by Antony John
The longer the class goes on, the more nervous I get. What will I find inside those envelopes? How would everyone react if I read them out loud?
Finally, only two of us are left.
“You’re up, Mallory,” Ms. Del Rio says.
The class is suddenly quiet again. Mallory scans the room from under her bushy bangs. A couple weeks ago, I would’ve said she looks mean. Now I think she looks more like a cornered animal.
Mallory shuffles the loose pieces of paper on her desk. “Uh, so . . . ,” she mumbles. “I guess I—”
“Other Me,” Ms. Del Rio reminds her gently. “Begin your statement with the words ‘Other Me.’ And please, stand up like everyone else.”
Mallory pushes her chair back and stands. “So, Other Me is the fastest kid in South Carolina . . . instead of just the fastest kid in North Myrtle Beach . . . which is way smaller.”
Everyone seems to sigh at once. The class sounds like a deflating balloon.
“Please continue, Mallory,” says Ms. Del Rio. “At least tell us about your research.”
Ms. Del Rio sounds like she just wants this to be over with. As if she has given up on Mallory, just like everyone else.
“I looked at the fastest times for fifth graders in South Carolina,” Mallory explains. “Although I guess it wasn’t really fifth graders because the website gave the age, not the grade. Which isn’t the same thing because you can be ten in fourth grade and fifth grade.”
A snicker ripples across the room. Mallory keeps her head down.
“So in 2017, one kid—she was eleven, I think, but she must’ve been in fifth grade because it said elementary school next to her name—she ran . . .”
Kids are snorting now. Laughter works that way sometimes, I guess, like how you can’t help yawning when you see someone else do it. I don’t think they actually want to laugh at Mallory. It just happens.
“Mallory?” says Ms. Del Rio.
Mallory’s hands are shaking so that the pieces of paper seem to flutter. Then, in an instant, she rips them in half and drops them on her desk.
The class gets real quiet. Ms. Del Rio breathes in and out slowly. “We need to hear the entire presentation,” she says firmly.
Mallory won’t even look at her.
“I can’t give you a grade until you’re done.”
“I’m done,” she snaps.
I always knew something like this would happen sooner or later. How Mallory would take on a teacher and not back down. Until recently, I wanted it to happen. But not anymore.
“Last chance, Mallory,” Ms. Del Rio murmurs.
Mallory sits down with a thud. Just as suddenly, I leap up. I don’t even think about it. Just launch myself out of my seat and stand behind her so all eyes are on me.
“Lola?” Ms. Del Rio looks as surprised as I feel. “Do you need something?”
“Yes,” I say, but my voice is shaking. “I need to tell you about Other Mallory.”
“Other Mallory?”
“That’s right.” I swallow hard. “Because Other Mallory has people in her life who take the time to listen to her . . . friends and classmates who care about what she says. Who realize that sometimes we go through hard stuff, stuff that changes us, and what we really need is for people to stick around and help us through it.”
I steal a quick breath. This isn’t my story to tell, but it’s a story that needs to be heard. And since Mallory hasn’t told me to shut up, maybe she thinks so too?
“Other Mallory can turn back time to when she wasn’t so angry that she pushed everyone away. Other Mallory can tell people how she really feels without . . . without being scared they’ll laugh at her.” Everyone looks a little embarrassed now. “Other Mallory is at a school where everyone takes the time to learn who she really is, instead of saying what she’s like. And she has friends she can open up to about her races, because she won’t worry that they don’t care or say she’s bragging, even though we all know she’s the fastest kid in the school by miles.
“Most of all, I think Other Mallory wishes she could move to a new school and start over. And I wish I could tell her, she can do that without changing schools.”
I’ve never heard the room so quiet before. No one’s watching me anymore. They’re not looking at Mallory either. Or Ms. Del Rio. Or each other. I think everyone is looking inside themselves and not liking what they see.
“Okay, then,” says Ms. Del Rio. “Could you tell us what research you did for this project?”
