I'm Not Her

by Janet Gurtler

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011 by Janet Gurtler

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by J. Marison

  Cover images © Maria Teijeiro/Getty Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  teenfire.sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  contents

  front cover

  title page

  copyright

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  acknowledgments

  about the author

  back cover

  For my sister, Tracey MacLeod.

  And her lovely daughters—sisters themselves, Ciara, Carly, and Cede Sebelius.

  A crowd gathers for the funeral. The church walls seem to strain to accommodate the bodies, but there isn’t enough space for everyone. People cram together, squished thigh to thigh in the pews, shoulder to shoulder in aisles. The back is standing room only.

  Not surprisingly, I don’t hear anyone complain. I hardly hear any sound at all except the occasional whisper, cough, or sniffle. Everyone wears dark colors, even kids who don’t usually follow rules or social customs. I guess it’s like that when someone young is snatched from the earth. It’s wrong on so many levels that thinking about it makes my already sad heart ache even harder.

  Dad says parents shouldn’t have to bury their children. He says a lost child leaves a hole in the heart of the parents, a hole hacked out with a dull knife. The heart can function with the wound, but it never entirely heals.

  chapter one

  No matter how much I don’t want to care, it’s not easy being stranded all alone in the middle of a crowded room, like the ugliest dog at the animal shelter. Kristina shoved me into her shiny red Toyota like she’s my fairy godmother, insisting I do the party “for my own good.” But other than a few heys and disinterested stares, no one notices that I’m there. Before long, even Kristina forgets about me. Swept up by her friends and admirers, Kristina leaves me bathing in my own flop sweat.

  I begin plotting my escape just as a drunk guy plunks down on the couch beside me and leans against me for support. Smoke and alcohol fumes waft off him and he blocks me, pinning me in place. Wrinkling my nose, I elbow him in the side, trying to move him. He hacks up the equivalent of a human fur ball, focuses his eyes on me, and then grins the carefree smile of the intoxicated. He leans closer, giving me an up-close view of the angry red pimples on his shiny skin.

  “Hey, Freshie. You’re Kristina’s little sister aren’t you?” He whistles through his teeth. “She’s seriously hot.”

  He’s implying that I’m not and, honestly, I’d be okay with his observation if he’d get out of my way. I take a deep breath, but no words form in my mouth. I glare at him but he doesn’t notice. His long blondish hair curls up at the edges and in the middle of his face is a big crooked nose that looks like it’s been broken or something, but the imperfection kind of works on him. His eyes look like they might have been a great shade of blue before the alcohol consumption hit, but they’re pretty much pinkish now.

  Folding my arms across my chest, I push hard with my shoulder, but he doesn’t budge. Other than the brief pant over my sister, there’s no indication he even notices I’m not part of the furniture. I wiggle and push and finally make progress, when he snaps his arm out and grabs mine, pulling me back down. The strength in his arm is deceptive for such a skinny guy.

  “What’s she like?” Drunk Pimple Guy stares at her, his voice dripping with the kind of reverence people save for the very famous or very beautiful. Far as I know, Kristina isn’t famous outside of Great Heights, but even I can’t deny she has the beauty part down.

  Breathing deep, I try to shake him off but he doesn’t let go. Propelled by growing humiliation, I decide to give him some truths. “She burps. Red meat gives her gas and she won’t eat anything that contains a carbohydrate. Oh, and she takes medicine to control her acne.” I consider recommending the brand to him but no. Not cool. “She also hogs the bathroom and is a slob who treats my mom like her personal maid.”

  I think it’s the most I’ve ever said to a boy at one time. I don’t add that Kristina cries at sad commercials, never mind the blubbering she does during movies, or that when I was nine, she punched a boy who called me ugly and gave him a bloody nose.

  He stares at me as if I’ve grown three horns from my ever-so-ordinary, two-minutes-to-get-ready face. Well, if he didn’t want the truth, he shouldn’t have asked. After all, as the younger sister of Kristina Smith, I have an in on the lifestyle and personality of the Goddess.

  I try to break free again, but he holds on like I’m his security blanket and he’s five years old. He grins and his expression changes and he almost looks cute. If he weren’t holding me hostage and all.

  “You mean she doesn’t have a real maid? I heard your old man is loaded.”

  Please. My mom would never share control of her home with hired help, but I don’t tell him that.

  He studies my face. “You don’t look much like her.”

  My crooked nose matches Dad’s and I also inherited his stupid red hair. Unlike my curvaceous sister, I’d never be mistaken for a pole dancer. People would be more likely to compare me to the pole. DNA is indeed a baffling concept. Thanks for pointing it out, dude.

  “Whoa, she can dance,” he says, without letting me go.

  I’m forced to watch with him as Kristina performs as if she’s on a stage, acting like she doesn’t know almost every eye in the room is on her.

