The Other, Better Me

by Antony John

  Kiana gulps. Nick gasps. Ms. Del Rio looks worried. “And, uh, by ‘Other Me,’” she murmurs, “you mean fictional you, of course. Correct?”

  “That’s right,” says Kiana quickly. Her head bobs up and down like she’s lost control of her neck. “She means fictional Lola.”

  I’m still focused on Mallory’s head. “I do?” I say.

  “You do,” Kiana assures me.

  “Well, thank goodness. Great job, Lola,” says Ms. Del Rio, like that’s enough shocking revelations for one day. “You sure know how to get our attention. Okay, Mallory. You’re up next.”

  As Mallory sorts through the paper on her desk, Kiana turns to me. “You realize that Ms. Del Rio’s going to call your mom if she finds out our detective work is about Real You, right?”

  “Oh.”

  “We need to keep this mission covert, okay?”

  “What does ‘covert’ mean?”

  “Secret.”

  I think it might be a little late for that.

  “Lola, Kiana, quiet!” says Ms. Del Rio. “Your turn, Mallory.”

  Mallory is eerily still.

  “Come on. Sharing ideas is what school’s all about.”

  Mallory must realize she’s not going to get away with stalling forever. She leans over her desk. “I, uh . . . I’ve been thinking about running. About how I like to run.”

  Ms. Del Rio nods encouragingly.

  “Yeah, and . . . so I thought about what it would be like to be fast. Faster. I’m already fast, see?”

  Someone lets out a little laugh. It’s over in a moment, but Mallory hunches her shoulders like she’s trying to disappear into herself.

  “Please continue,” says Ms. Del Rio.

  Mallory bows her head. “I don’t mean I’m, like, an Olympic runner or anything.”

  Another kid giggles. Then another. Suddenly, the laughter is coming from different pockets of the room. Normally, it’d be nice to see Mallory getting a taste of her own medicine, but I can’t forget last night’s conversation between her and her mom. Now that I know how her mom treats her, I think it’s wrong for her to get laughed at in class as well.

  Everyone’s looking at Mallory, which means they can see me right behind her. So I sit bolt upright and glare at them all to shut up. I guess they’re pretty shocked by it too, because one by one they begin staring at me instead. But then the shock begins to wear off, and they seem to find my fierce looks pretty funny. Actually, even more of them are laughing now.

  Mallory spins around in her chair. “What’s your problem, Lola?” she yells.

  I jerk backward. “What do you mean?”

  “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

  “Mallory!” cries Ms. Del Rio.

  But Mallory isn’t listening. “You’re worse than all of them,” she tells me.

  Ms. Del Rio strides across the room to our desks. “What were you doing, Lola?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “She was pulling this funny face,” says Tobias, bouncing up and down. Then he winks at me, which is probably meant to be nice but makes things even worse.

  “I wasn’t!” I say. “I was trying to—”

  “Enough!” Ms. Del Rio crouches beside Mallory’s desk and looks her right in the eyes. “Tell me more about your project, Mallory.”

  Mallory shakes her head.

  “Please,” she says. “I really want to know.”

  Mallory looks up so suddenly that Ms. Del Rio almost loses her balance. “Why?” she barks. “What does it matter, anyway? None of this is real.”

  Ms. Del Rio takes a moment to reply. “I suppose that’s true. But neither are many of the books we read together in class.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I don’t read them,” Mallory fires back, which is a total lie and Ms. Del Rio knows it.

  “What about TV shows, then?” Ms. Del Rio asks patiently. “Most of them aren’t real either, but we still care about the characters, right?”

  “Not me,” says Mallory. “I don’t even watch TV.”

  Some of the class is giggling again. That’s about the silliest thing they’ve ever heard, so it must be a lie. Only, Momma and I don’t even own a TV. Would they think I was lying too if I told them so?

