Girl on the Other Side Page 5

  A small fire of shame starts burning inside my chest. It burns so badly I think I might faint from the pain. The fire quickly spreads to my face, making my eyes tear from the heat.

  A second later, the sound of pennies hitting glass clatters in my ears.

  “Here,” sneers the head piranha, “… just a little something extra, so you can splurge on your next trip to Value Village.”

  Oh God, I hate them … I hate them … I hate them … I hate them …

  I peer up and watch through my hair as they saunter away with their coffees. And then I see Madison. She looks furious and her face is turning as red as mine feels — making for an interesting contrast with her bright green hair. It’s probably taking all of her willpower not to say something to those girls. But she knows as well as I do that Mike will fire her on the spot for being rude to a customer. As soon as the last person in line has been served, she turns to me and begins demanding some answers.

  “Why on earth did you let them talk to you like that, Lora?”

  I shrug and stare at the stack of paper filters on the counter in front of me.

  “I don’t know why you stand for it,” she continues. “I mean, those girls were total bitches. Why do you take that crap?”

  I shrug again, hoping my silence will be her cue to drop the subject. But she’s persistent.

  “That’s Tabitha Freeman, isn’t it? The hotshot lawyer’s kid? And the others … they go to your school, right?”

  I nod. Madison sighs.

  “I don’t know why you’re still there. I mean, you hate school — why are you staying somewhere that makes you so sick? And besides, you’re so smart you probably don’t even need a diploma.”

  I shake my head. Ever since Madison dropped out, she’s been encouraging me to do the same. But I know dropping out isn’t the answer to my problems. They don’t give zoology degrees to dropouts.

  “You’re wrong. I don’t hate school — I just hate the people in my school,” I reply softly. Then I think about Miss Wall and our lunchtime chats and her Shakespeare pills and have to add: “Well, most of the people, anyway.”

  A moment later, Mike walks over and hands me a wet rag.

  “The customers at table seven have complained that their table is dirty,” he says. “Froggett, go clean it!”

  I look over. Table seven is where the piranhas are sitting. I let out a small whimper of agony as my stomach begins knotting up again. Reading the pain on my face, Madison grabs the rag from my hands.

  “I’ll do it, Mike,” she says, with a quick glance in my direction.

  But he steps in front of her, blocking her way.

  “No, I asked Froggett to do it. Are you deaf?”

  Madison stares down at him. She’s a full head taller than Mike and, unlike me, totally unintimidated by his arrogance.

  “No, I’m not deaf. But it’s my mess — I sat there on my break and forgot to wipe up. So excuse me, but I’ll clean it.”

  She steps around him and stomps off to clean the table before he can say another word. You’re an angel, Madison, I think as I watch her go. I begin wiping down the steam machine, but less than a minute later, the sound of shouting fills the shop. I look back at table seven and see one of the twins yelling at Madison and pointing to her latte splattered all over the floor. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth and I raise my hand to cover it up. Even though Mike could never prove it, I know in my heart that my friend has exacted her revenge.

  That’s when one of the other piranhas catches my eye. It’s the lead one, Tabby Freeman. She has a look on her face that I know all too well. There’s no mistaking it. Despair — with a capital D — is radiating from her so strongly that I can see it all the way over here. For the smallest of seconds, I feel like I’m seeing myself in a mirror. Her pain is so ugly and raw and familiar, I have to look away.

  But I can’t help wondering: Tabby Freeman is the richest, most popular girl in the entire town. What can she possibly know about despair?

  May 1

  tabby

  My faucet doesn’t drip anymore. I knew it was only a matter of time. Catherine doesn’t like anything in her life to be less than perfect.

  When I got home from school yesterday, there was a plumber with filthy fingernails and scuzzy jeans kneeling beside my bathtub and packing up his greasy wrench into his dirt-encrusted toolbox.

  “Hi there!” he said as I walked in. His voice was gritty and deep and the smell of stale cigarettes hovered around him, stinking up the air in the room. When he stood up, he hiked up his jeans and raked his bloodshot eyes slowly over the length of my body. Ew! As upset as I was about losing my drip, I was even more upset about the dirty plumber in my bathroom. Couldn’t Catherine have hired somebody a bit cleaner? As soon as he left, I ran to get Nanny and had her help me disinfect the tub.

