This Is Me From Now On

by Barbara Dee

  “No.” I sighed. “I’m not even mad anymore.”

  “You mean you were mad? What about?”

  “You don’t know? The date business! The way you tricked me.”

  “Oh, Evie. I didn’t trick you. I only—”

  “Wanted to help. I know, Francesca. But you really, really shouldn’t have. It wasn’t being honest. And you aren’t my fairy godmother.”

  “You’re right. Sorrysorrysorry.”

  “Besides, Zane has feelings too.”

  “Of course.” She paused awkwardly. “He’s really kind of a dolt.”

  “I know.”

  “Stunningly gorgeous, but a bloody dolt.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anyway. As long as you’re over him.” Suddenly her voice brightened. “So here’s why I’m calling: Guess what arrived the other day. Angelica’s diary.”

  “What?” I stopped walking. “What do you mean, the other day? When did you get it?”

  “Oh, I don’t remember. Wednesday, maybe.”

  “Wednesday? You’ve had it since Wednesday? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Well, I knew how focused you were on your date.”

  “Gah. Francesca. It wasn’t even a date! ”

  “Whatever it was. You were so happy about it. So I didn’t want to bother you with silly Angelica Beaumont.”

  “Are you crazy? I wanted to be bothered with Angelica Beaumont!” I’d been shouting, so I lowered my voice. “Do you realize how far behind we are? The project is due on Monday!”

  “I know,” she said patiently. “That’s why I’m calling. To set up some time this weekend to work on it.”

  I forced myself to take a long, deep breath. “Listen, Francesca. We need more than ‘some time’ for this project. How about right now?”

  “I guess,” she said doubtfully. “But Aunt Sam is still in bed. She had a big party here last night, and she’s sleeping it off.”

  Then she hung up without saying good-bye.

  I called my house to say I’d be going to the Pattisons’ and raced across the entire subdivision.

  Francesca greeted me in a New York Yankees sweatshirt. “Let’s go in the living room. But remember, Aunt Sam—”

  “I’ll be quiet,” I swore. “Don’t worry, I’m good at that.”

  The living room was a disaster. Wineglasses, guacamole, lipstick-smeared napkins, all of it left over from last night, obviously. I watched Francesca sweep a bunch of crumbs off the rabbit-furry sofa. They scattered all over the rug, and she didn’t even seem to notice.

  “Sorry about the mess,” she said, flopping down on a squooshy sofa pillow. “Aunt Sam threw a last-minute party for Tristan Royce.”

  “Tristan Royce? I thought she hated him.”

  “Oh no, they’ve reconnected. Which is really so tragic, now that he’s moving to L.A. to star in a sitcom. Isn’t that thrilling, though? Don’t you wish Aunt Sam could get a job like that?”

  I shrugged. “If it’s what she wants.”

  “Oh, I know it is. Anyway,” she said, smiling sweetly, “Grace said you were at Nisha’s. I was so thrilled. Does that mean you two are friends again?”

  “Forget about Nisha!” I exploded. “Forget about Tristan Royce and his stupid sitcom! Just please show me this diary, okay?”

  “Of course. But try to keep your voice down, Evie.” She got up and left the living room. One of the rabbits—Tourmaline?—scampered by the sofa, twitched her pink nose at me, and scampered away.

  A minute later, Francesca was back. “Here,” she said, and handed me a small red book bound in leather.

  I opened it.

  The pages were lined, and gave off a scent like wet dust.

  Wednesday, April 4, 1906

  Blue silk frock, white sash, opal earrings.

  What a glorious afternoon! Walk in the Park with Amelia (white blouse, green skirt, a bit tattered at hem, I think). Later, Tea with Mama (burgundy dress, pearls) and Cousin Letty (gray monstrosity, chipped abalone Button). Mama reports that next month the Rayburns will be having a Spring Social. I do wonder if Thomas will attend!

  Friday, April 6, 1906

  Yellow shirtwaist, v. flattering at bodice. Mother-of-pearl necklace. White linen handkerchief.

