I flip through a few on top. Some of them definitely have cheesy titles, like Woof! and Zap To It! and My Alien BFF, but some have really interesting titles, like Winter’s Dawn and Answers to What If and Between Lost and Found.
And suddenly, I’m struck with an amazing idea.
Checking that Eva is not lurking in the doorway, I grab a few of the scripts from the pile and scurry up the stairs, determined to continue my quest to improve the life of Ruby Rivera.
Daniella’s mom drops me off at the UC–Irvine faculty housing complex. I find the key to the apartment in Skylar’s backpack and let myself in. Rebecca must still be at work, because the place is empty.
Excited to finally be alone with all these books, I drop Skylar’s backpack on the floor, walk over to the bookshelves, and slowly run my fingers across the cracked spines. I love how they all feel so worn and read. Like someone has devoured the pages so many times, the stories are now a part of them.
I’m just searching for a title to read when Skylar’s phone rings, startling me. For a moment, I’m terrified that it’s Skylar calling to tell me she wants her life back now. She can’t wait until Sunday. She’s having a rotten time, Barry barked at her, Ryder’s a jerk, my mom is intolerable, and she hates my life with a passion. Of course she does. Because my life stinks.
What if I just don’t answer the phone? What if I hide out in her apartment and refuse to give her life back to her? What’s she going to do? Call the police? Tell them her body has been hijacked by a TV star? They’ll think she’s crazy. They’ll never believe her.
But when I look at the phone, I see that it’s a video call from “Dad” and my stomach swoops a little.
Should I answer it? Is it my place to answer a call from Skylar’s father?
I bite my lip, feeling torn. I’ve never seen that name on my caller ID before. My own dad left before he even knew my name.
I press answer.
A man’s face suddenly fills the screen, and even without the caller ID I can immediately tell that it’s Skylar’s father. He’s got the same pale skin as her, the same soft blue eyes, the same straw-colored hair. Even the same wide nose.
“Hi, kiddo,” he says. “How are you? How was school? Gosh, it’s good to see you. I’ve missed you!”
For a long moment, I’m speechless. I can’t even breathe. His voice. It’s so gentle. So kind. So…loving. And the way he looks at me through the phone, it’s…
Well, it’s like no one has ever looked at me before.
“Sky,” he prompts after a few seconds of awkward silence. “Are you okay? Did the video freeze?”
I blink and pull myself back into reality. “No. Sorry. I’m here.”
He smiles the most amazing, kindhearted smile. “How was your day?”
How was your day?
Such a casual, simple question. Like he asks it every single day. Like it’s totally normal for a dad to call up his daughter and ask her about her day. I don’t know long I’ve dreamed of having my father ask me that very same question. Wherever he is. Whoever he is.
I feel a pinch in my chest. “Good,” I manage to say, but it comes out more like a croak. “I mean…great!”
His smile broadens. As if that were even possible. “Good to hear! So, are you finally making some friends?”
I think about the afternoon I just had with the Ellas. “Yes. A few.”
“And how was your Language Arts presentation? I know you told me you were worried about it.”
“It went great! I totally aced it. The teacher was really impressed.”
The man beams with pride. “Terrific! You should tell your mom that. She’s been worried about you in that class.”
I nod. “I will.”
“Look, I’m sorry I can’t talk very long today. I’ve got to run back to campus. I just wanted to say hi.”
“Oh,” I say awkwardly. “Right. Hi.”
Skylar’s dad laughs. Then he glances at something I can’t see. “Oh, crud. I gotta go. I’ll try you tomorrow. Have a good weekend!”
And then, just like that, he’s gone. His face vanished, replaced by a cold, dark screen. I instinctively reach toward it, as though I could actually reach through the phone and bring him back. As though I actually had magic genie summoning powers.
As though he were actually my dad.
Which, of course, he’s not.
I don’t get to feel this strange stirring in my stomach at the memory of his smile. I don’t get to miss him already. I don’t even know him. He thinks I’m someone else. Someone with a nice, simple, normal life.
Someone with a father.
I stare at the darkened screen for a long time. I don’t often let myself think about my own dad. What’s there to think about? I’ve never seen a single picture of him. Mom says he left the moment she found out she was pregnant. That’s what kind of a father he was. Not the kind who video chats with his daughter just to say hi and ask about her day.
When I was a kid, I used to think about him all the time. I used to wonder what he looked like. Did he have my eyes, my nose, my freakishly long fingers? I used to fantasize about him coming back. Walking through the door of our small two-bedroom house in Dallas, with his arms full of gifts and his mouth full of apologies. In my mind, he always had a valid excuse. Something to explain away the years of neglect and invisibility.
“I was on the first manned mission to Mars!”
“I was kidnapped by pirates and held prisoner!”
“I got amnesia and couldn’t remember where we lived!”
But then I got older. We moved to LA. I got the job on Ruby of the Lamp. My face was broadcast all over the world. And he still didn’t show up. That’s when I started to realize that he never would.
That’s when I stopped letting myself think about him.
Because it was bad enough to play a girl on a fictional TV show whose father died and whose mother has been trapped inside a genie lamp for the past decade. I didn’t need to come home every day to a similar reality.