  Without my drip, it was so quiet in my room that night; so quiet, I thought I was going to go crazy. I finally ended up falling asleep listening to my iPod. It helped with the silence, but it didn’t keep the dream away. And when Sam woke me up just before my crash landing, the iPod was playing “Fallin’” by Alicia Keys. Is that whacked or what?

  Tonight I decide to try something different to fight the silence. Once I’m in bed, I reach for the remote and snap on the TV. Ah, much better! Relief falls over me like a warm rain. I rub Sam’s ears and yawn. I’m exhausted and sore all over. Every muscle in my body is aching. I think I overdid it at the gym today, but I’m still trying to make up for eating that gross fettuccine alfredo the night of my birthday. My eyelids begin to droop, but I fight to keep them open. I’m afraid to fall asleep, afraid to have the dream again. What will happen if Sam doesn’t wake me up in time? I wonder.

  I miss my drip.

  I look over at the clock on my nightstand.

  1:03 a.m.

  Too late to call the twins. Their mother will have a cow if I wake her up this late.

  But maybe they’re online.

  Switching off the TV, I bounce out of bed, grab my laptop and fire it up. As soon as it’s online, I send an IM to Brandi:

  Hey B, r u awake?

  I wait a minute. There’s no reply.

  Damn.

  I send one to Dylan.

  S’up D?

  I wait again. Nothing.

  I think for a minute and, after a small hesitation, send one to Derek. The end of the term is around the corner, after all. It’s time to start giving him some hope.

  Hey Der r u there?

  I take a long, shaky breath and wait. If he’s online, this might turn into an interesting night after all. Suddenly, I hear a bump and my ears prick up.

  Are my parents home?

  I hold my breath and listen.

  A second later another bump … then another.

  Oh no … what if someone’s broken in?

  Another bump.

  I look behind me and see Sam thumping the mattress with his wagging tail. He’s dreaming again. I let out a long breath. Being alone all these nights is turning me into a paranoid freak. Where the hell are Catherine and David? I can’t even remember the last time I saw them. Four days ago … five days ago? I think back to that night at the restaurant.

  There’s been a lot going on at my office … some people have been asking to see some of our old files, David had said. For the hundredth time since that night, I find myself wondering who he was talking about. The police? The government? His accountants? Other lawyers? Whoever it was, I’m pretty sure it meant trouble.

  That’s when I see it — a message waiting for me in my email box. It’s from Catherine. I click it open and start to read:

  Tabitha,

  This is an emergency so pay attention. We’ve just been tipped off that your father’s company is coming under suspicion of billing fraud. I’ll explain what that means next time I see you. But for now, you need to know that we’ll be here all night cleaning up and getting things sorted out. Whatever you do, do not answer the door. Do not pick up
the phone. Do not talk to anyone. We’ll explain more when we see you.

  And please, don’t wait up and don’t reply to this message — I’m too busy and there’s still so much to do here. And whatever you do, don’t tell anyone about this.

  Catherine.

  I swirl the mouse around in frantic circles. Under suspicion? WTF?! How much trouble are those two in? I read the email again. “Billing fraud.” What the hell does that mean, anyway? Giving up on Derek, I close my IM, open up Google and type in four words: Law firm billing fraud.

  I click “search.” A second later, my computer comes up with half a million results. I started scrolling through the links. What I read leaves my jaw hanging open. Stories of rich lawyers making off with illegal millions, law firms shutting down, court proceedings, men in suits being hauled off to jail. Oh my God! Has David been stealing from his clients? That would mean pretty much everyone in this town. How much money has he stolen? Who else knows about this?

  Don’t tell any of your little friends, David had warned.

  Don’t talk to anyone, Catherine had written.

  God, I hate them! Don’t they ever care about anyone but themselves? They commit a crime and now they’re sneaking around in the middle of the night trying to cover it up? Screw that! They totally deserve to get caught!

  Suddenly, I have an idea. A brilliant idea. It’s like a light turning on inside my head and in a split second I know what I have to do to get them where it will really hurt the most. No more messing around with stupid pranks like fatty pasta. This time, I’m going to hit a bullseye. Without even the smallest hesitation, with one tiny flick of my finger, I do something that I know will change my parents’ lives forever.

  Don’t reply to this message. I’m too busy, she’d said. That’s nothing new. From the day I was born, she’s always been too busy for me. So why does it still hurt?

