by Antony John
“Hey, Nick,” I say. “Yesterday at the pavilion . . . why did you play the slots?”
He furrows his eyebrows. “You’re going to think I’m weird.”
“Uh, we just made a Halloween tree together. If that doesn’t count as weird, I don’t know what does.”
“Good point. Okay, I play because I’ve always played. I’ve put so many tokens in that machine, and I can’t stand the thought of it all being for nothing. At least until yesterday. Now that I’ve won, I can finally stop.”
“But it’s rigged. You’ve probably put more money in than you could ever win back. And you didn’t even want any of the prizes.”
“I told you it was weird!” he protests. “I suppose it was never really about the prize anyway. It was the thought of winning. Of ending something I’d started.”
He doesn’t say it, but I’m sure we’re thinking the same thing. I had a goal too. Sometimes the reward just isn’t worth the cost.
Nick stands back to admire our work. “It’s a good Halloween tree.”
“The best,” I agree.
“Almost.” He returns to the box and pulls out a tiny plastic pumpkin. He flicks a switch on the bottom and it lights up. Then he places it gently between the top branches of the tree. “Now it’s perfect.”
Actually, it’s slightly crooked and weirdly orange. But special all the same.
“We should go make that lemonade,” I say. “Ned’s waiting.”
Nick falls in line beside me as we cross the grass.
A few minutes later, he’s digging through Ms. Archambault’s cupboards, searching for ingredients.
“You have to promise not to share the recipe,” Nick says.
“You’re using half the ingredients in the kitchen,” Ned says. “I think your secret’s safe.”
As Nick mixes his famous recipe, I stare through the blinds at the Halloween tree on our porch. I’ll turn the porch light on before Momma gets home.
“Do you think your mom will like it?” Nick asks.
“I do,” I say. “I think it’ll make her laugh.”
Even after everything we’ve been through recently, the thought makes me happy.
27
Miracles Happen
Tiffany is happy to see me. She waves her book in my face before the bus has even pulled away. “Are you going to read to me, Ms. Harmon?”
Geez, she’s so cute when she’s sucking up to me. But I need to be firm. “Tiffany, I don’t think you should be reading this book.”
Tiffany’s face gets igneous. “But I like it.”
“It’s not for five-year-olds.”
“But it’s helping me learn to read. Daddy says it’s amazing what you’ve done for me.” She smiles so that her dimples show.
“But you’re not actually reading it.”
“Am too!”
She snaps the book open. When she notices that the pages are covered in blood-spattered shmorpels, she gently turns to the next page. And then, just as I’m about to close the book forever, she does the most amazing thing: She actually starts to read. Which doesn’t make any sense, because I’ve never read this particular book to her before.
“Uh, who read this one to you, Tiffany?” I ask.
“No one.”
Unbelievable! A murderous bounty hunter and several disposable aliens have actually taught Tiffany to read. What will Jayda say about that?
I try to give her a high five, but she’s too busy reading now. And I don’t have the heart to stop her. Even when the bus arrives at school and I shout, “Whoa, Nelly!” she keeps on going. I think she’d stay put all day if I let her.
But I’ve got work to do.
I jump off the bus and head indoors. We’re not supposed to go into the classrooms until the first bell, but Ms. Del Rio doesn’t stop me as I sneak in early.
“Did you have a good weekend, Lola?” she asks.
“Busy,” I say, heading for the back of the room.
“Me too. I cleaned my windows.”
“That’s exciting.”
I stop at my desk and look up. Ms. Del Rio coils her hair behind her ears like she wants a real good look at me. “Lola, are you being . . . sarcastic?”
I swallow hard. Why did I say that? It’s such a Kiana thing to say. Or maybe Mallory when she wants to annoy a teacher and make trouble.
“I—I’m sorry, Ms. Del Rio,” I say sincerely. “I didn’t mean it.”
She breaks out in a smile. “No, no. I like it!” she exclaims. “A little humor goes a long way. Especially on a Monday morning.”