I shrug. “A bunch of questions. And a little spying in a restaurant.”
“Spying?” exclaims Ms. Del Rio. “In a restaurant?”
“It’s probably better if you don’t ask.”
I think our teacher could use a little Savasana right about now.
“Okay,” says Ms. Del Rio sounding not at all okay. “Does anyone have any questions for Other Mallory?”
She scans the room, but I can already see there won’t be questions. We all stopped caring about Mallory years ago. It’ll take time to admit it and start caring now.
Ms. Del Rio claps her hands. “All right, then. Lola, you’re next.”
My heart skips a beat. My whole project is in the notebook on my desk. My future fits in two small envelopes. To get started, all I have to do is say the words “Other, Better Me . . .”
“Since you’ve already presented,” Ms. Del Rio continues, “I think we’ll have someone else stand in for you. Someone who knows you well.”
All eyes turn to Kiana. She looks at the envelopes like she needs permission to share what’s inside. Her lips are trembling. This is one of the biggest moments in my life, and my best friend knows it.
“I—I don’t know if I should,” Kiana says, as much to me as to our teacher.
“I wasn’t talking about you,” says Ms. Del Rio.
Like puppets on one giant string, all my classmates turn to look at Nick instead. His eyes grow wide and his face flushes and some of the kids start to laugh. “O-okay,” he says, standing up on shaky legs.
“Sit down, Nick,” groans Ms. Del Rio. “I’m talking about Mallory.”
“What?” exclaims Nick. Then he sees Mallory scowling at him. He sits down real quick.
I don’t think Mallory’s angry, though. She’s just nervous. She’s not used to talking to people who actually listen. Who care what she has to say. There’s real pressure when the words we speak start mattering.
“You still owe me a presentation,” Ms. Del Rio reminds her. “I think it’s only fair. Don’t you?”
All the kids look like statues. They’re probably waiting for Mallory to glare at our teacher or run out of the room. But she doesn’t. She stands up and swallows hard.
“Other Lola . . . ,” she begins. “She, uh . . . uh . . .”
I knit my fingers together. I’m not much for praying, but I want Mallory to get through this. I want her to show everyone they’re wrong about her.
Mallory takes a deep breath. She relaxes her hunched-up shoulders and clears her throat. “Other Lola hasn’t had to spend the last week living with her neighbor because her mom’s sick. Other Lola shouldn’t have to go looking for her dad, because her dad ought to be there for her. But . . . but . . .”
“But?” Ms. Del Rio seems curious.
“Other Lola also realizes how lucky she is to have people who really care about her. Like her neighbor and the children’s librarian over at the public library. The guy who stands in the window of the restaurant where her mom works and pulls faces to make us laugh as we go past on the bus. And Kiana and Nick and . . . look, I know none of them is her dad, but if you ask me, the ones who really care are the ones who can be bothered to show it. Spend all your time looking for more, and you’ll miss what’s right in front of you.”
Mallory shrugs her shoulders, which I think means she’s done.
“What was your research?” Ms. Del Rio asks.
“A bunch of questions. A lot of listening too, because Lola and Kiana neve
r stop talking. . . . And maybe a little spying in the library.”
My mouth falls open. “Really?”
She nods at me. “You were talking to that librarian for, like, half an hour. So I spoke to her when you left. She knows you real well. Likes you too, and . . . well, let’s just say, I don’t think you should trust her to keep any secrets.”
“Thank you, Mallory,” Ms. Del Rio says warmly. “That was an interesting balance of fiction and nonfiction. Best of all, it felt honest. And that’s something for all of us to aspire to.”
“Uh, I’m not done,” says Mallory.
“You’re not?”
She’s not?
Mallory turns to me again. “Before you open those envelopes,” she says, “just remember what I told you yesterday.”
“I’m sorry,” says Ms. Del Rio. “What envelopes are you talking about?”
I hold them up. “They’re from my father,” I explain.
