Girl on the Other Side
Deborah Kerbel
Girl on the Other Side
a novel
Copyright © Ponytail Productions Ltd., 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Edited by Shannon Whibbs
Designed by Courtney Horner
Printed and bound in Canada by Webcom
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Kerbel, Deborah
Girl on the other side / by Deborah Kerbel.
ISBN 978-1-55488-443-8
I. Title.
PS8621.E75G57 2009 jC813’.6 C2009-903258-9
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and Bound in Canada.
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For my Mom
Who fought back hard and never lost her smile
Contents
Tuesday, May 23 — 12:09 p.m.
March 20
April 2
April 11
April 28
May 1
May 8
May 15
Tuesday, May 23 — 12:21 p.m.
June 3
June 22
Rose
Shadows
Acknowledgements
Tuesday, May 23 — 12:09 p.m.
tabby
The toilet flushes beside me. A loud, liquid sucking sound rises up from the stall and echoes off the green tiled walls of the girls’ bathroom. I peek under the door and watch as a beat-up pair of sandals trudges across the floor toward the sink. Then suddenly they’re gone.
Without even washing her hands! Ew!
I’m alone again. I breathe a deep sigh of relief, trying not to take any air in through my nose. The smells in this place are nauseating — a mix of cheap soap, bleach, and pee. I feel like I might be sick. Shifting my weight on the hard plastic seat, I check my watch for the hundredth time. Still twenty minutes left of lunch period. My butt is getting numb from sitting for so long. But I can’t go back out there. Not after what they’ve been saying about me.
The door creaks open. A moment later, a different pair of shoes appear in the stall beside me. These ones are cleaner, newer, trendier.
These ones will wash their hands, I think to myself.
The sound of a zipper, a shuffling of clothes, followed by …
I cover my ears so I won’t have to find out and swallow the sharp acid taste that’s suddenly on my tongue. Gross! I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth.
The girls’ bathroom is a disgusting place to hang out. But trust me, you’d do the same if you were in my shoes. Which, by the way, are pretty fantastic.
Kind of like how I used to be.
Suddenly, a pair of dirty sneakers flies across the green tiles and lands in the stall directly to my left. The door crashes shut and the sound of sobbing fills my ears. I lean down and examine the shoes beside me for clues as the crying quickly rises into an ear-splitting moan.
Lora
Thank God … school hasn’t been so bad lately. Not since they found someone new to pick on. Still, I’m careful to keep under the radar. At lunchtime, I choose an empty table in a quiet corner of the cafeteria and eat quickly, hoping to avoid trouble. But halfway through my sandwich it starts.
“Hey, Frog-face!”
I freeze mid-chew. Please leave me alone, I think, sitting perfectly still. You might not know this, but bullies are like dogs — they’ll chase you harder if you run.
“Did you hear me?”
Gulping the lump of cheese and bread down, I hold my breath and pretend I don’t hear … pretend it doesn’t hurt. But of course, it does. You’d think I’d be used to the teasing by now — it’s been happening ever since first grade. My eyes dart around the perimeter of the cafeteria, searching for a teacher. But there’s nobody in sight.
“Hey, show some manners — we’re talking to you!” another voice calls.
I begin to quietly wrap the rest of my sandwich up, all the while imagining myself inside an invisible bubble — a magic force field where their words can’t penetrate.
But out of my peripheral vision I see a group of tough-looking boys walking toward my table. Their smiles send chills up my spine. I don’t know these boys personally, but I know their type all too well. Rough, rude, and vicious — like pit bulls, the meanest dogs of all. I ball up the remains of my lunch and jump to my feet. Instinct has taken over my body — dogs or no dogs, it’s time to start running! But the boys are too fast. They grab me by the shoulders and push me back down onto the hard wooden bench.
“Jake just wants to see if he’s a prince,” they laugh, as they push me down farther. Down, down, until the back of my head smacks against the crummy, sticky cafeteria floor with a painful thud. Tiny pinpricks of light float in front of my eyes.
“Stop! Let go!” I gasp. But they don’t listen. They don’t even hear me. Two of them hold my arms while the third one sits on my stomach. My half-eaten sandwich rises up in my throat. If only I could projectile-vomit on command.
“Do it! Do it!” the two at my arms shout at the third. Terrified, I watch as the guy they call Jake closes his eyes, leans forward and smashes his lips down onto mine. His eyes are squeezed so tightly shut it looks like he’s in pain — like he’s the one being attacked instead of me. A second later it’s over. Releasing my arms, they stand up and walk away, leaving me lying there on the dirty floor like a piece of trash.
“Damn, that’s the last time I lose a bet to you guys,” the pit bull named Jake says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His friends laugh and punch each other in the arms.
The world around me blurs as I pull myself to my feet and dash out of the cafeteria. Dozens of laughing faces whiz by me as I run.