  Ms. Del Rio continues to stare at Mallory, but little by little, her expression changes. As the laughter dies out, our teacher stands and walks to her desk. By the time she sits down, the room is quiet. Every single one of us has seen this happen before: the moment that a new, fired-up teacher finally gives up on trying to change Mallory Lewis. In the past, I always wondered why the teachers had bothered in the first place. If they’d just asked us, we could’ve told them that Mallory doesn’t care about anything. They’re like that crazy princess who kisses a frog and hopes he turns into a prince. As Mallory would say: None of it’s real, people!

  But now everything feels different. If Ms. Del Rio would talk to me, I could tell her that Mallory really does care, about projects and books. Who knows what else she cares about too? Trouble is, Mallory doesn’t know how to show it. And I think she just blew her last chance.

  21

  As Smart as Hortense

  On Friday, as usual, Ms. Archambault takes me with her when she goes to her Silver Sirens yoga class. She drops me at the library and says she’ll be back just after six. She also says that everyone misses seeing me at yoga.

  Jayda is filling in paperwork when I walk into the children’s section of the library. She has this tired look, like one of those gruff old dogs you see in picture books.

  “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, young lady,” she says, without looking up.

  “A bone?”

  “A big one. Like a femur. But only metaphorically.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” She pulls a book from a pile on her desk and shows me the cover. “Recognize this?”

  It’s a Krunden and the Shmorpels novel. I nod.

  “So the strangest thing happened yesterday,” she begins. “I’m having a relaxing cup of herbal tea when a mother comes in and says her daughter needs the next few books in this series. So I said, ‘Needs, huh? That sounds important.’ And she says, ‘It’s for a book club she’s in.’ And I say, ‘Oh, what grade?’ And she says, ‘Kindergarten.’”

  Jayda gives me a hard stare.

  “Kindergarten!” she says again, like I might’ve missed it. “Which is when I accidentally sprayed the poor woman with a mouthful of peppermint tea. Because there is no way on God’s green earth that any teacher would give a kindergartner a book like this.” She waves it in front of me. “So then I say, ‘What book club is that, just out of interest?’ And she says, ‘It’s run by this girl on my daughter’s bus. Her name is Lola Harmon.’”

  Jayda leans back in her chair and folds her arms. I’ve never been sent to the principal at school, but I’m pretty sure it would feel a lot like this.

  “You aren’t seriously reading this stuff to a five-year-old, are you?” she snaps.

  I shuffle my feet. “I think she’s almost six.”

  “Lola Harmon! This book is for older kids. Much older kids. Shmorpels get pulverized on every page. You’re going to give her nightmares.”

  “She finds it funny. She laughs all the time.”

  Jayda purses her lips. “Okay, that’s a little weird. In any case, you need to stop. I wasted a perfectly good mug of tea over this. And that mother’s shirt isn’t looking so good anymore either, let me tell you.”

  “But you’re always telling parents that the most important thing is to get kids to read.”

  “And is she actually reading them to you? Or are you just reading them to her?”

  Jayda has a point.

  “Plus, there are these things called ‘boundaries.’ That’s why we have a separate teen room. Ask yourself: Would Hortense give those Krunden books to Tiffany?”

  Actually, I think she would if it got Tiffany to read. But Tiffany just stares at the gory pictures. “I
guess you’re right,” I say.

  Her expression softens. “Look, I’m still proud of you for working with Tiffany. The right book in the hands of the right kid is a magical thing. But I think with a little research, you can do better than Krunden.” She offers me a Starburst from the jar on her desk to show there are no hard feelings. “Talking of research, have you made any progress on tracking down your mom’s friend?”

  I undo the wrapper and pop the candy in my mouth. Lime flavor. I should’ve chosen more carefully.

  “I sent a letter,” I say, chewing. “But I haven’t heard back yet.”

  “It’s still early, I suppose.” She spins the large monitor on her desk around so that we can both see it. “Tell me some more about her.”

  “Actually, it’s a him.” I take the seat across from her. “Well, his name is Robbie Howell. He lives in Australia. At least, he used to. He worked with my momma in the bar at the Wyndcrest Hotel. He stayed too long and got deported.”

