THE COMPLETE
HISTORY
OF WHY
I HATE HER
THE COMPLETE
HISTORY
OF WHY
I HATE HER
Jennifer Richard Jacobson
A RICHARD JACKSON BOOK
Atheneum Books for Young Readers • New York London Toronto Sydney
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people,
or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and
incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to
actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Jennifer Richard Jacobson
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Book design by Lauren Rille
The text for this book is set in Perpetua.
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jacobson, Jennifer, 1958–
The complete history of why I hate her / Jennifer Richard Jacobson.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Wanting a break from being known only for her sister’s cancer,
seventeen-year-old Nola leaves Boston for a waitressing job at a summer
resort in Maine, but soon feels as if her new best friend is taking over her life.
ISBN 978-0-689-87800-8 (hardcover)
[1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Identity—Fiction. 3. Resorts—
Fiction. 4. Personality disorders—Fiction. 5. Cancer—Fiction. 6. Sisters—
Fiction. 7. Maine—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J1529Com 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2008042959
ISBN 978-1-4169-9925-6 (eBook)
FOR DICK JACKSON,
with immense gratitude
Acknowledgments
A thousand thanks to those who read this story multiple times: Mary Atkinson, Jacqueline Davies, Barry Goldblatt (who also happens to be an extraordinary agent), Holly Jacobson, Jane Kurtz, and Dana Walrath. Your dazzling insights and unwavering support led me to the story I needed to tell. (All failures in literary judgment are mine.) Additional thanks go to Toni Buzzeo, Franny Billingsley, Jacqueline Briggs Martin, Dian Curtis Regan, Deborah Wiles, Joanne Stanbridge, and Nancy Werlin for fortuitous discussions and brainstorms. Kudos go to Team Atheneum including Emma Dryden, Carol Chou, Cindy Nixon, Debra Sfetsios, Lauren Rille, and Kiley Frank. And finally, enormous thanks to my editor, Dick Jackson, for both his editorial brilliance and his faith in me.
Chapter 1
Song is hanging on my arm, afraid I’m going to slip onto the bus and out of her life as quickly as I made the decision to go. I step back, allowing other passengers to board, trying to keep our good-bye upbeat, trying not to feel like the lousiest sister on the planet.
Those in line near us stare. We’re used to it. Song’s bald head and skinny body always produce curiosity and contorted, sympathetic expressions. We’re like a sappy Lifetime movie wherever we go.
Usually, I see faces of allies. Today I feel as if those faces are judging me.
“Please don’t hate me,” I say to Song.
“Of course she doesn’t hate you,” my mother says, stepping closer.
I keep my eyes locked on my little sister. It’s hard for our family to remember she’s thirteen. She’s been through more than most, and although she tries to portray a kick-ass attitude with her holey jeans and punk T-shirts, she still looks like a scrawny little kid.
She won’t look me in the eye. Instead, she launches into haiku—a language we’ve used since she learned the form in third grade:
“Off to a reserve
Anyone for lawn bowling?
I’ll stay here and puke”
She means “resort,” but I don’t correct her. My reply:
“Hey, I’ll be working.
‘Can I get you anything else?’
Just a lowly wench”
We’ve had lots of practice turning onlookers into an audience. Makes it easier to deal. Especially today. Especially when saying good-bye seems impossible.
Song continues:
“Caviar and cake—”
She stops herself, unable or unwilling to go on. And then she moves closer. “Don’t forget your promise,” she whispers.
“Of course not,” I say.
She wraps her arms around me—more stronghold than hug.
I hold her for as long as I can take. Then I wiggle out, quickly kiss my mom, and climb onto the bus—picking up the free headphones, though my own are hanging around my neck. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, I repeat, sliding into a window seat.
A large woman follows, choosing the seat next to mine. I’ve barely plopped down before she starts packing garbage bags all around me. They’re stuffed with clothes, I hope.
“Visiting my brother in Brewer,” she says. “No one would see him if I didn’t get on a bus once a year. You know?”
I nod and tell her I’m going to Rocky Cove, Maine.
“Rocky Cove?”
“Near Bucks Harbor,” I say.
“There’s nothing near Bucks Harbor, honey.”
Should I tell her about my job? Nah, I don’t have the energy. I look out the window to locate Mom and Song but catch a glimpse of my still-surprising reflection instead. I cut my hair off yesterday. Not like Song—I didn’t shave my head the way the seventh-grade boys did when they heard doctors had found another tumor. No, I waited until yesterday and then had my long hair cut into a short, crazy bob. I even said yes to red streaks.
“You don’t even look like you,” my mother cried.
Mission accomplished. Of course, if I’d had any sense, I would have waited until I got to Maine.
I lean back and glance at a girl about my age, with the long hair I used to have, across the aisle. She catches my eye and smiles.
I smile back.
