Girl on the Other Side Read online

  Pushing my plate away, I cross my arms in front of my chest, and scratch at my cold, bare, un-braceleted wrists.

  God, I wish Nanny was here.

  Lora

  Dear God! I’m upstairs changing Cody’s diaper when I hear the smoke alarm go off.

  BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!!

  A moment later, the stench of burning noodles wafts under my nose.

  BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!!

  Oh no!

  Dragging my half-naked brother in my arms, I run down to the kitchen as fast as I can. When I get there, Allie and Chelsea run to my side, holding their ears and looking terrified. The alarm is loud, piercing, and urgent. I scan the room and see the pot of noodles smoking on the back burner of the stove.

  BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!!

  “It’s okay, guys!” I yell above the noise as I lower Cody to the floor, grab the nearest chair, and climb up to where the alarm is installed. A second later, the cover comes off and I yank the battery out. For one blissful moment, the room is silent and then, like a trio of synchronized sobbers, they all burst into tears.

  “It’s okay …” I say again. But I know I’m not convincing anybody — least of all myself. Dinner is late, the kids are beyond hungry, and I’m on my own with them again — Daddy’s on duty at the fire station tonight and Mommy hasn’t been out of bed in four days.

  I climb back down from the chair, pull the pot off the stove and pour the contents into a strainer. Most of the noodles are burnt and stuck to the bottom of the pot. The whole thing looks like a nest of charred, black worms. I scoop out the few noodles that are still edible into a bowl.

  Gosh, what a mess! It’s going to take me forever to clean this pot, I think, dumping it into the sink to soak. For a moment I consider throwing it out. But it’s our only large pot and I don’t have the money to replace it. Even though I make a decent salary at the coffee shop, I always end up giving it all to Daddy to help with Cody and Chelsea’s daycare expenses.

  “Lora?” whispers a voice.

  I spin around and see Mommy standing there, holding onto the wall for support. Her red hair is sticking out from a messy ponytail in a fuzzy cloud of bed-head. Her face is paler than usual and her body is so thin, it makes her nightgown hang like a windless flag. I gasp to see her standing in our kitchen. She hasn’t been downstairs in weeks.

  “I heard the smoke alarm …” she says, taking a small, wobbly step forward. “What’s going on down here?”

  I run to her side to steady her. Her body is childlike and frail and if it wasn’t for the bags of fatigue around her eyes, she might have passed for another sister. The little ones follow me, forgetting their hunger in the excitement of seeing Mommy downstairs. They surround us and hug her legs with joy, which of course throws her right off balance. She teeters dangerously until I take her by the arms and shore her up. Suddenly, I hear an authoritative voice speak:

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed. It was just a false alarm. Everything’s under control down here — don’t worry.”

  Is that really my voice sounding so stern? I take a deep breath and try to get my irritation under control. I know Mommy wants to help, but she’s just making my job harder by coming downstairs.

  “Wait here, kids. I’ll be right back and we can have dinner.”

  Immediately, the kids start crying and screaming for Mommy to stay. I pry them off her legs and gently help her back up the stairs to her bedroom which, no matter how often we air it out, always smells of medicine and tears. She’s as weak as a kitten in my arms and her legs wobble so much I worry she’ll fall down. Trying to keep my brave face on, I put her back to bed. She looks relieved to be lying down again. As much as I want to stay, to cuddle up beside her and go to sleep, I know there’s still work to do. I give her a quick kiss and leave.

  When I get back to the kitchen, my still diaper-less baby brother hurls himself at my feet and whimpers: “Me hungry … want to eat!”

  Right away, the others chime in with their complaints. Even my little assistant Allie can’t find a way to help me tonight.

  “Where’s our dinner?”

  “My stomach huwts, Lowa!”

  “It’s almost ready guys … just settle down please,” I beg, telling myself that this whole experience is excellent training for my future zoology degree. Honestly, sometimes these little kids are worse than a pack of wild animals.

  “Chels … Al … maybe you two could help me out and set the table?”

