Girl on the Other Side

by Deborah Kerbel

  “So you sold all of it?”

  Catherine closed her eyes and took a deep, long breath.

  “All of it. The stocks, bonds, investments, chequing accounts, savings accounts, the vacation home in Florida — and even the land where our house used to be.”

  She pulled her robe tightly around her as she spoke, like she was suffering from a sudden chill. Without even thinking, I pulled the blanket back and patted the mattress, inviting her to join me. Poor Sam yipped with irritation as she crawled in. He wasn’t used to sharing my bed with anyone else. Catherine put her head next to mine on the floppy pillow. Up close, I could see her natural brown roots pushing through her scalp. In all the years she’s been dying it blonde, she’d never once let the roots show before. Except for the odd gray strand, it was the exact same colour as mine.

  She must have noticed me looking at her roots because she put a hand up to cover her hairline and smiled.

  “I’ve been thinking about going back to my natural brown. I think I’m ready for some changes.”

  I knew she was telling the truth. In fact, she’d already changed a lot since the fire. I think we all have. When the investigators told us that the batteries in the smoke alarm were way past their expiration date, I was horrified. I was so worried that Catherine would freak on Nanny Beth and blame her for everything we lost. But, surprisingly, she didn’t. Maybe it’s because Nanny was getting ready to move back to the Philippines. She told us that her whole near-death experience in the fire had made her rethink her life. She was desperate to be with her daughter again. I was devastated when she told me she was going, but not completely surprised. Like I said before, I kind of always knew she’d leave me one day. And maybe this timing was right after all. Pretty soon, my parents and I will be moving to an apartment that’ll be way too small for a nanny. And this was our shot at being a real family for the first time.

  Okay, I have to admit that there was a small part of me that worried I was taking a risk by trusting them. After all, David and Catherine have been letting me down since the day I was born. But my heart was telling me to go for it. After losing everything else in my life, it was a chance I was willing to take.

  “So, I have a little present for you,” Catherine said, reaching into the pocket of her robe. When she pulled her hand back out, it was clenched into a loose fist.

  “It’s time to give you this.”

  When she opened her hand, my heart rose in my chest.

  “Grandma’s bracelet?” I gasped, sitting up. “Why do you still have it? I mean, didn’t the police make you sell everything?”

  She smiled and reached for my wrist.

  “Yes, they made us sell everything that was ours. But remember — this bracelet was in your name. Grandma specifically left it to you, so they couldn’t take it. I figure it’s time for you to have it. I’m just sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner.”

  She slipped it around my wrist and fastened the clasp. I stared down at my arm, not knowing what to say. I’d waited so long to see this bracelet again — and here it was. Immediately, I raised it up to my nose and took a deep breath. I had been hoping it would still smell like Grandma’s favourite rose perfume — the one she used to dab on her wrists every day. But after three sniffs, I lowered my wrist in disappointment. The bracelet didn’t smell like anything at all — any lingering trace of perfume had vanished along with Grandma. My head suddenly filled with memories of her — her house, her stories, her sparkly blue eyes. I tried to imagine her wedding day when Grandpa fastened this very bracelet onto her wrist as a symbol of his love. She was only eighteen then — not much older than I was now. And then I started to cry.

  Twenty-four … twenty-three …

  I’m almost there. I hike my bursting backpack up a little higher as I make my way down the hall for the last time. Grandma’s bracelet clanks against my wrist with every step. It feels funny there — heavy and kind of awkward. Not at all like I remembered it from those times she used to let me try it on. It’s strange — I thought wearing her bracelet again would be a reminder of my grandmother and how much she loved me. But it’s not. Instead, it feels like a chain pulling me back to the awful days when Catherine was trying to get rid of me. And I didn’t want to remember those days anymore. I wanted to put them behind me and start looking toward the future.

  I glance up from my shoes and see faces turning away as I approach, but I don’t really care. They’re strangers, every one of them. No one here ever really knew me. There’s really only one person in this school that I need to say goodbye to. Although I’ve never visited her locker before, I know exactly where it is. Actually, it was pretty impossible not to know considering how many times it had been graffitied and vandalized over the past few years. Just a few more steps to go.