I guess I’m not in trouble after all.
As she returns to her grading, I open my backpack and pull out the book that Jayda gave me. I make sure Ms. Del Rio’s not watching me and slide it into the space under Mallory’s desk. When I look up again, my teacher is still busy.
But someone else is watching from the doorway.
“Oh. Hi, Kiana!” I say way too loudly.
Kiana casually walks over to me. When she’s only inches away, she leans over and whispers, “What did you just put in Mallory’s desk?”
“Hmm? Nothing.”
“I saw you,” she says in her sly inspector voice. “Will it get her expelled?”
“No.”
“Too bad.”
I purse my lips. “That’s not nice, Kiana.”
“She’s not nice, Lola. In case you haven’t noticed.” Kiana narrows her eyes. “So are you going to tell me, or not?”
There’s no use in stalling anymore. And if I lie, Kiana will see right through that too. “A book. I put a book in her desk.”
“Are you sure Mallory can read?” she asks. I flash my Angry Lola face, and Kiana giggles. “What? You hate her, remember?”
“I don’t . . . hate her.”
Kiana raises an eyebrow. “Sit,” she says sternly.
I sit. Kiana flops down beside me.
“What’s going on, Lola? Spill!”
She’s giving me the Detective Richards stare-down. It’s supposed to make any suspect spill the beans. I don’t know how well it works for her dad, but it gets me every time. So I look away . . . and notice the class self-portraits arranged in a grid across the wall behind her.
We did the portraits in the first week of fifth grade. Nick and I drew ourselves grinning, although his mouth is closed. Kiana is doing her thoughtful, finger-on-chin pose. We asked Ms. Del Rio if we could put them together in one row, and she said yes.
Mallory is at the bottom right-hand corner of the grid—hers was the final picture to be put up, like she was a straggler coming in last in a running race. Her expression is as blank as the sheet of paper she drew on.
Kiana raps her knuckles against the desk. “Earth to Lola . . .”
I take a deep breath. “Okay, look. I saw Mallory with her mom at Gregoria’s.”
“Don’t tell me: They never left a tip.”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. But Mallory’s mom criticized her the whole time.”
“Smart woman.”
“It wasn’t smart. It was mean.” My voice must be getting louder, because Ms. Del Rio peers up. “She never listened to Mallory even once. Just kept playing with her phone.”
“Do you blame her? She has to live with the girl!”
“Your parents would never do that to you.”
“Uh, yeah. Because I’m not a terrible person,” says Kiana.
“Mallory’s not . . . terrible.”
“She likes to hurt puppies.”
“What? No!”
Kiana flicks her hand like she’s swatting a fly. “Okay, fine. She doesn’t hurt puppies. But admit it, you weren’t sure for a moment.”
“Kiana!” I exclaim, but she just grins at me. “Look, I really want us to give Mallory a chance.”
“Us?” Kiana opens her eyes super wide. “Nuh-uh! If you want to play nice with Mallory Lewis, that’s up to you. Me? I try to avoid fighting as much as possible.”
The other kids are drif
ting into class now. They look sleepy, which is how they always look on Monday. At the beginning of the year, Ms. Del Rio sent our parents this article about the importance of regular sleep on the developing brain. I think my momma was probably the only parent who read it.
Mallory trudges to her desk. She opens her bag and takes out some paper. Then she rummages through the desk to find something—her notebook, I guess. Instead, she finds the new book.
I hold my breath as she looks at the cover. And turns it over to read the back. If she realizes that I’m watching her, she’ll probably put it right back, out of sight. Or she’ll hold it up and ask who put such a stupid-looking book in her desk. But she doesn’t see me, and so I’m able to spy for a full thirty seconds until Ms. Del Rio takes attendance. And Mallory never takes her eyes off the book even once.
Kiana leans closer and whispers in my ear, “I’ve got to say: If this is all part of becoming Other You, it’s a whole lot braver than the old Lola.”