“Your . . . father,” repeats Ms. Del Rio slowly. She has a slightly panicked look. Which isn’t surprising, because on the first day of the school year, she asked us to share something about ourselves, and I said that I’ve never met my father. “Does your mom know about this, Lola?”
“Yes.”
Now Ms. Del Rio just looks confused. “Well, I have to say, you’ve got a flair for the dramatic.”
A murmur runs through the class like the hum from the overhead power lines behind our house. Whatever my daddy has written in these letters won’t mean anything to them. Half of them probably don’t even know where Australia is. But they like sharing secrets, and this feels like a big one.
Momma says the hum is electricity’s way of warning us to steer clear. It has always spelled danger to me. I’m getting the same feeling now.
I look at Mallory. Maybe I’m wrong, but I think I see her head move from left to right like she’s saying no.
I look at Nick. He has this sad expression, like things might be about to change and he wishes they wouldn’t.
I look at Kiana. Usually, she’s the one pushing me forward, always looking for answers. But not today. Today, she stares at her fingers.
Everyone else is egging me on, but I think I know why my friends aren’t so enthusiastic. It’s like, the moment I open that letter, my daddy gets to tell his story. Any way he wants to. He gets to whisper right into my ear, and when he’s done, he doesn’t even have to stick around to answer questions. He’s a total stranger to me, but I’ll hang on his every word.
I’m glad to have these letters, but he’s had years to contact me. That’s thousands of days when he could’ve written or called our house to tell me how much I mattered to him. Did he really walk away all those years ago because Momma told him to? Or was he glad to have an excuse?
A few weeks ago, I wanted to discover Other Me. Now I feel like I’ve already found her. She’s in every one of these questions I’m asking. She was in me all along, just waiting for the courage to speak out. My own inner Hortense. Except unlike Hortense, I already know that there’s no need to do things alone when you’ve got friends you can count on.
I know what my friends are telling me to do right now.
I take a deep breath, pick up the envelope containing the printed-out email . . . and tear it in two.
Kiana gasps. So do Nick and Mallory. Then the rest of the class gasps too as I pick up the pieces and do it again.
I keep tearing the pieces until tiny flecks of paper rain down on my desk like confetti. Kiana picks a couple of them up and tears them into even smaller pieces. Then Nick reaches over and does it too, and Mallory blows them across the room. Before long, everyone’s grabbing paper off their desks and the air is filled with the sound of ripping. And it’s a good sound. A happy sound. A sound that makes the world feel fuller, even as my father’s voice disappears.
Kiana leans over. “You know I’ve still got a copy of that email, right?”
I raise a finger to my lips. “Yup,” I say, tucking the other letter into my bag. “And one day, I’m going to ask you to print it out for me again. But not yet. Ball’s in my court for a change, and I want to keep it there awhile.”
Kiana holds her fist out for me to bump. “That’s some pretty smart thinking, Lola.”
Everybody’s grabbing the tiny paper shards and blowing them upward, where they tumble to the ground like snowflakes. Side by side, as cool as an autumn breeze, Kiana and I stand at the back of the room and watch the chaos.
32
Halloween’s Not So Scary Anymore
Kiana comes over at five o’clock. She says she’s dressed as a famous detective named Sherlock Holmes. The clothes look heavy and itchy, and she’s wearing a really weird hat. But I tell her she looks awesome because Halloween is all about dressing up weird.
“You too,” she says, looking me up and down.
“I’m a Halloween tree,” I explain. “Like the one on the porch. Ned says Halloween trees are going to be the next big thing in holiday accessories. He says I should get a patent.”
“What’s a patent?”
“I don’t know. But it’ll make me lots of money. I’ll be able to buy one of those condos next to the beach.”
“Just make sure it has a guest room,” she says.
“With your name on the door,” I promise.
We head out to explore the neighborhood. We only knock on doors where the outside light is on. Most of the time, someone answers the door and pretends to be frightened until they see what we’re wearing. Then they just look kind of puzzled.
“Well, you must be Sherlock Holmes,” they say, and Kiana smiles proudly. Then they turn to me. “And you are a . . .”