  Nine … eight … seven …

  Lora

  My feet bounce a bit as I jostle my way through the jubilant crowd toward my locker. School’s over and the hallways reek with the sweaty excitement of newly liberated teenagers. I almost feel like celebrating along with everyone else. For the first time in my life I’m actually looking forward to my summer. And I don’t even mind the idea of coming back here next year. Life has changed for me since the fire at the Freeman’s house. Believe it or not, I’m not Frog-face anymore. Well … at least not most of the time, anyway. There are still a few stubborn piranhas and pit bulls who refuse to give it up. Probably more out of habit than anything else.

  Maybe they’re being nicer to me because they’ve lost their leader. Without Tabby to look up to, they seem confused — like honeybees after the queen has died. They don’t attack in packs and most of them seem to have lost their predatory spirit. Or maybe it’s because I took Tabby Freeman’s advice and started standing up for myself. Or maybe there’s another reason … maybe they’re being nicer to me because I’m related to a bona fide hero.

  A week after the Freeman fire, Daddy was awarded a bravery medal by the mayor of our town in a special televised ceremony. Our whole family was there to watch him receive it — Mommy even put on makeup and her best dress for the occasion. She looked almost like her old self again, except of course for the wheelchair. The next day, Daddy’s picture made it into all the newspapers and ever since, people have been stopping him on the street to ask for his autograph, or a picture, or just wanting to shake his hand. Daddy’s sort of embarrassed by all the attention, but the rest of our family is bursting with pride. Mayor or no mayor — we always thought of him as a hero, anyway.

  Sidestepping a renegade skateboarder, I turn the corner into the main hall and almost knock right into Tabby Freeman, who’s standing near my locker. I blurt out a quick apology.

  “Gosh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there.”

  “That’s okay,” she says, holding up her hands. “I was actually waiting for you.”

  I can’t hide my shock.

  “You were waiting for me?” In all my years at this school, nobody’s ever waited for me at my locker. I can see Tabby shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Is it possible that she’s as nervous about talking to me as I am to her?

  “You probably know that I’m not coming back here next year … so I just, um, wanted to say goodbye. And, well … I’m sorry for being such a bitch all these years. I never really got the chance to know you and now I wish I had, Lora.”

  She says my name so naturally now. There’s not even a hint of my old nickname hiding behind her words. I guess that’s because she’s not really a piranha anymore. I don’t know what to say, so I shrug and say nothing.

  “I also wanted to ask, well … how’s your mom doing?” she continues, lowering her voice to a whisper — the way people do when they talk about something terrible.

  I’m shocked at the question. How on earth does she know about Mommy? But then I remember back to that moment in the girl’s bathroom when I’d sobbed out all my problems. I can feel my face beginning to warm up at the memory of that day. I know my skin is probably turni
ng as red as my hair.

  “She’s about the same,” I reply, bringing my hands up to cover my cheeks. “Thanks for asking.”

  Tabby leans her shoulder against the locker beside mine and lets her overstuffed backpack fall to her feet, like she’s planning on hanging out for a while.

  “And I wanted to tell you that I really liked the poem you wrote for English. It was … um … powerful.”

  This time, I blush so hard my face hurts. Last week, Miss Wall had asked us all to read our poems aloud in class. Most of the kids wrote pretty standard roses are red, violets are blue kind of stuff. So when my turn came, I was nervous. I didn’t know if anyone would like it. When I was done reading, the kids stared at me in silence — completely the opposite reaction to what I’d received at the coffee shop poetry reading. I was a bit disappointed that nobody seemed to get it. But apparently, Miss Wall did. She gave me an A+ and asked me to come back after school to talk. At first, I thought she just wanted to have a friendly chat like we always do. But as soon as we were alone in the room, her pleasant face turned serious and the deep creases between her eyebrows came back.

  “Lora, I’d like to help,” she said.

  I tried to play dumb, like the last time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied. But it didn’t take her long to wrestle the truth out of me.

