Better You Than Me

by Jessica Brody

  I wince.

  Did I say something wrong?

  “You…read?” Rebecca asks, and I peer at her. Her face is deathly still.

  “Um…,” I stall, wondering if I should try to backpedal. She looks like I just told her I murdered the neighbor. “A little. Yeah.”

  And then, just as soon as the reaction came, it’s gone. She clears her throat and goes back to typing, but I can tell there’s something less focused about it now. Like she’s just going through the motions. I steal a peek at her screen and notice she’s just typed a string of nonsense across the bottom of her Word document.

  “What did you read?” she asks. It sounds casual, but there’s a heaviness in her voice. As though the fate of the free world rests on my answer.

  “Um…” Once again, I have no idea what to say. I know I just screwed something up. Upset the balance of this relationship. The truth is, I snuck a copy of Little Women into Skylar’s room last night, but somehow I feel like that’s not the right thing to say. I glance around the small apartment for help. What does Skylar normally read? Comic books? Magazines? Ruby Rivera fan sites? I say the first lie that pops into my head. “Um…just some celebrity magazines.”

  I watch Rebecca’s reaction carefully. Her shoulders sag. “Oh,” she replies. “Right. Of course. More Ruby Rivera news, I presume.”

  I swallow hard. “Yup,” I say. “You know me. It’s all Ruby all the time. She’s soooo…”

  A hundred words fill my head at once.

  Fake.

  Pathetic.

  Cowardly.

  “Awesome!” I finally finish, giving two thumbs up. I feel ridiculous, but Rebecca seems to relax a bit. Then, as though coming out of a trace, she notices what she’s been typing. She starts backspacing in a frenzy, deleting the lines of gibberish from the page.

  I have no idea what just happened, but I’m grateful to feel the air in the room settle. That was really strange.

  I continue into the kitchen and start searching through the cabinets. When I find the pantry, I let out a yip of glee. “Yes! You have sugary cereal!”

  Rebecca shoots me another strange look. Apparently, I really need to stop talking. Thankfully, though, she goes back to typing.

  I grab a box of Lucky Charms, dump a heap of it into a bowl, and drench it with milk. It looks so delicious, I nearly just bring the bowl to my mouth and gobble it up like a dog. But I’m pretty sure that will cause more suspicion from Skylar’s mother, so I grab a spoon and sit down at the table.

  I shovel a heaping marshmallowy bite into my mouth and try not to moan aloud. My whole body tingles as soon as the sugar touches my tongue. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever tasted. The crunch of the frosted cereal combined with the sweet flavor of the marshmallows…YUMMMMM!

  I think about poor Skylar, sitting at my kitchen counter right now, suffering through one of my mom’s disgusting flaxseed-and-spinach protein smoothies. Let’s see how glamorous she thinks my life is after gagging down one of those.

  This silence here is pretty awesome, too. The only sound is me chomping and Rebecca’s typing. I’ve never really been in a room this quiet before. There’s always some kind of noise in our house. Mom yapping on the phone to Lesley or the show’s producers, or yelling at someone from publicity about a photo spread in a magazine she disapproves of. The TV blaring with the latest celebrity news.

  “So,” I say, between bites of sugary goodness. “What are you working on?”

  Rebecca doesn’t look up. “An article I was asked to write for English Literary History. It’s an academic journal.”

  Wow. That sounds important.

  “What’s it about?”

  Rebecca glances up at me and studies my face for a moment. I take another crunchy bite of cereal. “It’s a comparison of modern horror novels with Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.”

  “Oh! I love that book!”

  Rebecca stops typing again and rips her glasses from her face. She glares at me with that same expression I saw yesterday in the car on the way back from the Xoom! Studios lot. “What are you doing, Skylar?” she asks, a clear edge to her voice.

  My spoon clanks down into my cereal bowl. Whoa. Where did all this hostility come from? We were having such a nice moment.