“Halloween tree,” I say. “It’s going to be the next big thing. I’m letting you in on it early. You’re welcome.”
They all smile at me in the same strange way. But they all have chocolate, so I don’t much care.
I make sure to stop at Tiffany’s house. Her mom answers the door and starts squealing when she sees me. “We just found out Tiffany’s been moved to the accelerated reading group!” she exclaims. “Her teacher says she’s reading entire books, and we didn’t even know it! She says it’s all because of you.”
“Well, uh . . . ,” I begin, but Tiffany’s dad is barreling forward with handfuls of candy.
“Here,” he says, piling our Halloween bags full. “We’re so grateful to you, Lola.”
“You’re very welcome,” I say. I don’t mention that Jayda thinks I’m a bad influence or that they might want to talk to their daughter about her fascination with exploding alien brains. Tiffany can read, and I’m really proud of her for it.
Just then, she bounds along the hallway and gives me a hug. “Good evening, Ms. Harmon,” she says.
“Uh . . . ,” I reply, because Tiffany’s costume is very familiar. And not in a Disney princess kind of way. “You’re, uh . . . Krunden,” I croak.
“Uh-huh,” she says brightly. “And look!” She points at the dog trotting along behind her. “Shmorpel’s a shmorpel!”
“Your dog’s name is Shmorpel?” Kiana asks.
“Yup. Named her myself!”
The tiny dog sure seems happy to be dressed as a green alien. Which goes to show that it has no clue what happens to shmorpels at the end of every book.
“Hey, you want to come trick-or-treating with us?” I ask her.
“Uh-uh,” she says. “My friend Destiny says her street is one long candy machine on Halloween, so I’m going there.”
“Sounds good,” I say.
Tiffany gives me another hug as her parents smile proudly at their brutal, alien-killing daughter. As Kiana and I carry on along the street, I pull out a tissue and wipe off the green fake shmorpel blood Tiffany smeared onto my orange tinsel.
A couple blocks later, we walk past the wooden fence hiding the dumpsters and curl onto Nick’s street. Almost before we ring the doorbell, the door flies open and Kat thrusts a bowl of candy in our faces. She’s not wearing a costum
e.
“Nice,” Kat tells Kiana. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, right?”
“You deduced correctly,” says Kiana, and they both laugh. I’m not sure why.
“And you, Lola,” says Kat, eyeing me curiously, “well, you’re a, uh—”
“Halloween tree,” says Nick, appearing beside her. “Same as me!”
Unbelievable! He looks totally different from me, with strips of green and orange crepe paper stuck to an old T-shirt. But he’s definitely a Halloween tree.
People are going to be really confused tonight.
“You want to come with us?” Kiana asks them both.
“Sure,” says Nick.
“You go ahead,” Kat tells us. “I’ll just wait for Nick to go to bed, so I can steal all of his candy!”
Kiana, Nick, and I stop at a bunch more houses. We keep going until we’ve got enough candy to survive the shmorpel apocalypse.
“Time to head to your house, Lola,” Kiana says.
“One more stop,” I say.
Kiana doesn’t recognize the brick house with the large wooden front door, but Nick does. “Are you sure about this?” he asks me.
“I’m sure.”
I knock on the door. It takes Mallory’s mom a long time to answer it. “We don’t have any candy,” she says. “Perhaps you didn’t notice I turned the outside light off.”
“Actually,” I say, “we were wondering if Mallory wants to go trick-or-treating with us.”
Nick and Kiana stiffen, which reminds me why I didn’t tell them what I was planning to do.
“Mallory’s too old for that,” says Mrs. Lewis sharply. “And by the looks of it, so are you.”
I can’t see Mallory behind Mrs. Lewis, but I can see her reflection in the mirror at the end of the hallway.
“Well, then,” I say, holding out my bag of candy, “maybe you could give this to her.”
Nick and Kiana are already backing away from the house. Mrs. Lewis takes the bag from me and narrows her eyes. “And who are you?”