The Other, Better Me

by Antony John

  “It’s okay, Lola,” Momma cooed into my hair.

  I couldn’t stop sobbing. I’m ashamed to say it now, but I wasn’t actually thinking about Momma. Or the nice woman with the funny voice. I was thinking about that trunk full of toys. And most of all, I was thinking about Rum Rabbit’s soft fur and how the woman was still holding him tight against her when she got in the car and left.

  25

  Unexpected Twists

  My friends know that something’s wrong. I’ve gone quiet again. But they don’t get annoyed with me. Kiana just gives me a hug and asks if I want to go home.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I can give you both a ride,” Kat says.

  I don’t know how Momma would feel about that. For once, I don’t care either.

  As we get nearer to my house, I get angrier. All these years, I thought I never met my father, and Momma never told me I was wrong. But now I’m sure it was my daddy who visited me that day.

  Kat drops me off beside Ms. A’s driveway. I walk straight to the middle of the yard and call out, “Momma!”

  Several seconds pass before she opens the front door. She’s drying her hair slowly with a small brown towel. She’s already dressed in her dark work clothes.

  “You okay, honey?” she asks.

  “Why didn’t you tell me my daddy came to visit?”

  The towel stops moving. I can tell by her expression that I’m right.

  “It was six years ago,” I shout. “And you never mentioned it. Do you know where he lives now?”

  She scans the street like she’s worried the neighbors might hear us. But I don’t care about the neighbors.

  “Why won’t you tell me the truth?” I cry.

  Momma closes her eyes. Her hands drop to her sides. The towel hangs from her hand. “I get that you’re confused, Lola. Let’s talk about this once you’re back home.”

  I’m not confused at all. Things are clearer than they’ve ever been. Momma just doesn’t like what I’m seeing.

  “I want to talk now!”

  “Lola!” Ms. Archambault shouts from behind me. “Your mother needs to go to work.”

  I never take my eyes off my mother. She keeps glancing past me to Ms. A as if she’s looking for help. It’s like they’ve teamed up to hide the truth. And I’m caught in the middle.

  I spin on my heel and walk toward Ms. A’s house. Momma calls after me, but I don’t turn around or slow down. She can’t follow me anyway. Not until Monday.

  Ms. A doesn’t say a word as I march right by her, kick my shoes off at the door, and stomp along the hallway to the spare room. I yank my Thoughts of Pure Literary Genius notebook from my school backpack and begin writing:

  Reasons Momma should’ve told me about my daddy:

  1. He’s my daddy!

  2. Lying is evil.

  3. He’s my daddy!

  4. Hiding the truth is just a different kind of lying.

  5. He’s my daddy!

  6. It should be up to me if I want to know him or not.

  7. He’s my daddy!

  I snap the book shut and drop it onto the nightstand beside the bed. I’ll probably never show Momma the list. I don’t think she’d read it anyway. I’m not like Kat. I won’t even get to wear her swimsuit again.

  If I don’t think about something else soon, I’ll scream.

  I open the book Jayda gave me and continue reading. Hortense is studying the files she took from her father’s War Office vault. She tracks down an address from the files. It leads her to a watch repair shop. Hortense convinces a couple friends to go on a stakeout. When the watch repairman leaves after work, they follow him to a large, boarded-up house in the woods. Very suspicious . . . and very convenient.

  How come Hortense finds just the right clues to help her crack the case? Kiana and I have been working my case for two weeks, and the only thing I know for sure is that Momma’s been keeping secrets from me.

  Then again, the story is really exciting. Plus, I need to get it finished so I can give it to Mallory. So I dive back in.

  When Hortense’s friends insist on getting help, she goes into the house alone. She finds the missing boy from school, but they’re caught by German-speaking guards. Then her father arrives! He explains that the War Office has been tricking the Webers into thinking they’re sending intel to the Nazis. Instead, they’ve been sharing vital pieces of information about the Nazi war effort with the British! It’s genius. But by showing up, Hortense has ruined the operation.