  Kristina continues to grind and shake to the music in her skinny jeans and a tank top seriously helped along by a push-up bra. She gets off on crowd approval, like I get off on watching the guys on MythBusters blow up things.

  Silence hangs between me and my captor. Well, not exactly silence since a new pop song is vibrating the speakers in the living room, and all around us kids yak and laugh. But there’s a definite lull on our couch.

  “All righty then.”

  Just like that Drunk Pimple Guy lets me go and vaults himself off the couch.

  “I have a name too,” I say under my breath, because of course, he didn’t ask. “It’s Tess. Rhymes with mess.” No one ever asks my name. No one knows that there ar
e jokes trapped inside my head.

  I push myself up, even more determined to sneak down the hallway, slip out the back entrance, and escape. I don’t care that it’s dark outside or even that going home alone will require walking over two miles. And that I hate walking. And the dark.

  I start pushing past bodies crowded in the living room. People brush me away like I’m an annoying insect, or their eyes meet mine for a brief second before they look away. Just as the entrance to the kitchen is visible, a hand reaches out and grabs my shirt from behind and pulls. Hard. Kristina latches her free hand on my arm. Damn. She pushes me back into the living room where flocks of freshmen lurk awkwardly in twos and threes. She bops her head and keeps mouthing the words to the song playing, just as well since her voice is not as pretty as her face. I don’t brag about it but I’m the one who can sing in our family. She’s the one who looks good lip-synching.

  Eyes follow us because, after all, she is Kristina. She doesn’t loosen her grip on my arm, and shoves me past a group of seniors and the freshies stalking them. Great. Might as well stick a kick-me sign on my butt the way she’s dragging me around. Kristina leans in close, making a wincing sound as she pushes us toward an open spot by the dining room table. From the corner of my eye, I catch the art of Robert Bateman and a teeny part of me notes that based on the textured look of the paper and the pigments collected in tiny hollows, it’s an original, not a print.

  Kristina lets go of me and leans down, rubbing at her knee. “Ouch. My stupid knee,” she mumbles. “What are you doing?” she demands in her “I’m the big sister, now listen to me” voice.

  “Going home.” I stick out my bottom lip for courage. “This is humiliating.”

  She stops massaging her knee and straightens, glancing off in the direction Drunk Pimple Guy disappeared. “Did Nick make a pass at you or something? I’ll kill him. He’s such a man-whore.”

  I shake my head back and forth, mortified by the concept. As if he’d make a pass at me.

  “There’s lots of cute boys here your own age. You promised to at least try to make friends.”

  “I already have friends,” I mumble, wishing she would try to understand how hard it is for me to talk to people.

  “No. You have friend. One. And Melissa is a socially inept, religious freak. You can do better.”

  “Melissa is a better friend than you’ll ever have.” Melissa does have her religion thing but it doesn’t come between us. Well, except for the time when she told me I wouldn’t be going to heaven because I don’t go to church.

  Anyhow, I’m not about to argue quality versus quantity here, but all Kristina’s friends do is giggle a lot and screech OHMYGOD and talk about boys. And take pictures of each other, usually in skimpy clothes. And then post the pictures online.

  Kristina sighs. “This is an opportunity to meet new people. Not just art freaks or brainiacs from the Honor Society.”

  “Art is not freaky,” I remind her for the millionth time, but it still hasn’t registered in her head. She’s exactly like our mom. She doesn’t understand how important art is to me. Or even that I’m pretty good at it. “And neither are people from the Honor Society,” I add, and ignore her huge eye roll.

  “You can’t leave,” she whines. “Come on, Tess. Live it up a little. It’s your first high school party. Have fun. I really want you to get something out of this.”

  I can’t understand why she even cares. She checks me out from head to toe but then something catches her eye and she directs a full-watt Reese Witherspoon smile across the room.

  Her eyes don’t twinkle though, and she self-consciously fixes her tank top as she wiggles her fingers in the air. I see her ex, Devon Pierce. The male equivalent of Kristina. Prince Charming to her Cinderella. Except in this story they split up instead of living happily ever after.

  “He broke my heart,” she whispers in a sad voice, without wiping the mega-grin off her face. I can’t tell if she’s lying about the state of her heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has one.

  “So why’re you smiling at him like he’s a bowl of sugar-free Jell-O?”

  She leans forward and the force of her breath on the tiny hairs on my ear hurts. “I kind of have to. He’s super A-list.”

  I almost feel sorry for her having to be nice to a boy who broke her heart. I want to go over and punch him in the stomach on her behalf.

  She keeps smiling though, watching him from the corner of her eye. “He’s not a bad guy. We mostly broke up because I wouldn’t hook up with him.”

  I pretend to stick my finger down my throat, but I’m a little relieved to hear that she didn’t give in to him just because he’s a hot guy. From what I’ve heard, most of her friends don’t have the same reservations.