  Chelsea stomps her little foot on the linoleum floor and scowls.

  “No Lowa! I don’t wanna set the table … I want my skapetti!” she shrieks. I can tell by the crack in her voice what’s coming next and brace myself for the worst. Sure enough, a second later she throws herself onto the floor in a full-blown, kicking, screaming temper tantrum. I want to scream too, but I bite my lip and hold it in. This isn’t exactly the first time she’s done this.

  The best way to handle a toddler’s tantrum is to ignore it, I can hear Daddy’s voice clear as day, spouting advice in my ear.

  Ha! Easy for you to say when you’re not even here, I think back as I frantically search the fridge for a jar of tomato sauce. I’m sure I saw one last week, lingering somewhere at the back.

  “I know you’re hungry, but I’m going as fast as I can,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice calm. But it’s all an act. In reality, I feel like my head is going to explode from the pressure.

  When I finally find the sauce, I cover the mushy, overcooked spaghetti with heaps of it, praying they won’t notice the burnt noodles underneath. Dinner is cold, but at a time like this I really have no choice.

  “Okay, everyone have a seat,” I say, dishing the food out into three small bowls. I don’t serve any for myself. My stomach is aching, too, but I’m pretty sure it’s from stress. I swear I don’t even feel hunger anymore. Kids at school tease me all the time about my body and how skinny it is. But I can’t help being an ectomorph. I’ve tried to eat more, but my stomach is always hurting. Dr. McMullon says it’s because of anxiety and if I don’t watch out I’ll get an ulcer. I don’t know how to tell him that getting an ulcer is the least of my worries.

  As the kids gather around the table to inspect their ruined food, I notice the dismantled battery sitting on the counter.

  Better install it again before Daddy gets home, I think to myself. I know if I don’t, he’ll have a conniption. In his line of work, he’s seen too many houses burn to the ground because there were no batteries in the smoke alarm.

  A loud clattering noise breaks through my thoughts. My head whips up to see Chelsea scowling at me and pointing to the floor. My eyes follow the direction of her finger to the spot where her bowl of spaghetti has been overturned in a gory, tomato-y mess. Behind me, I can hear the unmistakable sound of clicking toenails racing across the linoleum and I know the dogs are on their way over to scavenge the dropped food.

  “This is yucky, Lowa,” Chelsea declares, her face clenched tight like a fist. “I won’t eat it. Make something else.”

  That does it. Turning my head away from the kids, I lower my face into my hands and start to cry. I cry long and hard, until my cheeks are soaked and my mouth is salty with tears. I cry until there’s no energy left in my body to cry anymore. I cry desperately, shoulders shaking and heart silently wailing:

  Mommy, I need you to be healthy again. I can’t do this all by myself. I’m just a kid! Daddy, come home. You’re trained to save lives. Please … why can’t you save mine?

  April 28

  tabby

  “Where to now, guys?” I ask my BFFs as I drop the change back into my wallet. Hitching my purse up on my shoulder, I collect my new stuff and turn away from the cash register.

  I finally cashed my birthday cheque yesterday — it had been sitting in my desk drawer for two weeks, making me sick every time I looked at it. If only I’d had the guts to rip it up in front of Catherine and David that night of my birthday. That
would have really got their attention. But it’s too late for that now. So instead, I’ve decided to spend the money fast. Maybe that’ll help erase some of the anger I still feel over losing Grandma’s bracelet.

  “Um … let’s try Roots,” suggests Brandi.

  “No, let’s do Garage,” says Dylan.

  Because I can, I decide to overrule them both.

  “No, I think we should take a break and get something to drink,” I say, with a nod toward the coffee shop on the other side of the mall.

  “Okay,” says Brandi.

  “Yeah, I could use a break,” echoes Dylan.

  Of course they agree. Really, what choice do they have?

  I lead the way while the twins follow behind. We make our way easily through the throngs of people. Today’s Saturday and, since most of the stores are having sales, the mall is busy. But the crowd opens up to let me through — kind of like in that old movie Grandma showed me when the Red Sea parted for Moses.

