ALSO BY JESSICA BRODY
Addie Bell’s Shortcut to Growing Up
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Jessica Brody Entertainment, LLC
Cover art copyright © 2018 by Alyssa Nassner
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Name: Brody, Jessica, author.
Title: Better you than me / Jessica Brody.
Description: New York : Delacorte Press, [2018] | Summary: When two twelve-year-old girls—one a famous TV star, the other an obsessive fan—switch bodies the results are nothing but disastrous.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017041744 | ISBN 978-1-5247-6971-0 (hc) | ISBN 978-1-5247-6973-4 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Celebrities—Fiction. | Fans (Persons)—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.B786157 Be 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9781524769734
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
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Contents
Cover
Also by Jessica Brody
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Blah, Blah, Blah…Genie
Fallen Idol
What-Ifs
Ellas, Bellas, Bobs, and Boingos
The (Un) Real World
The Bus to Everything
Ruby vs. Ryder
The Rebel Within
Lessons in Crazy
Lessons in Humiliation
Just Another Prop
Shaking Things Up
Tangerine Dreams
The Palace of Clothes
Chase Scene
First Kisses and Last Lines
So Not My Mother
The Face in the Mirror
The Real Deal
Conversations with Myself
Welcome to My Life
Message in a Bottle
All the Toppings
All the Clothes
Junkiest, Sugariest, Carbiest
Invisible Arm Fat
Irvine Barbie
Resurrecting Aunt Clarence
Making Up the Ellas
Writer School
Crushing the Crush
Happy Meals
Giving Up the Ketchup
Not-So-Happy Meals
The Queen of Middle School
Garlicky Punch in the Face
Cinderella Ends with Ella
The Clock Is Ticking
A Member of the Club
Mean Tween Drama Machine
Dadtime
Kaboom!
Brunch Buffet for One
Death by Cardio
The Superpower of Moms
Doughnut Disappointment
Surprise Dinner Date
Roaring for the Camera
Strangling the Steering Wheel
The New and Exciting Skylar Welshman
Kitchen Makeover
The Frozen Yogurt Code
The Middle School Stand-Around
Rocking the Red Carpet
The Party Starter
Mean Meme
Status Downgrade
Fake Star
Regret…with a Side of Rice
Celebrity War Zone
Salt in the Wound
Braving the Phone
The Apology Standoff
Fan No More
A Real Emergency
Smile, Sign, Repeat
I Don’t Know You, but I Do
Spicing Things Up!
The Faces in the Mirror
Still
The Hidden Truth
What Moms Do
The Wrong Everything
Dream a Little Dream
Phone Home
Collision
The Other Room
Wish Granting 101
The Just-Right Chair
Hide and Seek
Fade-Out
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Joanne, Brad, and Benny
for the endless conversation and inspiration
The magic lamp shimmers in the hot red sand. A diamond in the rough. A jewel in the desert. I wipe the sweat from my brow—evidence of walking through miles and miles of scalding-hot nothingness. With trembling fingers, I reach for the ancient relic, my breath catching in my throat as soon as I make contact.
“This is it!” I tell Miles, my travel companion and best friend. The violent desert winds have wreaked havoc on his perfect hair.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
I nod. “This is the one from my dream.”
I sink to my knees, my silk caftan immediately filling with rough grains of sand. I rest one shaking hand against the side of the lamp, hold my breath, close my eyes, and rub. And then…
Nothing.
I fall back into the sand, hopeless, defeated. Miles sinks down next to me. “I’m sorry, Ruby.”
He puts a hand on my arm and we sit in silence for a moment. Then I tilt my head back and call into the cloudless sky, “Where are you? Why can’t I find you?” The words are cheesy. But I say them anyway. Because I have no choice.
Just then, the golden lamp I’m still clutching begins to shudder. Gently at first, like a shiver on a cool day, then more violently, until I have to squeeze it between my knees to keep it from shaking out of my hands.
I fight not to roll my eyes. It’s a bit much.
Then, in a puff of blue smoke that looks more like glittery pixie dust than genie smoke, a man appears before me. An ancient, powerful genie with blue skin and golden eyes that sparkle in the desert sun. From my seated place in the sand, he looks gigantic. Towering above Miles and me in gold harem pants that flap in the breeze and a red jewel-encrusted turban covering his hair.
He folds his arms over his bare blue chest and glares down at me, his gilded eyes cruel and cold. “Who awakens me from my long and peaceful slumber, and for what purpose?” he says in a deep, booming voice.