Another compliment. I’ll take it!
28
How to Lose Your Appetite
At lunch, I take the second-to-last seat at the farthest table so that Kiana and I can sit together. But when I look up, Mallory is sliding onto the seat across from me instead.
I try to smile, but my cheek muscles aren’t working. “I was, uh, saving that for—”
“Me,” she says.
It’s Meatball Monday, which is absolutely nobody’s favorite meal of the week. Taco Tuesdays and Fish Stick Fridays are pretty good, but the meatballs . . . well, let’s just say none of the chefs are willing to say what animal they come from.
Mallory pushes a meatball around like she’s playing mini golf at Vesuvius. “Why’d you put that book in my desk, Lola?”
“What book?” I ask. Only my voice is squeaky and I’m turning bright red, so I don’t think Mallory is fooled.
“You’re really going to lie about it?”
I swallow hard. I’m pretty sure she can’t prove it was me who did it, so if I just keep quiet . . .
But is hiding the truth really the answer? Isn’t that exactly what Mallory has been doing in class? Pretending she doesn’t like books when she does. Now everyone thinks she’s stupid, when she’s probably smarter than most of us.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “I put the book in your desk.”
Kiana has finally arrived now, but there’s nowhere for her to sit. She makes a weird slashing motion across her neck. Is she saying she could help to end this conversation? Or is she afraid that Mallory’s about to cut my head off?
I shake my head. I don’t need help, and I don’t think Mallory would knock me off in the middle of the school cafeteria. Too many witnesses.
As Kiana moves to another table, Mallory stabs the meatball with her fork and eats the whole thing in one go. She doesn’t even chew properly, just bites once and swallows hard. Which might be the best way to eat them, come to think of it. Means I won’t taste them as much.
“So how’d you get the book?” she asks. “The cover says it won’t be coming out until January.”
“The children’s librarian gave it to me.”
“The one at the public library?”
“You know her?”
“I’ve seen her.”
“She’s really nice. And she’s read, like, every book in the whole place. If you go in with a book you love, she’ll find you ten more you’ll like just as much.” I break off because Mallory’s frowning. “What’s the matter?”
“I never knew you liked books so much.”
“What?” I scrunch up my face. “I read with Tiffany every day!”
“Because you like people. And you want people to like you. If Tiffany didn’t like books, you’d probably just teach her to draw or something.”
Hmm. I never thought of that. But I think she’s right.
One by one, the other kids at the table finish their meals and scurry away. Finally, it’s just Mallory and me.
“Okay, then,” I say, trying to sound braver than I feel. “Why don’t you want people to know you like books?”
She clamps her jaw shut. “It’s hard when everyone thinks they know me.”
“So? Show them they don’t know you. Be like you were in first grade.”
“Small?”
“Nice,” I correct her.
“Why? No one was nice to me.”
“Everyone was nice to you.”
“Not when my parents got divorced, they weren’t. When I tried to talk about it, no one cared. Not even when my dad moved to California.”
“Well, at least you’ve got a dad!”
“Do I? He left right after Christmas of first grade. Said I could come visit him in the summer.” She picks at the edge of the table. “The summer! I didn’t see him for six months. When I got there, his new wife was about to have a baby. She tried to be nice to me, but I just wanted to be alone with my dad. All he wanted to do was make sure she was okay. I felt like I was in the way. You know what I mean?”
I nod, but actually, I don’t really know. Because when my daddy visited, I didn’t know who he was. And I’ve never felt like I’m in the way at home, the way Mallory does. Or wondered if my momma is thinking of someone else before me.
Mallory rocks back and forth on her chair. She reminds me of those gators at Barefoot Landing, always moving, moving, moving, but never getting anywhere. Maybe we have the same Patronus, Mallory and me.
“It wouldn’t be so bad except my mom hates me,” Mallory continues. “Well, mostly she hates my dad. But he’s not around, so she takes it out on me instead.”