  When the twins and I get to the coffee shop, we stroll up to the counter to get our drinks. Of course, Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee wait to hear what I’m getting before making their orders.

  “Large non-fat decaf latte, please,” I say.

  “I’ll have one, too,” says Dylan.

  “Same for me,” Brandi chimes in.

  While we fish change out of our wallets and wait for our coffees, I notice a familiar face standing on the other side of the counter. It only takes a second for me to realize that it’s Lora Froggett pouring foam into our lattes. The twins notice, too. Dylan pokes my arm with one hand and points with the other.

  “Look, Frog-face works here.”

  “Ha! Maybe she’s trying to earn enough money to buy a new wardrobe,” laughs Brandi.

  I laugh, too.

  “At least we can’t see her Payless Shoes from this side of the counter,” Dylan adds.

  Frog-face doesn’t look up from the coffee cups, but I can see her cheeks turn a bright shade of pink so I know she’s heard us. I don’t feel bad. With all the bullying I’ve seen her take at school, our little comments are nothing.

  Suddenly I feel twin elbows poking my arms and I realize that Dylan and Brandi are waiting for me to take my turn. I don’t really have anything to gain by putting Lora down, but sometimes I just go along with the rest of them because I know they expect it. And let’s face it, she’s such an easy target.

  “Here,” I say, dropping the change from my coffee into the tip jar, “… just a little something extra, so you can splurge on your next trip to Value Village.”

  With the pennies still ringing against the glass, Lora’s face dips down toward the floor and I think for a second that she might actually cry. Damn, maybe that one wasn’t so harmless. I turn away from the counter before the twinge of guilt that’s pricking at my conscience can grow any bigger.

  We pick up our cups and take a seat at a nearby table — the only empty one in the shop. It doesn’t take long to see why nobody else is sitting there. Some slob has spilled their coffee and left their muffin crumbs all over the place.

  “Excuse me, could we get this table cleaned? It’s kinda gross,” I ask the hairy waiter who’s standing nearby. Disgusted, I drop my shopping bags onto an empty chair and sit down.

  A girl with green hair comes over to wipe down our table. As she’s mopping up the crumbs, she accidently bumps Brandi’s arm and tips over her latte. It spills all over the table and floor, just missing her brand-new pink Uggs. Brandi jumps to her feet and starts to yell at the waitress — who has a funny look on her face, like she’s trying to swallow a smile. Brandi calms right down after the waitress promises to bring a new latte.

  Beside me, Dylan rips open three packs of sweetener and pours them into her cup. I can hear the chemicals fizzling as they sink into her coffee.

  “So, how much do you have left to spend?” she asks, stirring her drink with a little brown stick.

  I do a quick mental calculation.

  “About a hundred bucks.”

  The twins smile and rub their hands together with greedy excitement. Shopping is their all-time favourite hobby — especially when they’re spending someone else’s money.

  I turn and look at all the shopping bags balancing on the chair next to me and feel a big, empty hole open up inside my chest. Brandi and Dylan can have this stuff for all I care.

  I think about Grandma and how much I miss her and the hole widens so deep that I think it might just suck the rest of me in and swallow me up. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. I want to run home, crawl into my safe bed, listen to my drippy faucet and never come out again.

  I don’t want the crap in these bags. I don’t want these parasites for friends. Yeah, we have a lot of fun together, but I don’t kid myself. Deep down, Dylan and Brandi are no different from anybody else in my school. I know they only like me because my family’s rich. I know they’re jealous of my house and my clothes and my parents’ status. And I know, without a shred of doubt, that they would stab me in the back the first chance they got.

  They aren’t real friends … I know that because the nastier I treat them, the more desperately they cling to me and kiss my ass. A real friend would call you out for being a bitch, tell you the truth about yourself, not put up with any crap.

  A real friend would like you for who you are — not what you own.

  Lora

  “Lora, I need you to restock the stir sticks! ASAP!” bellows a voice from behind me.