The woman next to me pulls an open pack of Life Savers from her purse, flicks tobacco off the top one, and offers it to me.
“I’m good,” I say.
The girl giggles.
We share a roll of the eyes, and then I turn to the window. We’re pulling out of South Station. Good-bye, Boston. Mom is waving one arm, throwing kisses with the other.
Song bends her arm at the elbow and raises her hand as if she were taking an oath—or saying, Stop. My breath catches.
I want to yell, No, wait! and run off the bus and into the arms of my little sister, back into the family cocoon where everyone is waiting, dreading, watching with one eye open at all times. Ready to push back fear—to push back fear and doubt a
nd …
But I can’t. I need to say, Yes. Not yes to another round of Scrabble or yes to Halloween III again or yes to “I’ll stay home tonight and make sure Song’s temp doesn’t spike,” but yes to—to what? A break.
That’s all. Just a break. Two and a half months to see what it would feel like to be, well, me.
Here’s what saying yes feels like. Like I’m a total coward and courageous at the same time.
“I know he has to work,” the woman continues. “I don’t expect him to lose hours to pick me up.”
I place my hand on the glass and whisper as I’ve done a thousand times before, Be strong, Song.
Please.
Be fierce.
Chapter 2
“Do you have a brother?” the woman asks.
I shake my head. Song is definitely not a boy, even if she looks like one. But my seatmate’s question simply leads her back to all things her. On and on she talks about the brother she has to visit, and she’s, seriously, so loud and relentless, people around us groan.
She is not the type of woman, though, to take a hint.
Suddenly, the girl across the aisle jumps up. “Wow!” she says to me. “I can’t believe you of all people are on this bus! I haven’t seen you in … how many years has it been?”
Huh?
“You two know each other?” the woman asks.
“We were in the same foster home,” says the girl. “We’re practically sisters.”
“I—I can’t believe you’re on this bus,” I say, hoping that this is a rescue mission and not a case of mistaken identity.
“Do you mind if we trade seats?” the girl asks. “We have so much catching up to do.”
The woman sighs but gathers her bags and moves to the other side of the aisle.
Once my savior is settled, she leans over—her long hair creating a tent to block the woman’s view—and whispers, “Carly. Carly Whitehouse.”
“Nola Werth,” I whisper back.
“Next time sit on the aisle. People won’t crawl over you, and they won’t ask you to move if they can help it.” She pulls a water bottle from her bag, which is made from a patchwork of colorful, silky fabrics, and downs a few gulps.
“Sounds like you take the bus a lot,” I say, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Carly is one of those girls who exude confidence. Her deer eyes are huge, making her striking in an exotic sort of way. Her clothes are what my cousin Georgia calls “funky chic,” which requires an advanced degree in clothing chemistry—knowing what can be combined and what can’t. This is who I want to be, I think.
“I do take the bus a lot,” she says. “My parents are divorced, and I spend half my life traveling between them. How ‘bout you?”
“Still together,” I say.
“No, I mean do you take the bus often?”
I laugh. “Oh, not really.” In other words, never. Except for a couple of family vacations, I’ve rarely left Massachusetts.
The movie comes on, and I wonder if it would be the polite thing or rude to put on my headphones.
“Ack. I’ve seen this one,” Carly says. “It’s so lame.”
Headphones off. The last thing I want to be today is lame.
“Is it just me, or is every actress starting to look the same?” I say, tucking one of my legs under me. “I mean, it seems they’re all trying to be Blake Lively.” I’m hoping to sound as if this just occurred to me. In truth, Song and I talk about it practically every time we click on a trailer.
“Depends on the movie,” says Carly, turning toward me. “If an actor is playing in a comedy—even a romantic comedy—she’ll go blond. When she plays an edgier, ‘I want the Oscar’ role, she’ll go dark.”
“Really?” I’m pleased to have come up with a topic that seems halfway entertaining. “So, with my hair, I wouldn’t get the guy, but I could be the intense, neurotic—”
“Suicidal woman,” she finishes for me.
Well, yes, I think. “Virginia Woolf.” (Okay, so I haven’t read any of her work, but I did see the movie about her.)
“You got it,” says Carly.
“What about you? Your hair is almost blond.”
“Dirty blond. I’m the doomed victim gone in the first shot. The dispensable one.”
“No way,” I say, trying to keep the envy out of my voice. “You get all the guys.”
“Girls, could you lower your voices?” my former seatmate complains. “Some of us are trying to watch.” She points to the screen ahead.
We can’t help it. Her snarl only makes us laugh louder.
Carly and I talk most of the two hours from Boston to Portland, covering all of the obvious ground: classes (both of us barely made it through our APs this year); fall sports (Carly: field hockey, me: running); boys (Carly: many passionate affairs, me: none worth mentioning); virginity (Carly: see above, me: intend to lose mine this summer … just kidding … well, maybe not).