  Her expression tightens and her eye twitches slightly in the corner. “You have to be careful with guys.”

  No, she does. I don’t. Boys don’t notice me. For example, right then a boy approaches us, checking out my sister. He has a cute baby face but is wearing a dorky rap star T-shirt. He’s carrying a digital camera and has a look of utter adoration on his face. I don’t think he even sees me standing beside her.

  “You were awesome in the game last night,” he says. “You’re captain this year, right?”

  Kristina nods. “Yup. And as of last week, I’m the outside hitter too. If my knee holds out.” She frowns for a second and then shakes her head once.

  “Can I take your picture?” His lips tighten as if he’s nervous.

  “Sure,” she gushes, and flashes her perfect teeth at him. She treats her admirers with equal deference, I’ll give her that. No one can accuse my sister of being one of the mean girls; she’s not like that.

  She throws an arm around me. “Take one of me and my little sister, Tess. She’s a freshman, you know, just like you.” She smiles and squeezes my shoulder harder. “And she’s also available.”

  My face warms and she pinches me to warn me not to run in horror as she tries to pimp me out to some kid. I say nothing but can’t stop blushing and refuse to smile at his camera.

  “Say ‘Facebook,’” the boy says.

  Kristina squirms happily, hearing one of her favorite words. “Facebook,” she says, smiling at his camera with her eyes, her arm tight around my shoulder so I can’t escape. She manages to turn her body to expose her most flattering angle. I glare at the camera. “Make sure you friend me so I can see the pics after you post them. My last name is Smith,” she chirps, as if he didn’t already know.

  “Cool. Thanks,” the boy says. “I’m Jeremy. Jeremy Jones. I play volleyball too.”

  “Jones?” Kristina says. She taps her fingers on her chin, thinking.

  I almost smile. His last name is as lame as ours. Jones. Smith. As common as celebrities in rehab.

  “I made the junior team,” he tells Kristina.

  She smiles but she clearly hasn’t heard of him.

  He peeks at me but I duck my head.

  “You’re in my friend’s homeroom and a few of his classes,” he says to me.

  Kristina nudges me out of my stupor.

  “Oh,” I say, only because of her prompting. I have to admit he’s kind of cute in a lost-puppy-dog way, but he’s obviously a member of the Kristina fan club and that deducts major points.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” Kristina asks him sweetly, nudging me harder with her pointy, anorexic elbow.

  “Clark.”

  Clark Trent. I know who he’s talking about. The poor guy’s parents obviously have a warped sense of humor. I mean, come on. Clark Trent? Superman much? He even wears glasses.

  I know who he is because he’s one of the top freshmen this year. Academically. Rumor has it he’s after a spot in the Honor Society. Well, the rumor is between Melissa and me. She made a list of all the prospects. In our school, freshman members of the Honor Society aren’t chosen until the end of the first semester, so it’s imperative we get great marks until November.

  Jeremy squirms, holdin
g his camera tight as if he has something else to say, but Kristina’s already been distracted. She only feels she owes her fans so much time, I guess.

  She signals her hand at a boy leaning against the wall opposite ours. He appears at her side in a flash. Jeremy makes a quiet excuse and leaves. I lift my hand and wave good-bye, mostly sorry for him because Kristina doesn’t even seem to notice his exodus from stage right.

  “Sweetie, would you get a cup of punch for my sister? You know. The special punch,” she says to the boy she’s called over.

  He grins, thrilled to be put to use for Kristina Smith, and hurries off to do her bidding. Seconds later he returns and hands a cup to me.

  “Drink up, little sister,” he says with a laugh.

  I take a sip from the cup and sputter and cough. I stare at Kristina, shocked, while the boy laughs some more. I put it down on the table and cross my arms, glaring at Kristina.

  “What?” Kristina says. “It has a little rum in it. Drink it fast. Maybe it’ll loosen you up a little.” She studies me for a second. “Tell Mom and I’ll kill you. She’s already freaking—”

  I shake my head. “I’m not drinking alcohol to loosen myself up.”

  Kristina sighs. “You know, most little sisters would think I was pretty cool giving you a drink. I’m not trying to get you drunk. You need to chillax a bit. Take the edge off.”

  The boy wisely steps away from us and takes off toward the kitchen.

  “I don’t want to get drunk and throw up just to show people how cool I am,” I say.

  “I didn’t say you had to get drunk. Or throw up. I just want you to be, you know, a little more relaxed.” She lifts her chin. “Get you a little more connected. I only want what’s best for you.”

  “So does Mom and she tries to make me eat porridge for breakfast every day.”

  As far as I can tell, Kristina’s idea of connected is how many people text her each day.

  “I won’t always be around to try to help you out socially, Tess. You need to make an effort on your own too.”

  “Did you ever think I don’t want your help?” I glance around to see if ears are tuned in to our conversation, but no one appears to be listening in. “Maybe I’m happy.”