  I open my mouth to respond, but Rebecca lets out a heavy sigh and closes her laptop. She stuffs it into a nearby satchel along with all the books on the table. “You better finish up. We’re leaving in ten minutes and you’re not dressed yet.”

  I glance down at my outfit. “I’m wearing this.”

  Rebecca looks confused, and I worry she’s going to respond the way my mother would and demand I go and change, otherwise what will people think? What will the gossip magazines write if you’re accidentally photographed by paparazzi?

  But she doesn’t. She just shrugs and says, “Okay.”

  After she leaves the room, I slurp up the excess sweetened milk from my bowl, drop the dish in the sink, and dart back to Skylar’s room. I pick up her backpack and let out a small squeal thinking about all that awaits me today. Lockers and classrooms and those little desks that are attached to the chairs. Science experiments and math equations scribbled on chalkboards and discussing works of literature at great length.

  So. Much. FUN!

  I grab Skylar’s phone and slip it into a side pocket of the backpack. Then I hoist the bag onto my back, loving the way the straps feel as they settle on my shoulders.

  Ten minutes later, I’m back in the passenger seat of Rebecca’s car as we drive in silence. The whole way, I’m staring out the window, giddily watching the streets.

  “How about some music?” she says, turning on the radio. I immediately hear my own whiny voice flood out of the speakers, singing, “Wishing on a star won’t get you very far. What you need, baby, is a genie like me.”

  “Ugh,” I say, reaching for the volume knob to turn it down. “Not that. Anything but that.”

  Rebecca looks baffled. “But you always listen to Ruby on the way to school.”

  “Oh,” I say, biting my lip. “Right. Well, I was just, you know, in the mood for something different.”

  “How about some Summer Crush?” Rebecca suggests. She stops at a red light and begins flipping through the playlists on her phone.

  Summer Crush? Ruby Rivera? Yuck! Skylar has dreadful taste in music.

  I know for a fact that not even Summer Crush listens to Summer Crush. In fact, they’re breaking up, but no one knows that yet. Berrin James told me in secret.

  “Or no music is fine with me,” I say.

  The light turns green, Rebecca shrugs, and returns her phone to the cup holder. “Okay.”

  When she pulls into the parking lot of the school, I can hardly contain my excitement.

  “Try to stay in school today,” Rebecca says.

  I open the door. “Oh, that won’t be a problem. Bye, Rebecca—I mean, Mom.”

  She flashes me another strange look and then just shakes her head like she’ll never understand twelve-year-old girls. “Bye, sweetie.”

  I step out of the car onto the curb and just stand there, feeling what it feels like not to have people pointing cameras at my face and screaming my name. I can just be me…or, rather, her.

  No paparazzi. No press. No risk of my picture showing up all over the internet tomorrow.

  I take a deep breath, reveling in the sensation of anonymity. I stare up at the large gray stone building in front of me. White letters are affixed over the door.

  FAIRVIEW MIDDLE SCHOOL

  A beaming smile spreads across my face. This is going to be the best day of my life.

  This is going to be the best day of my life!

  I wake up before sunrise because I’m just way too excited to sleep. Last night I spent over an hour exploring Ruby’s house.
It’s officially the coolest house ever. It has everything. I mean everything. A pool. A hot tub. A sauna. A dance studio. A gym. Even a small movie theater with gigantic leather seats that recline and an old-fashioned popcorn machine.

  And today I actually get to be Ruby! As in star in her show! I can’t believe it!

  I know I had my brief moment with Ryder Vance yesterday, but that doesn’t count. That’s when I still thought I was Skylar. Weak, shy, hiccupping little Skylar. Now I’m Ruby. Now I have confidence and self-assurance and talent. I’m going to rock that kiss scene. And any other scene they throw at me.

  I jump out of bed and immediately run into the massive closet. For the next twenty minutes, I try on tons of outfits. It’s so much fun. It’s like being at the mall without having your mother follow you around, squinting at all the price tags and going, “Uh, why don’t we look for something a little less pricey.”