I look up at him, eyes wide, mouth agape, struggling to keep a straight face. But I just can’t do it. With the blue-tinted skin, and the yellow contacts, and the BeDazzled turban, it’s too much. I try to speak, but instead of words coming out, I break into uncontrollable laughter.
“Cut!” says a voice from the darkness beyond the desert. “Cut! Cut! Cut!”
The lights come on and the giant wa
rehouse-size building is illuminated around me, making this little patch of fake sand and green background look even more ridiculous than it feels. I know the background won’t really be green. It’s just temporary. In post-production, when the editors splice the episode together, they’ll insert rolling hills of sand dunes behind me so it’ll look like I’m actually outside in the Sahara Desert and not inside a soundstage in Burbank, California, at three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon. Three hours past schedule, I might add, because Barry Berkowitz, the show’s executive producer and creator, didn’t like the look of the first three batches of sand.
“What was that?” Barry demands, stepping out from behind the bank of cameras and viewing monitors. “We’re one line away from the end of the scene!” I secretly call him Barry Barkowitz—or some variation of that—because he seems to bark everything he says.
“Nice job, Ruby,” Ryder sneers, pushing himself up from his seated place in the fake sand. The sarcasm is rich in his voice. I stick out my tongue in reply. Ryder Vance, my costar, has played Miles on the show for the past four years. He’s like a brother to me. A very annoying, obnoxious, way-too-obsessed-with-his-hair brother. “Now we have to reset the whole shot.” He stomps off set toward the food table, smoothing his windblown hair with one hand while he grabs a chocolate doughnut with the other and shoves half of it in his mouth. He turns to me and taunts me by chewing dramatically. He knows I can’t have chocolate doughnuts because I’ve basically been on a flavor-free diet since I was eight, and he loves to rub it in my face.
I roll my eyes and turn away from him, my gaze landing once again on the actor playing the ancient genie. And then I lose it all over again, laughing uncontrollably. I feel bad for the guy, I really do. This—blue skin dye and harem pants—is probably his big break into Hollywood.
Barry Barkhead stalks menacingly toward me, wiping sweat from his bald head. “Do you find my writing humorous?”
No, I think. I find it ridiculous.
But I don’t dare say that aloud. The whole stupid show is over-the-top. I mean, seriously, a school for genies with classes like Wish Granting and Carpet Driver’s Ed and Yoga for Lamp Dwellers? It’s like Barry just sat down one day, made a list of the cheesiest genie-related things, and poof! Here’s a hit TV show for you.
“They have twenty more minutes,” Russ reminds Barry. He’s the show’s production assistant, recognizable by the clipboard that’s practically glued to his hand, and the way he seems to shake in his shoes whenever he’s around Barry.
Barry waves Russ away with a rough hand, nearly swatting him in the face. Fortunately, Russ ducks just in time before running away. Of all the people on set who are afraid of Barry—which is pretty much everyone—Russ is probably the most terrified. And I can’t blame him. If he’s not getting nearly smacked by Barry’s wild gestures, he’s getting spit on by Barry’s saliva-heavy rants.
But Russ is just doing his job, reminding Barry that Ryder and I have only twenty more minutes until they have to let us go home. It’s California state law. Because we’re only twelve, we can only work for five hours at a time, and can only be on set for nine and a half hours total, including makeup, hair, and meals. Thank goodness for that law, or Barkhead would make me stay here all night.
Frustrated, Barry jams his fingertips into his temples. “Do you know the line, Ruby?” he asks me through gritted teeth.
“ ‘I’m looking for my mother,’ ” I recite dutifully.
“Yes!” Barry shouts with mock enthusiasm, as if I’ve just announced I’ve discovered the cure for some mysterious disease. “Yes! That’s the line. ‘I’m looking for my mother.’ The last line of the episode leading up to the epic season finale. This is a moment the viewers have been waiting for, for four seasons. It’s a significant line. It’s a dramatic line. What it is not is a laughing line.”
“I—” I start to respond, but I’m quickly cut off by my mother, who’s suddenly standing next to Barry, looking like she just got a blowout and a makeover, despite the fact that we’ve been on this soundstage since six in the morning. That’s because she spends almost all her time between takes in the makeup trailer, refreshing her perfectly drawn cat eyes and her plum lipstick.