But today, something stirs in me. A longing I haven’t felt in a long time.
I search Skylar’s phone until I find a picture of her father. Then I run into the bathroom and stare at Skylar’s reflection in the mirror. My reflection for at least one more day. I hold the phone up to the mirror, lining up the screen so that our faces are side by side.
A father.
And his daughter.
Then, for the first time in many years, I allow myself to dream. To wish. To hope. To wonder.
The alarm on Ruby’s phone goes off at five a.m. on Saturday and at first I think it’s a mistake. That is, until Eva shows up a minute later, dressed in a pair of neon-yellow workout pants and a matching sports bra.
“C’mon. Ruby. Time to get up. Tyler is already downstairs in the gym.”
It’s still dark outside the window but she flips on the overhead lamps, shocking me awake. I blink wearily, still trying to make sense of what’s happening.
I roll over and try to go back to sleep, but a second later the covers are literally ripped off me. “Don’t start with this, Ruby. We don’t have time. We already have to cut Kaboom! short today because of your eight a.m. call time at the photo shoot.”
Kaboom? Photo shoot? What is she talking about?
I sit up and rub my eyes, certain that when I’m finished, she’ll have disappeared back into the depths of my mind, where I’m certain this bad dream is taking place.
It works.
When I pull my fists away from my eyes, she’s gone.
I sigh in relief, collapse back against the pillow, and pull the covers back up. But then, a second later, she emerges from Ruby’s mall closet with an armful of clothes and tosses them on the bed. “RUBY!” she screams, causing me to jolt back up to sitting.
“What?” I ask, ex
asperated.
She looks at me like I’m supposed to know exactly why she’s yelling at me. “GET. UP. You’re not missing Kaboom! again today. I didn’t wake you up for it yesterday because of the whole fainting thing, but you’re fine now.”
Eva stalks over to the speakers on Ruby’s desk and presses a few buttons. A second later, music blares into the room, causing my heart to skip about seven beats.
“Get up! Stand up! Rise up! We’re living out louuuud!
Wake up! Face up! Way up! You can’t keep us doooown!”
It takes me a moment to recognize the song. It’s “Living Out Loud,” from Ruby’s second album. Normally, it’s my favorite, but today, I just want to hurl the pillow at the speakers and yell “SHUT UP!”
“Make it stop!” I scream, covering my ears.
But Eva just stands there, arms crossed. “Come over here and stop it yourself,” she replies, but she has to yell to be heard over the music.
Is this how Eva gets Ruby out of bed in the morning? By blasting her own music at her?
“Everybody gather round! This is the sound
That your dreams will all come true to.
Everybody feel the beat! Get off your seat!
We’re about to break all the ru-ules.”
I blow out a breath and push the covers off. “Okay, okay. I’m getting up.”
The music is still blaring. It’s so loud, it’s physically hurting my ears. I race over to the desk to shut off the song but trip along the way, nearly landing on my face. Thankfully, I manage to catch myself on the desk chair. I look back to see what I’ve tripped over and my gaze lands on the stack of scripts on the floor. Although, now they’re more of a scattered pile than a neat stack.
Oh, right. That’s why I’m so tired.
I stayed up almost all night, reading, trying to find a movie that Ruby could possibly star in. Some of the scripts were awful—just like Eva said—but some were actually pretty good. There was one in particular I liked about a twelve-year-old girl hacker who stumbles upon a giant corporate conspiracy.
I think I’m getting the hang of this script-reading thing. It’s so much better than reading a book. You can actually finish a whole story in less than an hour, as opposed to a book, which takes like weeks. Well, it takes weeks for me. My mom finishes a book in a day.
I finally reach the desk and shut off the song. The silence is blissful.
“What’s all this?” Eva asks, glancing down at the kicked-over pile of screenplays.
I bite my lip. “Nothing. I just needed some help falling asleep.”
She gives me a quizzical look before evidently deciding to let it go. “Okay. Get dressed. I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.”
I still have no idea what’s going on. I glance down at the pile of clothes she tossed on the bed earlier, noticing a pair of shorts and a sports bra in the mix. Wait a minute—this is all exercise gear.
I peer at the time on the phone to make sure I’m not just imagining this.
Nope. It really is five-thirty in the morning.
And that’s when the realization hits me like a ton of bricks.
She wants me to work out?
Do you hear that?
Listen. Listen closely.
It’s the sound of nothingness.
Nothing to do and nowhere to be. No alarms, no crack-of-dawn Kaboom! workouts, no mothers nagging me to get up, do my hair, wear something “cute” and “respectable.” No photo shoots. No recording sessions. No interviews.
Nothing.
When I open my eyes and check the phone, it’s eleven in the morning. I can’t remember a time I slept this late. It feels amazing. My body feels rested. My mind is empty. For once in my life, my morning is not a chaotic circus of clothes and shoes and diets and exercise and scheduling and voice lessons.