  Wait, what? Hortense is perfect. She’s determined and loyal and smart. I’ve spent the past three hundred pages wanting to be just like her. Now it’s like the author is saying Hortense was wrong to be determined and loyal and smart. Or that trying to do the right thing doesn’t count. Should I really share this book with Mallory?

  Then again, maybe Hortense should’ve listened to her friends for once. If she had been a little less determined, everything might’ve ended differently.

  Is that what Jayda was talking about when she said Hortense could learn a thing or two from me? I definitely listen to my friends. Until recently, I never took risks. Does that make me an aspirational character?

  Maybe this is the right book for Mallory. She cut her classmates out years ago. Seeing as how even her mom doesn’t like her, she could use friends more than anyone I know.

  I pace around the room as I think about how I’ll give the book to Mallory. I’ll need to sneak it into her desk at school when she’s not around to see me. Or when anyone else is around either, or they might tell her. Which means getting into the classroom before school begins. Difficult, but not impossible.

  As I pass the mirrored closet, I slide the door open to peek at the dresses inside. But they’re gone. Every single one of them. There’s not even a piece of lint or a caught thread. I hope Ms. A didn’t get rid of them because of something I said.

  I walk along the hallway to the kitchen. She’s washing dishes, so I pick up a tea towel and begin drying.

  “The dresses . . . ,” I begin.

  “I offered them to a charity store,” she replies. “They’re holding an online auction because some are quite valuable. They say it could raise thousands.”

  “Won’t you miss them?”

  She snorts. “No. In fact, I feel better already. Sometimes we need a nudge to leave the past behind.”

  I polish a wineglass. I try to do it like the bartender at the Wyndcrest did, holding it up to the light to check for smears. But thinking about the Wyndcrest reminds me that my daddy came to visit. And like Momma, Ms. A never let on to me that she knew.

  “Why didn’t you tell me my daddy came here?” I ask.

  She runs her orange sponge around the rim of a plate in a smooth, wide arc. “It’s not my place, Lola. The situation with your father was complicated. We all responded the way we thought was best.”

  I figure she’s blowing me off. Only she said “we.” Ms. A always chooses her words carefully. So how exactly did she “respond” six years ago?

  I place the glass in the cupboard and reach for another. The day my daddy came to visit, I remember Ms. A running over to hold Momma and me as the car drove away. She was still wearing the rubber gloves. They tugged at my hair because it was longer back then. I remember how calm and confident she looked too. Like Hortense, but much older.

  I don’t remember much of what happened after that. But I do remember that she went away for a long time. And when she got back, she never left me again.

  I look around the kitchen. Most of her photographs include me. All of them are recent. It’s like her life started over six years ago.

  I turn back to Ms. Archambault. She’s still cleaning the same plate, lost in thought, the sponge bending and twisting beneath her fingers.

  “Was it . . . because of me?” I whisper. “Is that why you quit doing commercials? So you could be here for me?”

  She breathes in sharply like she’s waking from a dream. She places the dish on th
e drying rack and dries her hands. “No, Lola. I did it for me. Because I finally realized what matters.”

  She leaves me alone in the kitchen. I’m still not sure I completely understand what happened the day my daddy came to visit. But one thing I’m sure about: Between a daddy I’ve never met and a neighbor who loves me almost as much as Momma, I’ll take my neighbor every time.

  26

  The Halloween Tree

  Momma tries to call me the next day, but I don’t want to talk to her. She has had six years to tell me that my daddy came to visit me once. I’m not ready to forgive her yet.

  I get my schoolwork done, eat lunch, and do the washing up. I’m just finishing when Ned walks in with a bag of groceries. He lets out a low whistle as he sees what I’m doing. “Nice work, Ms. Harmon. You’re hired.”

  “Ha!”

  He turns around and winks. “Hey, how’re things going with that boy?”

  “What boy?”

  “You know . . . the one with the crush on you.”

  I make a growling sound at the back of my throat. “Nick does not have a crush on me, Ned.”

  “When a boy likes a girl who toots, it’s true love.”