“Croak … croak … croak …” sing the chorus of teen-fiends at my back.
I stagger to the girls’ bathroom and lock myself in the last stall. Burying my face in my hands, I begin to sob so hard I can barely catch my breath. My life’s mantra escapes from my mouth in a low, soggy moan:
I hate them … I hate them … I hate them … I hate them …
After a couple of minutes, I grab some toilet paper and mop up my face. Trying to calm myself down in time for my next class, I inhale deeply and imagine myself far away from this place. It’s the only thing that gives me any comfort — the idea that one day soon, this will all be over.
A light tapping at the right side of the
stall interrupts my thoughts.
“Um … hello? You okay in there?” whispers a voice.
Okay, wait. I think we need to rewind a couple of months …
March 20
tabby
They hang on my every word … follow me around like a pack of eager puppies … treat me like some sort of rock star. Right now they’re watching me eat. I take a bite of my yogurt. Their eyes follow the spoon as it travels to my mouth. Wait and see, tomorrow they’ll all bring low-fat raspberry yogurt for lunch. Just like me.
It’s always been this way. When you belong to the richest family in town, people treat you like you’re something special. Sometimes, I believe it, too. But other times I want to yell at them. Call them idiots. Nanny Beth would call them sheep — that’s probably a better word.
Leave me alone! I feel like shouting. But instead I just smile and look cool — as usual. I take another bite of my yogurt, enjoying the smooth sweetness in my mouth for a few extra seconds before swallowing, then push the half-eaten container away and reach for my carrot sticks.
“Aren’t you going to finish that?” asks Brandi, eyeing the yogurt. Annoyed, I nibble on my carrot and ignore her. For God’s sake, she’s known me long enough to know the answer to that question. No matter what I’m eating or how hungry I am, I always leave part of my meal untouched — it’s one of the “food rules” Catherine insists on. Another one of her rules is that our cupboards are only filled with healthy, low-fat, low-carb choices. Catherine’s put Nanny under strict orders not to let me eat any junk food. Because, God forbid her daughter be anything but model-thin. It sounds harsh, but I’ve been eating this way for so long now, I don’t know how to stop — even when I’m at school and Catherine’s nowhere nearby.
By the way, in case you’re wondering, Catherine is my mother. I’ve been using her first name for years.
“The word ‘Mommy’ makes me feel so old and stuffy, darling,” she’d said. It was the night of my sixth birthday when she was tucking me into bed. A rare event.
“And anyway, I’m more of a friend than a parent, right?”
I remember the way her eyes stole over to her reflection in my mirrored closet doors while she waited for my reply. I’d said “yes” quickly, because I knew that’s what she wanted me to do. After she’d left my room, I cried a bit at losing my “Mommy,” but not as much as you’d think. She was never much of one anyway.
Brandi must know I’m mad because she starts lobbing compliments at me.
“Great sweater, Tab, where’d you get it? Hey, do you need a lift home today? My mom can take you …”
I hear the desperation rising in her voice. She wants me to let her know everything’s okay. Just one little word of approval is all she needs from me. For a moment, I consider giving it to her. After all, I know just how powerful words can be.
When I was three, I learned how to say the f-word. Nanny told me what I was actually trying to say was “fire truck” but my tongue got tangled around the sounds. Even though I didn’t know what it meant, every time I said it, a grown-up would freak out. It was incredible. I remember being amazed that one little word could make people so upset. Think about it — just one letter away from kid-approved words like “duck” and “tuck,” but it drove people crazy — my parents especially. Which, naturally, just made me say it even more. Back then, I lived for their attention.
In the end, I decide to make Brandi squirm.
“So Dylan, what are you doing after school?” I ask my other BFF — who happens to be Brandi’s twin sister. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brandi’s face. She looks constipated, like she’s using every muscle in her head to hold back those tears.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and glance up. Derek Blair is looking down at me with his creamy caramel brown eyes and his trademark too-cool-for-school lip-curling half-smile. My heart bounces inside my chest.
“Hey,” he says, raising his perfectly shaped eyebrows. I wonder if they grow that way naturally or if he has them waxed. Or plucked?
“Hey,” I reply, dropping just the right amount of chill into my voice to shoot his hopes down. Then I turn away and continue talking to Dylan. I know Derek likes me. He’s been dropping lots of not-so-subtle hints over the past few weeks … like leaving me messages and wall posts on Facebook and acting funny and immature around me so I’ll notice him. I definitely like him, too, but I have to pretend I don’t. It’s a well known fact that guys enjoy a good chase. My plan is to wait until the end of the term to let him catch me. He is, after all, the hottest guy in the entire school. It’s like destiny that we get together.