  I don’t have to turn around to know that it’s Mike. He’s my boss at the coffee shop where I work on weekends — a short, stocky college freshman with the loudest mouth, pointiest teeth, and hairiest arms of anyone I’ve ever met. Mike’s on a massive power trip. It’s obvious to everyone within earshot how much he enjoys managing an all-female team of adolescent baristas. He loves ordering us around and never says please or thank you for anything. Totally typical alpha male. In fact, if I had to choose a primate subgroup to classify him into, I’d definitely have to go with baboon. Still, I’m careful not to let him know how I really feel. This job is too important.

  I’ve been working here part-time since the beginning of the school year. Daddy watches the kids while I’m gone — unless, of course, he’s on duty at the fire station. Then one of the other firefighters’ wives comes over to help out. It’s only twelve hours a week, but I know the extra little bit I earn here really helps our family. And, even though I’d rather be reading or doing homework, I actually don’t mind making moccaccinos and espressos for over-indulged, caffeine-addicted yuppies. It’s a nice break from the stresses of home and school.

  I’ve even made a friend here. Her name is Madison, she’s sixteen, has green hair, a nose ring, and dropped out of school earlier this year. She’s the only person who knows the truth about what’s going on with my family.

  Next month, we’re going to start staying open late on Sunday nights for poetry readings. After half an hour of begging, Daddy agreed to let me stay and work late those nights — on the condition, of course, that I always have a lift home. I worked it out with Madison — on the nights Daddy’s at the fire station, she’s promised to drive me.

  “Did you hear me, Froggett?” Mike hollers. “I need stir sticks now!”

  “Okay, sure, right away,” I reply, before turning on my heel and hurrying into the supply room at the back of the store.

  I re-emerge a minute later with the box of little brown stir sticks in my hands. But I almost drop it when I see what’s waiting for me at the front of the shop.

  “Oh God!” I gasp.

  Three of the most vicious piranhas from my school are lining up at the counter for coffee. Luckily, I spot them before they spot me. There’s still time to run. I turn back to the supply room to hide out until they’re gone. But Mike sees me and thwarts my escape.

  “Let’s go, Froggett,” he snarls, pointing a stubby finger toward the counter. “I need you at the front now!”

&nbs
p; “But … but …”

  “Move it! We’re starting to get lined up here.”

  Big ape! I want to yell. But, of course, I don’t. Instead, with a wave of nervous cramps seizing my stomach muscles, I limp up to the cash register where Madison is taking orders and, as inconspicuously as possible, refill the stir-stick dispenser. That’s when I hear the piranhas order their coffees. A cold shiver runs up my spine at the sound of their voices. I know it’s them without even looking. They sound confident and careless and there’s an underlying laughter behind their words — like they’re sneering at the world.

  “Three large decaf non-fat lattes — Lor, will you give me a hand with the steamer, please?” asks Madison.

  I nod, afraid to speak in case the piranhas recognize my voice. I start up the steamer. It hisses and sputters — like a python with respiratory failure. As I help prepare the coffees, I lower my face, let my hair hang down as a kind of curly red veil and pray they won’t notice me. But that just makes Madison suspicious. She knows me so well.

  “Hey, something wrong, Lora?” she asks, peering at me as she punches the orders into the cash register. I ignore her and concentrate on keeping my head down and pouring foamy milk into the trio of paper cups. I can feel a cold sweat break out across my body as I top off the last one. It’s almost over. Please God, just let them take their coffees and go!

  And then I hear it. One of the twin piranhas recognizes me. I can’t tell if it’s Brandi or Dylan, but it doesn’t really matter, anyway.

  “Look, Frog-face works here.”

  My heart sinks into my shoes but I keep pouring, pretending not to hear.

  Oh please, not here! Please God, just make them go away!

  While the other twin laughs and says something mean about my clothes, I slump my shoulders down and curl my chin into my chest, trying to make myself smaller, smaller, smaller.

  Please God, just let me disappear!

  “At least we can’t see her Payless Shoes from this side of the counter,” another voice says.