  When I finally find the perfect outfit—a blue-and-pink sequined dress and gold boots—I stand in front of the three-way full-length mirrors and stare at my reflection from all sides. I still can’t believe what I see. Ruby Rivera. The Ruby Rivera. She’s right there, and she’s me.

  “Good morning!” Eva says, entering the closet.

  I turn toward her and strike a pose like I’m on the red carpet. “What do you think?”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. I can’t tell if it’s a look of approval or disapproval. “Lovely,” she says flatly. “Now take it off.”

  I feel myself deflate. “What? Why? It’s so cute.”

  “Because it’s Friday,” she says, like this is supposed to mean something to me. And when I don’t automatically get what she’s referring to, she sighs and adds, “Measuring day.”

  Measuring day?

  Eva opens a drawer just to the left of the mirrors and pulls out a long red measuring tape. Then, with her toe, she slides out a scale from under a rack of clothes. “Come on. We don’t have all day. Off with the clothes. Onto the scale.”

  Reluctantly, I pull off the boots and peel off the dress. I step onto the scale and watch Eva’s reaction. Her face is impossible to read. But she makes a “hmmm” sound as she types something into her phone. Then she proceeds to wrap the measuring tape around my waist, followed by my hips, then each arm and each thigh. When she goes for my chest, I shrink back and cover myself with my hands. “What are you doing?” I screech.

  “Measuring your bust.”

  I break out into giggles. “My bust?” Saying the word aloud makes me laugh even harder.

  Eva looks at me like I’ve gone insane. “Yes. We need to get updated measurements to the costume department every week so they can stay on top of your wardrobe. You’re still a growing girl, remember?”

  I release my hands and let Eva wrap the measuring tape around the top of my undershirt.

  “Although,” she adds under her breath, “I wish you were growing more upward than outward.”

  My gaze flicks to her. Was that an insult about Ruby’s body? No. She can’t possibly think Ruby is fat. Ruby’s body is beautiful! I spent about twenty minutes staring at it in the mirror last night. She’s graceful and slender and is just starting to get curves in all the right places.

  She releases the tape and types something else into her phone. When I turn back to the mirror, I suddenly don’t feel as confident as I did only a few minutes ago. “Are we done?” I ask quietly.

  She shoots me another strange look and then wraps the measuring tape around my wrist. My wrist! Why on earth would anyone care how big Ruby’s wrists are?

  After she’s logged her data, she turns to look at me. She reminds me of a doctor about to give bad news. “Well, Ruby. I don’t know how you’ve managed to do it, but you’ve gained another pound and your waist has grown an inch.”

  My mouth drops open and I stare at her in amazement. She misinterprets my reaction. “I know. I’m as shocked as you are. So I’m going to ask Stan to cut another hundred calories from your daily meals on set.”

  My stomach groans in response. Last night’s dinner was pitiful: a tasteless piece of fish and steamed spinach. I left the table starving and wishing I could just cook something myself. But I get the feeling Ruby doesn’t spend much time in the kitchen.

  Eva grabs a yellow dress from a nearby rack and tosses it to me. “Wear this to set today. It hides your arm fat better.” Then she turns and walks out of the closet.

  Arm fat?

  I gaze back at the three-way reflection, lift up one of Ruby’s arms, and give it a shake. If there’s any fat on this arm, you would need a microscope to see it.

  Still, I pull the dress over my head.

  After I force down the most disgusting smoothie I’ve ever tasted, Eva rushes me out the garage door and into the SUV.

  “Are you ready for today?” she asks as she pulls onto the street.

  “Absolutely!” I chirp.

  “So you rehearsed scenes five, seven, nine, fifteen, and twenty in the script last night?”

  Uh-oh.

  The script! Ruby told me to read it and memorize the lines and I totally forgot! I can’t get to that studio and not be prepared! Ruby is counting on me to help her out. Plus, I definitely don’t want to get yelled at by that Barry guy again.