  “Lora, your poem was very moving. But you couldn’t have written it unless you were in a very dark place. I know you’re having troubles.”

  She reached out and took my hand in hers. Her grip was warm, strong, and healthy. Suddenly, I felt tired. Really tired. After all this time, I didn’t have the energy to put on the act anymore. Before I knew it, I was telling her everything.

  Her face twitched with sadness while she listened to me speak. I really thought she might cry. When I was done, she said: “Lora, there are all kinds of places that can offer you and your family support — you just have to be willing to ask. I, for one, would be honoured if you would let me help.”

  Then she told me there was a summer camp for gifted children that she wanted to recommend me for. “I know someone on the board of directors, so I know exactly what kind of kid they’re looking for. If I send them this poem along with a copy of your transcripts as evidence of your high academic ability, you’re sure to get in for a two-week session. And they will probably be able to offer you full financial assistance as well.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “I can’t go away to camp! What about my family? I can’t leave my mother alone with the kids.”

  But Miss Wall wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “I’ll speak to your father. Now that he’s a friend of the mayor’s, I’m sure he can arrange to get a few days off work. I’m certain that there are other firefighters’ families who can lend a hand, too. And even I can help out. Teachers get the summer off, remember?”

  I literally had to reach down and pinch my leg to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. “You’d want to spend part of your vacation watching over a house full of little kids and animals?”

  She laughed at that. “I have no other plans, my dear. And you could use a break.”

  It was like a miracle. I walked away from that class feeling like a helium balloon cut loose from its string. That was a week ago, and I still haven’t completely floated back down to earth.

  A group of kids race by Tabby and me, kicking up a flurry of paper as they run. The halls are rapidly emptying around us. Pretty soon, we’ll be the only ones left in the building. I glance at my watch. If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late to pick up Cody and Chelsea from their daycare. But Tabby doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere yet. Was she waiting for me to return the compliment about her poem?

  “Um…I liked yours, too. Except, I’m not sure I really understood it.”

  “That’s okay … it was actually about my grandmother and her experience during World War II.”

  She clears her throat and reaches for my arm. “Listen, before I go, I really want to thank you again for what you did that night of the fire. Nanny Beth … well, she means the world to me. I’ll never forget how you and your father saved her life. Never.”

  I think back to that moment on her lawn with the fire blazing in front of us — that moment when it seemed like she understood me better than anyone else in the world. “Yeah, I won’t, either,” I reply.

  After that, there’s an awkward pause. I shuffle my feet on the dusty floor, waiting for her to end the conversation and leave. But to my amazement, she starts speaking again. Dear God, what’s going on? Nobody at this school has ever been so interested in talking to me before.

  “So, you know I’m moving away next week … right?”

  “Um … yes, I heard. Where are you going again?”

  “The west coast. I’m pretty psyched at the idea of starting fresh — you know, in a place where people won’t want to burn our house down. Hopefully nobody over there will have heard about my parents.”

  “Yeah … my dad told me that the fire was arson. I’m so sorry. I … I can’t believe someone would do that to you. Do they have any idea who it was?”

  Tabby shakes her head. “No. They’re still investigating, but at this point there aren’t too many leads. The police said that there are probably hundreds of people in this town who hated us enough to set our house on fire. But now my father is beginning to think that the trail has gone cold.”

  I nod sympathetically. I know exactly how it feels to be hated like that.

  “Well, I guess I better get going,” she says, hiking her bulging backpack up onto her shoulders. That’s when I notice the bracelet on her wrist.

  “Wow! Is that yours?” I ask. Even though I knew it was rude to stare, the bracelet is so beautiful, I can’t help myself.

  She raises her arm stiffly and holds her wrist out for me to see.

  “Thanks, it is now. But it used to be my grandmother’s.

  She left it to me when she died.”

  I lean closer for a better view. It looks so delicate, I’m almost afraid to touch it.

  “It must be an antique, then?”

  Tabby nods and slowly twists the bracelet around her wrist with her other hand. “It’s one of the only things my grandma took with her when she and my grandpa were hiding from the Nazis. They had to live in a dark cellar for five years and she said it gave her hope … she told me it …”

  Tabby’s voice trails off as a strange look comes over her face. Like her thoughts have temporarily flown off to another world.