  “That must’ve been tough.”

  She types in a few words. Instantly, the screen fills with links. She clicks on the first and scans the text with her finger.

  “Here’s a guide to visa overstays,” she says. “A six-month overstay means you can’t return again for three years. If you overstay your visa by a whole year, you’re looking at a ten-year ban.”

  She scrunches up her face like this is terrible news. But my daddy got deported before I was born, and I’m ten now. So either way, his ban should be over. Maybe he could come visit.

  “Any idea where he lives in Australia?” Jayda asks.

  “The address I have is for a place called Perth.”

  She types it in. “Uh-huh. And how old is he?”

  “Just a bit older than Momma. Maybe thirty-five?”

  “Okay, so we have his name and we know he worked in a bar here and we know he’s in his midthirties. That’s something to go on.”

  This time, the links come with photos. It makes it easier for me to scratch some men off the list. After all that, we’re left with three men. One of them looks more familiar than the others.

  “I think that might be him,” I say, pointing.

  Jayda clicks on the photo. There’s not much information about the man, but there’s an email address for his catering business.

  “Do you really think it could be him?” I ask.

  “I think you should ask your mom.” She prints out the page and hands it to me. “Still, emails travel quicker than snail mail, so you might get a response sooner.”

  I don’t have my own email account, but Kiana does. And I think she’ll be happy to send this email.

  “Thanks, Jayda.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says. “Now come and help me shelve.”

  I follow her to the farthest set of shelves, over by the beanbags and the tiny colored chairs I used to sit at before I started Pre-K. It’s strange to think that Jayda has known me for almost all of my life while I’ve known her for only a small part of hers.

  “Hey, Jayda. That stuff you were saying just now about finding the right book for the right person . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “What book would you give to a girl no one listens to?”

  Jayda scratches her chin thoughtfully. It looks even more intelligent on her than when Kiana does it. “How old?”

  “My age.”

  “Hmm. And is the problem that no one listens, or that she doesn’t actually speak her mind?” She gives me a meaningful look.

  After seeing Mallory and her mom at Gregoria’s, I thought the problem was that her mother doesn’t listen. But what about school? No one in my class really knows Mallory either, because she hides who she is. And that’s on her.

  “I’ve got it!” I say excitedly. “She should read the book you gave me. If she could borrow a piece of Hortense, she’d be a happier person.”

  “Sounds like you’ve answered your own question.”

  “And you’d be okay with that?”

  “Sure. I think the author would like it too. That’s sort of the point of printing advance copies.”

  I hand her another book. “What if this girl doesn’t like it?”

  Jayda studies the book she’s holding. It’s old. Probably been checked out a hundred times. I think that’s what she loves about older books. That they’ve been read and enjoyed.

  “You know,” she says, “the great thing about a gift isn’t so much the gift itself as the thought that went into it. Sometimes all anyone wants is to be thought about.”

  That makes sense, although I’m not sure it’s true in Mallory’s case. Actually, I don’t think she’ll read the book at all if she knows it’s from me. But after what happened in class today, I’ve got to try. I need to be brave like Hortense and do the right thing.

  Except I’m clearly not as brave as Hortense. If I were, I’d be heading off to Ms. Archambault’s yoga class right about now.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” says Jayda.

  “I’m thinking I need to go to the fitness center.”

  Her eyebrows rise a little. “I’m sure the Silver Sirens will be glad to see you.”

  Yes, they will.

  I give Jayda a hug and run the couple hundred yards to the fitness center. I walk right in, and the folks at the front desk greet me and wave me on through.

  I stop outside the yoga studio and peer through the tinted window. Ms. Archambault hasn’t begun Savasana yet. When she notices me, she waves for me to come in. So does everyone else.

  I take a deep breath and walk into the studio. Ms. Archambault unfurls a yoga mat in the middle of the floor. “Savasana can be mighty relaxing for a girl with a lot on her mind,” she says.