  Thomas will attend! Amelia (lavender dress, horrid) says her aunt Matilda told her. I must begin planning Topics to Discuss. Perhaps I shall read the San Francisco Examiner in preparation. If I find the time.

  Monday, April 9, 1906

  Rose frock (perfect for complexion), garnet earrings. New silk shoes, a bit tight in toes.

  Calamity! Mama (blue satin) says we are to visit with Aunt Josephine in Citrus Heights all next week! At least we will return in time for the Social, but how will I bear being bored in that stuffy old House, miles from beloved Thomas? I do wish I could remain in the City with dearest Amelia, but Mama says this is not my Choice. She is so beastly Tyrannical sometimes.

  Saturday, April 14, 1906

  Pink silk, single gold strand at throat, ruby earrings.

  Mama (gray traveling suit, new hat I despise) and I have arrived in Citrus Heights. Aunt Josephine’s house smells like soup. Oh, if only for news of Thomas! Does he notice I am Gone? Will he Forget about me in the Coming Days? A thought too dreadful to imagine!

  Friday, April 20, 1906

  Back in the City our Beautiful House had the most dreadful shock on Wednesday, but fortunately many of our most precious Things have survived. Mama says the City has suffered a Terrible Earthquake, which is truly so tragic for those poor, poor souls affected. Unhappily, we will be forced to remain in Citrus Heights for the Foreseeable Future. But I am hopeful, for I may see Thomas soon, as his Uncle lives not far from here, and Mama says the City is Uninhabitable at Present.

  I looked up at her. I swallowed. “Francesca? Did you read this?”

  She nodded.

  “The whole thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And does it ever get different? Does she say anything about the actual earthquake?”

  “Not … really.”

  “Or the destruction? Or the evacuations? Or the looting?”

  “Just what you read.”

  “Francesca. Eighty percent of the city was destroyed. Eighty percent. And all she’s writing about is this jerk Thomas?”

  “I know. It’s so … disappointing.” She sighed. “But, Evie, it’s not her fault she wasn’t in San Francisco that specific day.”

  “I’m not saying it’s her fault! But did she at least notice the other people? The ones who actually suffered?”

  “Not really. There’s a lot more stuff about Amelia and her ugly clothes—”

  “What about the swinging chandeliers?” I reread the passage about the dreadful shock. “Didn’t you say—”

  “I know! I must have heard it all wrong from Uncle Teddy. Or maybe I just imagined it. You know how sometimes you have a memory, at least you think it’s a memory, but maybe it’s just something you’ve thought about over and over?” Her face crumpled up.

  I shook my head. “You should have read the diary, Francesca. Before you told me what it said.”

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right! I feel so—”

  “Okay,” I interrupted. “Anyway, it’s my fault too.”

  She looked up at me. “It is?”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “I should have been more focused.”

  “Oh, but you were, Evie! You read all those massive books!”

  “Well, I should’ve made sure we had the diary. So we’d have known all this stuff weeks ago. Before it was too late.” Because what an idiot I’d been, wasting all this time, obsessing about all the wrong things. Like Espee’s computer screen. And Samantha’s locket. And of course my non-date with Zane. I flipped helplessly through the book. Gorgeous, perfectly written words caught my eyes: Dance. Chocolate. True love. “Anyway, I thought Angelica was supposed to be this big suffragette. And an artist.”

  “She was! I guess t
hat was later. In 1906 she was just a teenager.”

  “And a spoiled, boy-crazy, fashionista airhead.”

  Francesca shrugged.

  “Okay,” I said finally. “Well, I guess we have no choice. We’d better tell Espee on Monday.”

  “We can’t!” Francesca wailed. “Because then we’ll fail the class!”

  “No we won’t. It’s just one project. I mean, we’ll get a bad grade for the quarter but we’ll probably pass. You’ve passed all your tests and homework so far, right?”

  “Not … exactly. I was sort of counting on the Attic Project to even things out.”

  I stared at her. “You were basing your entire grade on a diary you’d never even read? Are you crazy?”