In Portland the bus stops so we can get off and stretch. Carly makes a call. I use the restroom and then think of calling home, but instead head outside into the cool evening air. Beyond the parking lot I see the lights of the city, and for a brief moment I think, I could walk away and not a soul in this world would know where I am. Both surprising and exhilarating.
“There you are,” says Carly, startling me. We board the bus and continue on to Bangor.
My summer has begun.
Chapter 3
I spot the owner of the Rocky Cove Inn from his website photos—a tall, thin man, with rounded shoulders and wire-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Lovell?”
“You must be Nola,” he says, shaking my hand. “You look different from your application picture.”
I touch my red-streaked, cropped hair, hoping he isn’t sorry he hired me.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Carly says, appearing from behind us. She slings an arm around my shoulder.
“This is Carly,” I tell him. “We came from Boston together.”
“Call me Pete.” He holds out his hand to Carly. “Everyone does. And this urchin is Stella,” he says, introducing a towheaded kid adhered to the back of his leg.
“Hi, Miss Stella!” says Carly.
“Do you have a job Downeast too, Carly?” Pete asks.
I wait for her to tell him she lives here but—
“Well, I did,” she says. “But it fell through at the last minute. I was going to be a nanny. But the woman who hired me called to say she wasn’t spending the summer in Maine after all. Shouldn’t take me too long to find another job, though. At least, I hope people are still looking for summer help.”
“True enough,” says Pete. “Can I drop you somewhere?”
“No thanks,” Carly says. “I’ll grab a bite and then make my way home.”
“I’m taking Nola across the street to Papa’s if you’d like to join us. It’s still preseason at the inn—chef’s night off.”
“Pizza, pizza, pizza!” yells Stella.
“Who can pass up Papa’s?” says Carly.
I’m so glad Carly is coming along. I didn’t know I’d be having dinner with my boss, and I’d be so nervous—trying to make a good impression alone. This way a little of Carly might rub off on me.
Pete tells me the history of Rocky Cove (how before it was a resort, it was a granite quarry and a supplier of ice; blocks of ice were cut from the lake, stored in what’s now one of the cabins, and then shipped off to China by sea) while Carly helps Stella pick the “ronis” off the pizza, pour a third glass of water from the plastic pitcher, and sing all of the verses of “On Top of Spaghetti.”
“I can see you’d be a good nanny,” says Pete.
“Just one of my many talents,” she says. “I’ve also waitressed, painted houses, worked as a lifeguard.”
“Too bad we don’t have any openings, but give me your number in case.”
“Great,” says Carly, grabbing a napkin and one of the crayons the waitress left for Stella. “This is my cell.”
As we make ou
r way to the door, Carly runs into an old friend. We say quick good-byes, and I wonder if I’ll see her again.
Pete chatters all the way to Rocky Cove, and when he pauses, Stella fills in. But the drive seems long—longer, darker, and windier than I expected—or maybe I’m just anxious to finally get there. I know the place is upscale—only resorts provide room and board for waitresses. And this one has two beaches, ocean and lakeside. It sounds incredible. But that isn’t the reason I chose it over the others. No, only Rocky Cove accepts waitresses without prior experience. We like to train our help, Pete wrote.
A bumpy dirt driveway … and there it is. The inn in the full moonlight looks big and boxy, like an old-fashioned school but with an open porch on all sides (to catch summer breezes at every window, Pete tells me). Only the porch and one of the rooms on the third floor is lit, but the place has that promise of summer easiness. Welcome to your dream life, the inn seems to be saying. Sit here where you belong. It is the kind of place that makes you feel lucky even though you’ve done nothing more than walk up the steps.
“Tomorrow I’ll give you the grand tour,” Pete says, “but for now I’ll just show you the barn.”
The barn?
“Me too, Daddy?” Stella asks.
Pete takes her hand.
We backtrack along the driveway to a structure hidden in the trees. Pete leads me across another broad wooden porch, through glass doors, and into a room that is barnlike. There’s a large stone fireplace at one end, and wicker benches and chairs around tables in the center. The walls are lined with plywood shelves holding board games and playing cards. An ancient computer sits in one corner.
“This is where guests come on rainy days,” Pete says, continuing out a back door into a large maintenance room. Lawn mowers, gasoline, paint cans, tools of all shapes and sizes crowd the floor.
“Hello?” yells Pete at the base of a narrow staircase. “Anyone home?”
No answer.
“Looks like everyone’s out for the evening,” he says as we climb to a cluster of bedrooms and a tiny bathroom built under the eaves.
Stella grabs my hand and shows me around. I may be in a barn, but the rooms are instantly recognizable. They look like mine looks most of the time. Hair dryers, clothes, makeup, and discarded shoes everywhere. But where are the girls? We passed through a town Pete identified as Blue Hill, though it sure didn’t look as if anything was going on there.
The Complete History of Why I Hate Her Page 1