  “Of course,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “But maybe I should review them again, just in case. Do you have the script?”

  Eva flashes me a suspicious look as she steers the giant SUV down the winding hill. With her eyes still on the road, she reaches into her massive black bag in the backseat and pulls out a thick stack of paper that’s been bound together by little brass fasteners.

  On the front cover, in a crisp black font, it reads:

  Ruby of the Lamp

  Episode 4.22 — “Hope Is in the Stars”

  Butterflies start to flap inside my stomach. This is it. The final script for the final episode of season 4! I’m going to find out what happens before anyone else! I’ve never read a real script, let alone one from my all-time favorite TV show!

  Excitedly, I flip to the first page. But my eyes instantly cross when I see that it’s not written like anything I’ve ever read before. It looks nothing like a book, which I suppose is a good thing since I hate reading books. The text is always too close together. I look at those giant, dense paragraphs full of words and I just want to give up. Can’t the author just say what they want to say with fewer words and make it easier on the rest of us? That’s why I’ve always preferred TV. You don’t have to read what everyone is doing. You just watch and listen.

  I flip through a few pages of the script, trying to figure out how the formatting works. It looks like a character’s action is written all the way across the page, while their dialogue is written in the center of the page, which is nice because it leaves lots of empty white space on the sides.

  But then there are these weird words that I don’t understand. Things like “INT” and “EXT.”

  While Eva is distracted by the road, I do a quick Google search and discover that INT stands for “interior,” meaning the scene takes place inside, and EXT stands for “exterior.”

  Oh, that makes sense.

  I flip back to the first page and start reading.

  Okay, why is everyone staring at me?

  The moment I walk through the front doors of Fairview Middle School, it’s like I’m suddenly back in my own body. It may as well be a red-carpet premiere and not a school hallway. All that’s missing is the annoying photographers.

  Click.

  Nope, there’s the annoying photographer. Someone just whipped out their phone and took a picture of me! Why are they taking pictures of Skylar? She’s not famous, is she?

  “Hey, Belchman!” someone calls out, and I’m not sure why I turn around, because it’s not like someone is talking to me. Skylar’s last name is Welshman, n
ot Belchman. But I do turn around. And that’s when I see a pack of boys laughing uncontrollably, slapping each other on the back, and giving each other high fives.

  I continue down the hallway, searching for locker number 792, reciting in my head the combination Skylar gave me.

  One, fifteen, twenty-nine.

  But as I keep walking, more and more people are turning to look at me. Some even seem to be whispering to each other behind their hands, so I can’t make out what they’re saying.

  What’s going on?

  And then it hits me.

  Oh my gosh! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.

  We’ve switched back!

  The magic must have worn off, and I’m no longer in Skylar’s body. I must be back in my own body. They must recognize me and are wondering what Ruby Rivera is doing walking down their school hallway.

  I spot a girls’ bathroom up ahead and start to run. But running only seems to make people whisper more, and laugh louder.

  I finally make it to the bathroom and push the door open. Inside, three very pretty girls are gathered around the mirror. There’s a ton of makeup spread out across the counter, like someone’s bag exploded.

  “Nooooo,” one of them is saying. “You’re doing it wrong. I saw it on a YouTube video.”

  When I enter, they all stop and turn to look at me at the exact same time, like they’re doing some choreographed dance routine.

  “Hi,” I say breathlessly, pushing past them to get to the mirror.

  One of them—the tallest and blondest—makes a scoffing noise that sounds like she’s choking on an unchewed piece of meat. She’s super skinny, and with her miniskirt and high heels (High heels? In middle school? Seriously?) she kind of looks like a Barbie doll.

  “Uhhhh…,” she says, elongating the sound. “No offense, but what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m sorry. I just need to check someth—”

  But I stop cold when I see that I was wrong. It’s not me staring back from the mirror. It’s still Skylar. Which makes absolutely no sense. Why would they be taking pictures of her? Why would they be staring at her?