  I’m scared. The word “corpse” keeps rattling around my brain. But I know deep down that’s just silly. And I can see how much everyone wants me to join in. So I walk to the mat and lie down. Someone folds a towel for me to use as a pillow. I rest my arms flat on the floor and close my eyes like I’ve seen the old people doing.

  Music wafts over us. Ms. Archambault says something about letting go of tension and allowing my muscles to relax one by one. But I can’t silence that voice in my head—the one telling me that Mallory will hate the book, and that no one at the Wyndcrest will remember my parents, and that my momma might get sick again, no matter how well she seems today.

  “Let go of your thoughts,” murmurs Ms. Archambault in a voice as smooth as syrup. “Just let them go.”

  I wish it were that easy.

  For a while, I fight the voice. But finally, I realize it’s easier to live with it. I’m warm and comfortable and surrounded by people who care about me. If this isn’t perfect, it’s pretty darn close.

  22

  Intel at the Wyndcrest

  It’s Saturday afternoon, and Momma is on the bike again. She isn’t pedaling any faster yet, and she still looks exhausted, but at least she’s trying. I don’t think she could’ve done it a week ago.

  I walk halfway across the grass and shout that I’m going to the beach with Kiana. We’ve been swimming like fishes since we were four, so Momma gives me a thumbs-up. She wheezes something about how it’d be hard to stop me, seeing as how she can’t actually come near me. Then she smiles, which makes me realize she’s trying to be funny. But I think it leaves both of us feeling a little emptier.

  Ms. Archambault gives me a ride to Kiana’s house. She says I’m crazy to go in the ocean in October. I tell her there aren’t many swimming days left before winter. What I don’t tell her is that we won’t actually be swimming.

  We have more important things to do.

  Before Kiana and I head off, I tell her what Jayda found out at the library yesterday. I can tell Kiana’s annoyed she didn’t think of the web searches herself. In any case, it feels like we’re closing in on my daddy now. Which reminds me . . .

  “Can I use your email to send him a message?” I ask.

  Kiana closes her bedroom door. “Are you sure it’s his e
mail address?”

  “I think so. If it’s not, we just won’t get a reply, right?”

  “I guess.”

  She checks to make sure the coast is clear and steers me to her parents’ office. “Make it quick,” she says.

  Last week, it took me ages to say almost nothing in a letter. Today, I’m much quicker.

  Dear Robbie Howell: My momma’s name is Veronica Harmon. If you know her, I’m your daughter. She’s sick at the moment. Please write back. Sincerely, Lola.

  It only takes a moment to send, and we’re done. Which is lucky, because Kiana’s mom is coming down the stairs from her studio.

  We run into the kitchen and get there just before her.

  “We’re heading out, Mom,” Kiana says.

  “All right, honey.” Mrs. Richards has this contented look on her face. Her work must be going well.

  We step outside. “You ready to commence Operation Infiltrate?” Kiana asks me.

  “What does ‘infiltrate’ mean?”

  “It means to go all detective-y.”

  “Oh. Then, yeah.”

  It’s only a couple hundred yards to the beach. When we get there, I take my sandals off and carry them. Walking is hard work because my feet sink with every step, but the sand feels soft and cool beneath my toes.

  It’s high tide, so we follow the edge of the dunes for almost a mile until we reach the hotel. The Wyndcrest is ten stories high and seems even taller up close. It’s expensive too—I know because I checked the hotel website. It had pictures of beautiful people in pretty clothes holding colorful drinks. I don’t think they were drinking fruit punch.

  We cross a wooden boardwalk over the dunes separating the hotel from the beach. Ahead of us, a few kids are playing in the hotel’s outdoor pool. Their parents talk loudly in the hot tub. None of them has a Southern accent.

  “Elevator’s over here,” Kiana says, pointing toward the ground-level parking lot.

  We walk under the building and into shadow. It’s not exactly cold in here, but I shiver all the same. I’m nervous and excited all at once.

  Nick and Kat emerge from a parked car. Kat hugs us. Nick settles for an awkward little wave.