“Of course it’s not a laughing matter,” she says soothingly, placing her hand on Barry’s arm in a way that makes my insides squirm. “It’s a wonderful line. A Shakespearean line.”
I cringe. Shakespearean? Really?
The only way my mom would ever like Shakespeare is if they somehow managed to turn it into a reality show with people running around in swimsuits on an island.
“Thank you,” Barry says, flashing her a smile. “I’m glad someone around here appreciates creative talent.”
Mom gives Barry’s arm a friendly squeeze, her three-inch red acrylic nails practically digging into his shirt. My eyes immediately drift to the huge sparkling Tiffany diamond on her ring finger. It’s new. Not from a guy, of course. She bought it as a present for herself for managing to finish two weeks of the Paleo Diet. Mom says you should never reward yourself with food. Always jewelry. When she finished the Werewolf Diet—fasting on every full and new moon (yes, it’s a thing)—she bought herself a fifty-four-carat diamond choker, which I thought was fitting for the Werewolf Diet because it kind of looked like a bejeweled dog collar.
Mom turns to me. “Why don’t you try the line again, sweetie,” she says in a tender voice that’s supposed to fool every single crew and cast member on this soundstage. But it doesn’t fool me. I see the real message in her eyes.
Don’t screw this up, Ruby. It’s contract negotiation time.
I silently calculate how many of Barry’s cheesy, clichéd lines I’ve had to recite to pay for that diamond ring. Three hundred? Three thousand?
Just say the stupid line and get it over with, I tell myself. The last thing I want is to have to come back here tomorrow and do the scene all over again. Put on this cheesy silk caftan, trudge through the fake sand dunes, and listen to Ryder gripe about what the wind machine is doing to his hair.
After this you’ll be one step closer to the end of the episode and the end of the season.
I force a smile onto my face. “Sorry, Barry. I’ll get it right this time.”
He returns my smile, although his is probably faker than mine. “Good.” Then he calls out to the rest of the crew. “Reset! Let’s do this! We have eighteen minutes and counting!”
Russ repeats the command into the headset of his walkie-talkie, relaying it to all the other crew on set. Sierra, the costume designer, adjusts my silk caftan, straightening it around my hips. Cami, the makeup artist, touches up my powder before spraying my forehead with artificial sweat. And Gina, the hairstylist, poufs my high ponytail, adjusting the gold cuff around the base and finishing it off with a spritz of extra-hold hair spray.
Jericho, the prop guy, runs over, takes the gold genie lamp from my hand, and reburies it in the sand. Then he switches the wind machine back on, causing sand to swirl around my feet.
“Places!” Barry calls.
I return to my position and Ryder runs over to stand next to me. “Let’s see if you can manage to do this without royally messing it up again,” he says, flashing me a goading grin. His teeth are stained with chocolate glaze and I’m tempted not to say anything and just let him make a complete fool of himself, but Cami catches everything. She runs over with a cloth and rubs his teeth until they’re shiny white again. The blue genie man steps off camera, leaving Ryder and me alone again in the middle of the green-screen desert.
“And, action!” Barry barks.
The soundstage falls silent; the giant stage lights blaze overhead. All eyes and cameras are pointed directly at us. Ryder’s face instantly takes on the caring, dutiful expression of a boy in love with his best friend. And then I, Ruby Rivera, magically transform myself back into a twelve-year-old genie, o
n a four-season quest to find her mother.
It’s just breathing, I tell myself. It’s easy. You do it every day. You just inhale. Then exhale. Inhale. Then—
HUUUGHHUUP!
My whole body spasms as I let out another loud and out-of-control hiccup.
Oh gosh. This is not happening. This is not happening.
I can’t get the hiccups now. Not now. I’m up next! This is my one and only chance to prove to these people that I’m not the weird, shy kid who smells like cabbages. Okay, to be honest, I’m not sure where they got the cabbage thing. I shower every day. I even made my mom buy me the same body wash that all the Ellas use. (I overheard them talking about it at lunch once. Apparently, it’s supposed to smell like roses after a rainstorm. I don’t get any of that when I smell it, but I admit it smells pretty good.)
But anyway, this is my shot. My one opportunity to make friends in this place. If I can just get on that stage, perform the monologue I’ve been practicing nonstop for the past week, and get a role in the film club’s new movie, then this nightmare will all be over. The kids at Fairview Middle School will finally see that I’m normal. That I fit in somewhere. That I’m just as cool as those Ellas.
Better You Than Me Page 1