  All of a sudden Francesca burst into tears. “I can’t fail Spush! Daddy said he was giving me one more chance and then shipping me off to Aunt Beebee’s. I can’t go there, Evie! She hates my mother! Her house is nothing but giant TVs all over the place, and she lives on Lean Cuisine!”

  By now I was used to being shocked by Francesca, but somehow the sight of her crying really shook me up. I mean, I knew that her life was sort of a disaster, actually, with her parents on different continents and the aunts fighting on the phone every night. And I could definitely see why she’d hate living with someone who said things like That’s life for you, girls. One snag after another. But despite all that, it was as if it had never occurred to me before that Francesca could cry. It just wasn’t my picture of her, somehow.

  “Okay,” I said, watching her wipe her eyes with a crumpled tissue she’d had in her pocket. “Well, what do you suggest we do, then? We can’t analyze the diary. There’s nothing to analyze.”

  “I know.” She sniffed. Her nostrils were all pink now, like a rabbit’s. “Maybe we could elaborate.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you did all that research, right? Maybe we could just …” She honked her nose. “Add in some detail.”

  “Add it in?”

  “Nothing untrue. Just a few historical facts. From, you know, U.S. history.”

  I stared. “You mean you want us to pretend she wrote in her diary about the San Francisco Earthquake?”

  “Well, just for the sake of this assignment. Like Espee did, when she wrote that fake love letter for the Mystery Box.”

  Now I laughed, but only because I didn’t know what else to do. “Are you insane? You think what Espee did is the same thing as us inventing a document to pretend to analyze?”

  “I truly don’t see the difference, Evie.” Francesca smiled hopefully. “And besides, doesn’t Espee always say you can learn history from stories?”

  I stood up. “No. That’s not what she means, Francesca. She just means history is all the stuff that happens to people. Or what they think happens to them, which is totally different from lying.” I held up the diary. “Okay if I take this with me?”

  “Well, sure,” she said uncertainly. “But does that mean you’re going now? I thought you said we’re so behind. And that we needed to work all weekend!”

  “Right,” I said. “We definitely do. But now I really just need to think.”

  chapter 24

  When I walked into the kitchen, Grace was sitting at the table with her SAT tutor. “Draw the strongest inference possible,” he was telling her.

  “Grace? Can I talk to you a second?” I begged.

  She looked up at me as if I’d just asked to borrow her bra.

  “Okay, I mean later?” I said. “When you’re done?”

  “When I’m done,” she agreed.

  I went upstairs to my room. I sat on my bed and opened the diary.

  June 21, 1906

  Lavender shirtwaist. For luncheon today Lemon Tart, which I Merely Nibbled, as I am desperate for Thomas to admire my Green Dress.

  Gah. The girl was hopeless, but I refused to lie about what she wrote. I just wouldn’t—not even to save Francesca from Aunt Yellowteeth. But if we didn’t lie, and if we couldn’t just tell Espee the truth, what exactly were our options here?

  I switched on my computer. Then I typed:

  April 18, 1906, was a day Angelica Beaumont would never forget. Although she was ? miles from San Francisco, safe and sound in a dreary suburb, her life was deeply affected by the quaking earth, although in extremely subtle ways.

  I hit the delete key. Because of course that was total garbage.

  About fifteen minutes later Grace walked into my bedroom. “So?” she demanded. “What’s the big emergency?”

  “Could you please sit down?” I begged. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  I told her everything. She was such a brilliant student, I figured that if anyone would know what to do, it would be Grace. And the amazing thing was, she listened really hard the whole time, never once giving me her superior smile or making some snotty comment about how irrelevant my problem was because I was only in seventh grade.

  When I was done, she pursed her lips. “Here’s my personal advice,” she said. “Read the assignment.”

  “What?”

  “I’m serious. Read the assignment. Try to figure out what Espee is actually asking.”

  “I’ve already read the dumb assignment, Grace!”

  “Then I don’t think you understand it, Evie. Give me the assignment sheet.”

  I fished it out of my backpack and handed it to her. She frowned at it, then pointed to the middle of the page:

  Step 3: Analyze closely, using multiple outside sources. (Take lots of notes. Try to fill a whole spiral notebook!)