“Hate” is such a strong word. Old Lola would tell Mallory that she’s wrong and that no mom ever hates her kid. But I saw them together in the restaurant. If that wasn’t hate, it was pretty close.
“Why does she hate you?” I ask.
“Because she’s jealous.”
She scoops up a forkful of pasta shapes and stuffs them in her mouth. I haven’t touched my food, and watching her eat isn’t doing much for my appetite, I’ve got to say.
“Dad’s always posting photos of the cool stuff they’re doing,” she continues. “Mom sees the pictures too. I think she wishes she was out there and he was the one stuck here with me.”
I wince. Again, I want to tell her she’s wrong, but I’m afraid she isn’t.
Mallory stares at her food. She nudges a meatball from one side of the plate to the other. “Maybe my mom’s right. I’m just hard work.”
I glance over at Kiana. I could really use some advice right now. I think I’m supposed to tell Mallory that she’s not as bad as she thinks she is. Only, she really is hard work. If I were her mom, I’d probably complain too.
“I never wanted for her and my dad to divorce,” Mallory grumbles. “I wish it hadn’t happened. But mostly, I wish she’d just try to like me.”
The cafeteria is almost empty now. Kiana’s hanging around to make sure I’m okay, but everything is quieter. Calmer.
“My daddy went away too, the same as yours,” I tell her. “He visited once, six years ago, and my momma sent him away. I haven’t heard from him since.”
Mallory rolls her eyes, which is definitely not the response I expected. “She sent him away, huh?”
“Why else would he go?”
She blows her bangs out of her face. “Let me get this straight. Your dad messed up before you were born. Then he comes back to see you, but your mom says something and he cuts out again . . . and that’s your mom’s fault?”
“Well, yeah.”
“So if she told you not to see Kiana anymore, you’d be all, like, ‘Okay, Mom!’”
“That’s different.”
“Yeah, it is. Kiana’s just a friend. He’s your dad.” She puffs out her cheeks. “You want to know what I think?”
“Don’t tell me: My daddy’s as bad as yours?”
“No. That you don’t know him at all. For the last two weeks, I’ve listened to you and Kiana talking about how th
is Other Me project is going to change everything. But it’s not! If you wanted the truth about your dad, you would’ve asked your mom about him years ago.”
“Who says I haven’t?”
Mallory sighs. “I know you, Lola. You hate arguing, but that just means other people make decisions for you.”
She pushes her chair back and stands. “I’ll tell you something else too. No matter how unfair you think it is that you don’t know your dad, you’ve got a mom who’ll do anything for you. And that’s one parent more than me.”
29
Don’t Have a Detective for a Daddy
I’m on my way to the bus after school when Kiana runs up to me. “My dad’s come to pick us up!” she says. “He and Mom went shopping today and got this new ice cream flavor for us to try.”
I’m seriously wondering if Kiana just made that up. She’s been bugging me all afternoon to tell her what went down with Mallory, but I couldn’t exactly say anything with Mallory sitting right in front of us. And Other Me kind of feels like it should stay between us anyhow.
But I’m not going to say no to ice cream, so I let the bus monitor know I’m going home with Kiana and try to keep up with her as she races to the car.
Detective Richards is holding the back door open for us. “I already called your mother, Lola,” he says. “She’ll tell Ms. Archambault you’re going to be late.”
“Cool. Thanks, Detective Richards.”
“Sure thing.”
He drives an unmarked police car. From the outside, it doesn’t look different from other cars. But there’s an instrument panel inside, and when he pushes the gas pedal, we take off like we’re in a rocket.
“Your mom still keeping that gun locked up, Lola?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Daddy!” cries Kiana. She’s next to me on the back seat.
“My momma doesn’t own a gun, sir.” I have to shout to be heard over the engine revving.
“Well, I’m sure glad you think that,” he says. “But if you come across that gun, you’ll leave it be, right?”
“Yes, sir. If I ever come across the gun my momma doesn’t own, I won’t go anywhere near it.”