When lunch is over, I wave goodbye to my friends and head for my locker. I pass Frog-face on the way down the main hall. As usual, there’s a small group of kids following her and calling out names. Like everyone else in my grade, I’ve known Lora Froggett since kindergarten — she’s always been an easy target. I bet you know someone like that too — the kind of kid who won’t stand up for herself. If it were me getting picked on like that, I’d fight back. But Frog-face never does. If you ask me, she practically begs to be teased. I don’t know why, though. If she cleaned herself up, washed her hair more often, stood up straight, and wore better shoes, she probably wouldn’t be half bad. But with a name like Froggett, she’s probably been doomed from the start. It’s a classic example of “the chicken and the egg” — did her last name turn her into a victim, or was she born that way to begin with?
I pause in front of my open locker and watch the group chase her. Trying her best to ignore them, she hurries down the hall, her arms filled with books and her shoulders hunched against their insults. One girl suddenly runs ahead, sticks her foot out and trips Frog-face. Books go flying. The hall rings with laughter. I’m the only one who doesn’t join in. Well, except Frog-face, of course. My stomach feels sick as I watch her go down. I hate watching people fall. It reminds me of my nightmare — I’ve been having the same one for years.
In it, I’m always on the roof of a tall building, standing at the edge, looking down. Even though I want to move away to safety, I never can. Night after night I just stand there, teetering and wobbling and swinging my arms wildly, trying to keep my balance and not drop over the edge. But somehow, I always end up falling. The way down is a long, terrifying nosedive through the clouds. As I rush toward the ground, I scream and flap my arms like a baby bird trying to fly. It’s out of control and totally terrifying. I always wake up just before I crash, always in a panicky, full-body sweat. Thankfully I have Sam. He sleeps at the end of my bed and I’m convinced it’s because of him that I never hit the ground. He always seems to know when the dream is happening and nudges me awake with his nose in the nick of time.
Sam dreams, too. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why he understands me so well. I know he dreams because I’ve watched him panting and barking this strange, muffled noise while he sleeps. Beagles are hound dogs — Nanny says it’s in his genes to chase rabbits. I don’t think he’s actually ever seen a rabbit in real life. But I’m positive that’s what he’s chasing in his dreams.
The first bell rings, crashing through my thoughts like an alarm. I turn away from the sight of Frog-face picking up her spilled books. Closing my locker, I stroll into my English class and slide into my seat. Miss Wall is writing something on the whiteboard. Her wide butt wiggles grotesquely with every stroke of the marker. Miss Wall is a total mess. Her hair is unbrushed, the tags of her clothes stick out, her pants are so tight that everyone can see the doughy rolls of fat underneath the thin, polyester fabric, and her shirts (which never match) are covered in coffee stains. And her shoes — ugh! She always wears the same pair of beat-up Birkenstocks, no matter what the season. In the summer, her yellow, cracked nails go bare for the world to see. And in the winter, she layers those ratty sandals with wool socks — the ultimate fashion “don’t.” On top of all that, she’s always picking gooey gunk out of her eyes and ears. Thank God she leaves her nose alone. Otherwise, I swear, I’d ha
ve to walk out.
Miss Wall is mesmerizing in her messiness. Like a car wreck you just can’t take your eyes off of. But she irritates me, too. Sometimes, I want to shake her by the shoulders and slap some neatness into her.
If Lora Froggett doesn’t watch out, that’s what she’ll turn into one day. Old, fat, unmarried, and the butt of everyone’s jokes.
Lora
“Get up, Frog-face!” hisses a voice from above.
I’m sprawled on the floor of the main hallway, my books scattered in every direction.
Frog-face. That’s me.
At least, that’s what kids at school call me. I hear it so much, I’m surprised when they use my real name.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.
Whoever came up with that saying wasn’t too bright. I broke my leg in two places in the first grade. I was running away from a bully who was calling me names, fell down the school steps and ended up in traction for a month. Sure my leg hurt, but that was nothing compared to the verbal bashing I’ve taken over the years. I’ve been called every name you can imagine: Toad-girl, Frog-legs, Polliwog, Croaker, Swamp-thing, Tadpole, Warty, Pond-scum, and of course, Frog-face. For some reason, that’s the one that’s stuck.
The first bell rings, signalling the end of lunch. Sneakers stomp all around me as kids rush to their classes. Naturally, nobody stops to help me as I scramble to pick up my books in the midst of the stampede. In fact, it’s all I can do to keep my fingers from being crushed as I reach to save my books from getting trampled. One by one, I gather them back in my arms and hold them close to my chest. These books are the most precious things I own … my tickets out of this place.
“Crawl back to your swamp!” some girl sneers as I pull myself up off the floor.
I ignore the comment and the piranha who made it and hurry down the hall to my English class. I call the popular mean girls in my school “piranhas” because they almost always attack in packs and they can chew you to pieces before you know what hit you.
Girl on the Other Side Page 1