  Step 4: Find out all you can about the author. What sort of storyteller is/was he/she?

  Grace started to do her smile at me. “All right, Evie. Now do you see what she wants you to do?”

  “Noooo.”

  “So think harder.”

  I laughed desperately. “I’m supposed to write an essay about what a horrible storyteller Angelica Beaumont was?”

  “Exactly,” she answered. “By showing how much she missed.”

  I ran over to Grace and gave her a big hug. She was a little surprised by that, but even sort of hugged me back.

  “Just try not to type so loud,” she teased. “I’ve got a ton of work.”

  “Well, so do I,” I said, sticking out my tongue.

  Then I sat down at my computer.

  I worked all afternoon, and after supper, and almost the entire Sunday. When it was done it was twelve typed pages (minus the bibliography), the longest essay I’d ever written. I was especially proud of the introduction:

  On Wednesday, April 18, 1906, the earth shook, but not for everyone.

  In San Francisco, an earthquake measuring 8.3 on the Richter scale rocked the streets. More than 80 percent of the city was destroyed, both from the quake and the fires that followed. Approximately 3,000 people were killed, and approximately 300,000 people were left homeless. Many of these were poor people forced to live in makeshift tents on the beaches and in Golden Gate Park. It was a catastrophe even worse than Hurricane Katrina.

  Some people, especially the very rich, fled the city and quickly resumed a “normal” life in suburbs miles from San Francisco. One such person was sixteen-year-old Angelica Beaumont, who was so focused on her love life and all the superficial details of her boring existence that she barely registered the (as she put it) “dreadful shock.”

  As soon as the whole thing was printed out, I brought it over to Francesca’s house and rang the doorbell. No one answered, so I stood there in the cold wind, listening to the obnoxious Big Ben chime. Finally I heard some scuffling in the entry. “Topaz, you naughty little imp!” Samantha was shouting. At last she opened the door and beamed at me. “Evie. What a lovely surprise. I hope you’re not here for Frankie.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she isn’t here.” She made this graceful sort of won’t-you-come-in movement with her arm, and the next thing I knew I was in her living room, which had been vacuumed and aired out, even though the sofa was st
ill full of rabbit fur.

  “Please have a seat,” she said sweetly. “Would you like a latte? I have a new machine.” She waved toward the kitchen.

  “No thanks. Um, where is Francesca, exactly? Because we’re working on this project—”

  Samantha held up a perfectly manicured hand. “Frankie is off to the beach house with Mimi. As of seven this morning.”

  “The beach house? But it’s freezing out.”

  “I know. Not my choice for a getaway, but try telling that to Mimi. Especially when she blows in here to rescue her daughter.”

  “From what?”

  “Who knows. Frankie called Paris Saturday morning and said she needed rescuing. She was crying so much, it was hard to understand. Something about a basement or a cellar.”

  “You mean an attic?”

  “Yes, that’s right. An attic. And she kept saying what a dreadful friend she was, and how she’d let you down. Anyway, she finally convinced Mimi, who took the first flight out of Paris and whisked Francesca off to the beach house. In my car.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What for? You didn’t steal my car!”

  “I know. I’m just …” I had no idea what to say next, so I stood up. “Do you know when Frankie will be back?”

  “Impossible to say. Maybe they’ll stay there forever, for all I know! Mimi gets these wild impulses—” She fluttered her hand. “On the other hand, my sister gets bored very easily. So they could be back in a week or two. I really haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on.”

  I put the Attic Project on the coffee table. “Well, when you see her, can you give this to her? We worked on it together.”

  “You mean for school?” She sighed sharply. “Oh, yes, school. And I’m supposed to tell them something about Frankie’s whereabouts, I suppose. Well, what do you suggest I say?”

  “I don’t really—”

  “Wait right there.” She stood up from the sofa and floated up the stairs. A minute later she returned and handed me some stationery. I immediately recognized the pale green Trident color and the monogram.

  This is what she’d written:

  To Whom It May Concern,