  I roll my eyes. “Why do you want to know, anyway?”

  He flicks his eyes toward the window. “Because he’s standing outside.”

  “What?” I walk to the window. Ned’s right. Nick is standing on the porch to my house. He’s about to knock on our door.

  The radiation!

  I throw open the front door and race across the yard. “You can’t be here,” I yell. “My momma’s radiating.”

  Nick steps back from the door. “She’s what?”

  “Giving out radioactivity.”

  “Is she allowed to do that?”

  Geez. “It’s this therapy thing. She was sick. Now she’s better. But she’s also radioactive.”

  Nick furrows his brow. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  He’s right. It doesn’t. Actually, it sounds insane to give someone radiation. But I’ve seen her on the bike, so I know it works.

  Nick’s eyes drift toward the bike . . . and the bike trainer. “Is that my mom’s?” he asks, pointing at it.

  “Uh, possibly?” I’m turning red. Bright red. Red like the red-hot lava pool at Vesuvius mini golf back before the bacteria got to it and it started turning orangey green.

  “If it is, that’s totally cool,” he says.

  Now Nick’s blushing too. I swear, between us, we spend hours a day looking embarrassed.

  “And, uh . . . is that our old Christmas tree?” He points to the plastic tree lying on its side at the corner of the house.

  “I don’t know,” I say, trying to sound mysterious. “Is it?”

  “I think so. I gave it to this old guy along with the bike trainer.” He puts his hands on his hips and looks over at Ms. Archambault’s house. “Actually, I gave it to that old guy.”

  Ned has just stepped out onto the porch. This could be a problem.

  “Do you know him?” Nick asks.

  “It’s . . . possible,” I say.

  “Well, he just came out of the same house as you. So if you don’t know him, I think we should probably tell someone.”

  “Right. I can see why you might think that.”

  Nick looks like he’s just realized a whole bunch of things all at once and doesn’t know what to think about them. Ned just props his feet up on the deck rail and waves at us like he’s enjoying the show.

  “Lola?” says Nick. “Were you with that guy when he picked this stuff up?”

  There’s no use in lying anymore. Nick already knows the answer. “It’s possible that I was hiding in Ned’s truck, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . it felt weird, taking your stuff.”

  “But I’m glad you took it. I told you, I hate how we throw stuff out all the time. So does Kat. If you can use it, you should!”

  “Yeah, well . . . I can.”

  Nick looks at the sorry plastic tree and the soggy cardboard box full of decorations beside it. I didn’t do a good job of making them look loved.

  He lowers his voice. “If you were there, I guess you heard what my dad said to Ned, huh?”

  I try to remember. It feels like a long time ago. “He sounded like he didn’t want Ned around.”

  “Yeah.” Nick reddens again, but he seems annoyed instead of embarrassed. “After you left, he told me Ned wasn’t a nice man. Because of the ankle monitor.”

  “You mean his bracelet?”

  “Yeah. It means he has a police record.”

  “What?” I peer over at Ned. He’s snoozing. “You’re kidding!”

  “No,” says Nick, super serious. “That’s what an ankle monitor’s for. Keeping track of people. Dad says it probably means he’s on probation.”

  What did Ned do? And how come I’ve never heard about it? Why does everyone keep secrets?

  I bet Nick’s dad doesn’t have an ankle bracelet because Nick’s dad is smart. Ms. Archambault says Ned could use a brain upgrade. Nick’s dad has a speedboat and a pool. Ned has a smelly, beat-up truck. In the battle of Mr. Merlo versus Ned, it’s not even close.

  But Ned said yes when I asked him to help me pick up the bike trainer. He fixes stuff around the house and makes jokes about it, even when the job is gross and involves clumps of hair and drainage pipes. And one thing I know for sure: He’d never be rude to Mr. Merlo, no matter what.

  “I like Ned,” says Nick. Which reminds me why I like Nick so much.

  I walk over and pick up the tree. “Since you’re here, you may as well help me put this up,” I say.

  “A Christmas tree? In October?”