I lie there for a good twenty minutes and no one comes in to bug me. When I finally do get up, I don’t even bother to change my clothes or brush my teeth or even look in the mirror. I just wander out into the living room in my pajamas, morning breath and all. The apartment is empty. I find a note on the counter from Rebecca. It says she’s gone to campus for a while and she’ll be home around two o’clock. Which means I have the place to myself for three whole hours.
I can’t even tell you how amazing that feels.
A whole house to myself? With nothing to do and no one to boss me around?
This is the best Saturday ever!
I get a bowl and pour myself more of that delicious sugary cereal, but just as I’m dumping in way too much milk, I get a better idea. I open the Ding Dong Delivery app and find a place that delivers breakfast—which is technically brunch now—and order practically everything on the menu. Pancakes, an omelet, bacon (extra crispy), toast, chocolate chip waffles, and an extra-large chocolate milk. Excited, I shut off the phone and am about to pour the cereal and milk down the drain when I think, Why waste it?
There’s no reason I can’t have cereal, too!
So I stand in the kitchen and happily shovel spoonfuls of crunchy deliciousness into my mouth as I watch the little Ding Dong Delivery avatar move down the progress bar from “Heading to the restaurant” to “Picking up your delivery” and finally to “On the way!”
When my food arrives, I transfer every dish to its own plate, throwing the containers down the trash chute in the hallway. Then I spread the food out on the coffee table like a giant buffet. I turn on the TV and navigate to the History channel. There’s a special on about the French Revolution.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the scents of pancakes and crisp bacon, before digging in with all my might. I eat and eat until I can’t eat any more. There’s still tons of food left, but I’m stuffed.
Then I lie back on the couch, resting my hands on my full belly, and watch TV until I slip into a beautiful food coma and fall asleep.
Two hours later, I’m awoken by a hand shaking me. “Skylar?”
“Mmm?” I murmur dreamily. Still in total bliss over my perfect Saturday morning.
“Where did all this food come from?”
My eyes flash open and I see Rebecca standing there, eyeing my half-eaten plates of food. “Um…um…,” I stammer, before remembering Rebecca saying something about Skylar liking to cook. “I made it?”
“Well, I assumed that,” Rebecca says, thankfully buying it, “but why so much food. It looks like you cooked enough to feed a whole village.”
“Oh,” I say, biting my lip. “That.”
I have no idea what to tell her. I can’t very well say that I’ve been on a carb-free, sugar-free, taste-free diet for the past four years and now I’m making up for lost time. So I just say the first thing that pops into my mind. “I thought you’d be hungry when you got home.”
It’s definitely the right thing to say. Rebecca’s face brightens almost instantly. “That’s so nice of you, sweetie! And you’re right. I’m famished.” She sits down next to me on the couch, grabs the fork, and starts eating with the same enthusiasm I did.
I chuckle. “Rough morning?”
She nods, covering her mouth as she speaks and chews at the same time. “My in-box was flooded with emails from students.” She swallows and wipes her mouth. “All complaining about their paper grades. I’m sorry, though, if you fail to properly analyze the book, I can’t give you a good grade. I don’t think these kids are used to working hard. They all took Literature Through the Ages freshman year, which is a joke of a class taught by a professor who sleeps through all his lectures and gives As for correctly spelling the author’s name.” She scoops more hash browns onto her fork but then sets the fork down. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m probably boring you. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about all this university drama.”
I sit up straighter. I hadn’t even noticed I’d been lea
ning on my knees, hanging on every word she said. “What? No. Of course I want to hear about it.”
And it’s the truth. This woman lives and breathes books. I can’t think of anything more interesting than that.
She gives me a dubious look and laughs. “Since when?”
“Since…” I hesitate, not wanting to make a wrong step, but I really want her to keep talking. “Since now.”
She shakes her head and continues eating. “Well, anyway. I didn’t give in to any of them. I told them all they could rewrite the paper if they wanted and try for a better grade. I mean, I’ve read better analyses of 1984 from high schoolers.”
“1984?” I say, perking up. “That book blew my mind. Like…” I mimic an explosion near my head. “Kaboo—”
But I never get to finish my sound effect because Rebecca is staring at me like she’s never met me before. I drop my hands to my lap and close my mouth.
“Are you mocking me?” she asks, hurt suddenly filling her eyes.
“No!” I rush to say. “Not at all. I really did like…” And suddenly, something clicks in my mind. Something that’s been bugging me ever since I magically poofed into this body.
Mr. Katz’s reaction in Language Arts class. Rebecca’s strange expression yesterday morning when I tried to talk to her about Frankenstein and her even stranger expression now. The giant bookshelf in the living room and the complete lack of books in Skylar’s room.
It hits me all at once.
Skylar hates to read.
Rebecca Welshman is a renowned professor of literature and her daughter doesn’t read. It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. I can’t even imagine how frustrating it must be for Rebecca to have a daughter who doesn’t share her passion.
Then again, I don’t share my mother’s passion, either.
But that’s totally different! My mom is passionate about awards shows and best dressed lists and how many times my picture appears in the latest issue of Star Beat. Rebecca Welshman is passionate about something that matters. Books! Reading! Great works of literature! And Skylar has no clue how cool that is.
Better You Than Me Page 18
