.

  We place the bike trainer beside the nearest dumpster. I can’t believe they’re just throwing it away. It looks almost new.

  “Time for the trash termites,” says Kat.

  “A donation for the dumpster demons,” says Nick.

  They bump fists.

  “So . . . someone’ll just take it?” I ask.

  “Yup. It’s almost magical,” says Nick. “It’s like tooth fairies stealing your teeth from under the pillow. Except the waste weevils don’t leave five bucks behind.”

  Five bucks? I guess there must be a different tooth fairy on their street.

  “Why don’t you sell it?” I ask.

  “That’s what I always say,” grumbles Nick.

  Kat ruffles his hair. “Mom’s all about maximum efficiency in her life. Why spend a couple hours selling something for twenty bucks when you could earn a hundred in the same time, you know?”

  I’m pretty sure my momma’s never made a hundred bucks in two hours, but I nod anyway.

  “Plus, now it’ll go to someone who really wants it,” Kat says, walking away.

  Nick follows her, but I stay behind a few moments. I know someone who could use that trainer. Someone who wants to get fit but can’t afford to go to the gym.

  Now I just need to figure out how on earth I’m going to get it home.

  14

  Christmas in October

  The door is unlocked when I get home, but I know who’s inside. I saw his pickup truck next to Ms. Archambault’s house. “Hi, Ned!” I call out.

  “I’m in the bathroom,” he answers. “Your sink’s not draining.”

  I push open the bathroom door. Ned is wiggling a piece of wire up and down the sink drain hole.

  “You could use a trap,” he says, pulling out a blob of something gross. “Or you could cut off all your hair. Either works for me.”

  “That’s hair?”

  “Sure is.” He flicks it into a plastic bag and pushes the wire into the hole again. “Lovely, ain’t it? One of my favorite jobs.”

  “Really?”

  He pauses to glare at me. “No, Lola. Not really.”

  If there’s an upside to not owning our house, it’s that Ms. Archambault pays for Ned to look after it for us. He used to be a handyman, but he says he’s mostly retired now, so he just does odd jobs for the money. Personally, I love that we have a handyman. Especially considering what he’s pulling out of the drain right now.

  “Your mom’s already at work, by the way,” he says. “I can tell you’re very concerned, so I thought I’d pass that along.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  I was counting on Momma being gone, so she wouldn’t see the swimsuit Kat gave me.

  I slip into my bedroom and close the door. I need to hide the suit until I’ve made my list of reasons to keep it. Then I’ll give Momma the list and talk to her about it when we’re both calm. It’ll take some planning.

  The suit is still damp, so I open my window and hang the two parts from either end of the wooden c
urtain rod. Then I head back to the bathroom and lean against the doorframe. Ned is making some really strange sounds. I don’t know what they mean, but I’m pretty sure he’s not enjoying his job today.

  “Ned,” I say in my friendliest voice.

  “Yes, Lola.”

  “You’ve got a pickup truck, right?”

  “You mean, the one that’s sitting right outside?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  He stops what he’s doing and turns to face me. “What do you want, Lola?”

  “Huh?” I try to look surprised. But I’m turning red, which probably just makes me seem guilty. “Okay, fine,” I say. “Someone left a bike trainer next to a dumpster. I saw it when I was over with Nick and Katherine. I wondered if, you know, we could go get it.”

  Ned runs his hands across his dirty gray T-shirt. “A bike trainer?”

  “Yeah. So your bike doesn’t go anywhere when you’re working out.”

  “I know what it is, Lola. What do you want with it?”

  “Momma’s been saying she wants to work out more.”

  “Hmm.” He rubs his chin so that the sink grime gets in his stubble. No wonder Ms. A plans to stay single. “I think you should talk to her about it when she gets home.”

  “It’ll be gone by then! I just want to do something nice for her, Ned. To show I listen, you know?”

  Ned seems suspicious. He’s right to be too. It’s not just about what Momma wants. A little present from me could really help when it’s time to talk about the swimsuit. Luckily, Ned doesn’t ask too many questions. Even luckier, he’s a total softy, so when I peer up at him with wide eyes and wobble my lower lip—

  “Fine!” he says. “I’ll take you.”

  I run over and hug him. “Thanks, Ned.” Then I lean back. “You kinda stink.”

  He sighs. “You’re welcome, Lola.”

  We head outside. Ned locks the door behind us, and I explain where the dumpster is. As he climbs into his truck, I notice he’s got a lump under his sock again.

  “Are you still wearing that ankle thing?” I ask.

  He lets out an even longer sigh than usual. “Sure am. Don’t want it to get lost.”