  “It’s only a Christmas tree at Christmas.”

  “So what is it now? A Halloween tree?”

  “Exactly.”

  Nick is waiting for me to laugh. But I’m not kidding. It’s Halloween in two days’ time, and Momma hasn’t put up any decorations. There’s a box of fake spiderwebs in the house somewhere, but I’m not allowed inside. Just because I’m angry with her, it doesn’t mean I want her to miss out on Halloween.

  I stand the tree on the porch. Nick carries the box of decorations over and starts rifling through it.

  “About yesterday,” he begins. “At the pavilion . . .”

  I shift my weight from foot to foot. One of the porch planks needs nailing down. I should tell Ned. Or maybe I’ll do it myself.

  “I mean, we don’t have to talk about it,” Nick continues, “if you don’t want to.”

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  I tell him about the rabbit and the visit six years ago. About how my daddy traveled halfway around the world and Momma sent him away before he could even speak to me. How Momma’s never mentioned it to me. Not even once.

  When I’m finished, Nick helps me straighten the tree. A couple loose needles tumble to the ground. I guess those won’t be growing back.

  “You’re being very quiet,” I say.

  He breathes in deeply. “I’m sorry. It must feel weird to know she’s been keeping something like that from you, huh?”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  He digs around in the box and finds a strand of orange tinsel. Okay, it’s more like the color of fire, but it’s the closest we’ll get to Halloween orange. “Must’ve been hard for your mom too. To not see him all those years. And then he shows up and he’s married. Do you think she knew he was coming? ’Cause that bartender at the Wyndcrest sure didn’t.”

  I slide onto the rocking chair. That hadn’t occurred to me before, but Nick’s right. If Momma knew my daddy was coming, she would’ve been ready for him. She would’ve told me about it. She would’ve told Ms. Archambault too. But if she didn’t know, why didn’t she? Who travels halfway around the world and doesn’t tell anyone he’s coming?

  I don’t know what any of it means. The one thing I absolutely do know is that only Momma has all the answers. And that needs to change.


  “Do you think I did the right thing?” I ask Nick. “Trying to find my daddy?”

  He hands me another strand of orange tinsel. There’s a pretty big empty space at the back of the tree, but no one’ll see that. So I jump off the chair and string the tinsel around the branches that face the yard.

  “I guess I’d want to know,” he says finally. “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Well, you’ve managed without him for ten years already. And you still turned out okay.”

  “Just okay?” I tease.

  “Better than okay,” he says, reddening.

  I’m sure glad Ned is fast asleep across the yard. If he heard Nick saying that, he’d be teasing me about us dating for the rest of my life.

  Ms. Archambault pulls up next to her house and turns off the golf cart fairy lights. Then she stares at Ned from the bottom of the porch steps. “You think that lightbulb’s going to change itself, Ned?” she shouts.

  Ned practically flies out of the chair. “I was just, uh, resting my eyes.”

  “Sure you were.”

  She marches over to Nick and me. Ned follows her.

  “What the heck is that?” she says, pointing at the tree.

  “It’s a Halloween tree,” says Nick, totally serious.

  “A Halloween tree,” repeats Ms. Archambault, only much slower.

  Nick pulls a piece of candy from his pocket and balances it in the crook of two plastic branches.

  “It’s a new tradition,” I explain. “Everyone’ll be doing it soon.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” she says.

  “Best of all, you just change out the tinsel and you’re all set for Christmas.”

  “You two are as silly as each other.”

  “Thank you,” says Nick.

  Ms. A has a weird expression on her face, like she’s seeing a shmorpel for the first time. “Lola says you make a mean glass of lemonade,” she tells Nick.

  “It’s okay,” he says.

  “Well, then. You’d best come with us. Ned’s going to need some sugary energy for all the jobs I’ve got planned.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” says Nick.

  Ms. Archambault takes off toward her house, and Ned trails behind like a well-trained puppy. I think Ms. A likes giving orders after taking them for so many years. I think Ned just likes being with Ms. A.