  “Tabby? Are you okay?”

  Before I know what’s happening, she’s sliding the bracelet off her wrist and holding it out to me. Her eyes look wet.

  “Here, Lora … I’d like you to have it.”

  “W-what?” I sputter, taking a small step back. Is she crazy? “I … I can’t take your bracelet!”

  She shakes it at me.

  “Yes, you can. For a long time, I thought I needed it … but I really don’t. I’m ready for a fresh start. You and your father saved my life and Nanny Beth’s. It’s the least I can do to say thank you.”

  “No … I’m sorry, but I can’t accept it,” I say, shaking my head.

  Tabby takes a deep breath and reaches for my hand. When she speaks again her voice is so quiet, I can barely hear it over the sound of my pounding heart.

  “Lora, I’ve stood back and watched you get bullied our whole lives. I probably could have stopped it … but I didn’t. My grandma lived in the shadow of the biggest bully that ever lived. This bracelet got her through it.” She presses the string of pearls into my hand and forces my fingers closed around it.

  “I know she’d want me to give it to you. There’s not even a trace of doubt in my mind. Please, Lora — it’s yours now. I hope things start to go better for you.”

  And with that, she gives me a quick hug and walks away.

  I look down at the bracelet in my hands. Is it real? The pearls are deep and shiny and the
little diamonds on the clasp sparkle under the fluorescent lights of the school hall. My heart rises in my throat. I can barely draw a breath. How old is it if it had been hidden from the Nazis?

  I hold the bracelet up to my face and peer at it until I can see the rounded reflection of my freckles and red hair in the shining surface of the pearls.

  Tears sting my eyes.

  Oh God!

  It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  Rose

  by Tabby Freeman

  you started out p¡nk but then turned blue

  when the b¡g, black sp¡der came crawl¡ng for you

  but he brought wh¡te l¡ght w¡th h¡s saffron songs

  to the grey underground where no person belongs

  ¡n t¡me, blue bru¡sed to purple and then back to p¡nk

  but was Rose ever restored?

  what do you th¡nk?

  Shadows

  A poem by Lora Froggett

  Shadows, shadows, darkened cloud,

  Falling over like a shroud,

  running through my dreams at night,

  casting, creeping, spreading fright.

  When the storm has come and gone,

  the clouds persist straight through the dawn,

  relentlessly they’re pushing me,

  blindly to my destiny.

  Shadows, shadows all around,

  pursuing me without a sound,

  tracing steps and haunting flight,

  heavy, stealing life’s delight,

  ... growing each and every day,

  everywhere and every way.

  Should I resist and stand to fight,

  I’ll rise from shadows to the light.

  Then the darkness will recede,

  and my spirit will be freed.

  Acknowledgements

  This book wouldn’t exist without the generous help of some very wonderful people. I would like to thank: Jordan Kerbel for propping me up, holding my hand, and always making me laugh; Jonah and Dahlia Kerbel for putting up with a few too many rushed dinners so I could squeeze in a bit of writing time; Shirley Pape, for inspiring me so profoundly with her strength and determination; Gordon Pape for his unconditional support of my writing (even when he doesn’t particularly like what I’m writing about); Shirley Garfinkle for bravely volunteering to read the really rough drafts; Kim Pape-Green for her enthusiasm and exhausting nitpickiness; Kendra Pape-Green, for helping me nail down plot details; Sharon Arluck for her poetic finesse; Marina Cohen, for being a wonderful writing buddy (and offering me the use of her “forward instead of reply” anecdote); Dr. Francine Gerstein, my dear friend and medical fact-checker; Shelley Saunders-Greer, for giving this manuscript such a thorough once-over; Marsha Skrypuch and her Summer Writing Workshop; my tireless agent Margaret Hart for going through all the deets with her fine-tooth comb; Compuserve’s Kidcrit literary forum for their eagle-eyed appraisals; and the Ontario Arts Council for supporting “starving artists” like myself through the Writers’ Reserve Program.