  “Fine, Catherine, you get your way,” I whisper, with an angry tap of the mouse, I click “forward” instead of “reply.” I know my BFFs will know exactly what to do with this information.

  To: Dylan; Cc: Brandi

  Subject: My father’s a crook and my mother’s a liar.

  My chest is tight and I can feel a prickly heat growing under my arms and spreading up my neck. I hold my breath, close my eyes, and click “send.”

  As soon as the message is gone, I feel a little ball of pain form in the pit of my stomach and slowly creep up and down my entire body. Closing my computer, I crawl back into my bed and switch the TV back on. The next time my eyelids start to droop, I let them close. Tonight, for the first time in years, I don’t wake up in a panic. The dream doesn’t come.

  I think it’s because in my real life, I’ve just taken a flying leap off that tall building.

  Lora

  Dear God, nighttime in my bedroom sounds like an overrun animal shelter. It’s so loud in here that, if I wasn’t so constantly tired, I don’t know how I’d ever get to sleep.

  Buster, our cat, is sleeping in Allie’s bed and purring so loudly you’d think he’d swallowed a small engine. On the dresser across the room, the trio of hamster wheels squeak and creak as they spin in circles in the dark. Those little guys run like maniacs all night. It’s incredible that, after all that running, they still haven’t figured out that they’re not getting anywhere. Beside me, the parakeet chirps in his cage. I look over at him and see his eyes shining at me through the dark.

  “Go to sleep, Frank … it’s late,” I whisper. He chirps again, louder this time. I know he’s trying to get me to feed him. He learned that trick from the dogs, who also share our room.

  I ignore him and pretend to be asleep. That bird is too smart for his own good sometimes. My thoughts skip back to Miss Wall’s class today. We discussed the lark and the nightingale scene from Romeo and Juliet. Bet you neither of those birds were as manipulative and crafty as Frank. I mean, how many other parakeets know how to beg for food?

  After the class was over, Miss Wall asked me to stay back for a chat. I knew right away she didn’t want to talk about universities or animals. There were two deep lines creasing the skin between her eyebrows — a dead giveaway that something serious was on her mind.

  “Everything okay, Lora? You look tired.”

  I bit my bottom lip and shrugged. The lines in her forehead got deeper.

  “Those are some pretty black circles under your eyes,” she continued. “Are you sleeping enough?”

  My palms started to sweat. I could see in Miss Wall’s eyes that she wanted to help. And a big part of me wanted so badly to let her — just tell her all my troubles right then and there. But another part of me — the stronger part — was still too scared.

  So I just shook my head and stared at my shoes.

  “Please, Lora, if there’s anything you want to tell me …”

  “No, I’m fine,” I’d said, keeping my head down so she wouldn’t see the truth in my eyes. I heard Miss Wall sigh.

  “All right, Lora. You can go now.”

  And just like that, my chance was gone.

  On the other side of the house, the rhythmic sound of Chelsea’s snoring buzzes through the thin walls. My little sister is louder than all the animals combined. She snores so loudly it makes my bed vibrate. And she isn’t even in the same room as me. We’ve had her checked out twice by Dr. McMullon, but even he couldn’t figure out how or why a five-year-old child would be snoring like an overweight middle-aged man. The snoring freaks out all the animals, so they all have to sleep in my room. Thank God her snoring doesn’t seem to bother Cody or he would want to sleep in my room, too. As it is, there’s barely any room left to breathe in here.

  Since there’s no place for a proper bookcase, the floor next to our dresser is piled up high with books by all my favourite authors: Shakespeare, Hemingway, Steinbeck, the two Margarets (Atwood and Laurence), Rowling, and Dickens, of course … his writing about kids in workhouses really strikes a chord with me. I treasure my books and would rather keep them in the closet where they’re less likely to get stepped on, but there’s no room in there, either. It’s so crammed with clutter and junk that there’s barely enough room for our clothes — which isn’t such a bad thing because most of them are dirty, anyway. The laundry bin at the foot of our bed is an overflowing volcano of stinky clothes; a malodorous reminder of all the housework I’ve fallen behind on.

  Trying to muffle Chelsea’s snoring, I turn over in my bed and pull my comforter up over my ears. I can feel eyes on me and I know Frank is still staring.

  Allie turns around and mumbles something in her sleep. I can hear her breathing, deep and slow. I turn my head to look at her. Her coppery curls are messy and damp with night sweat. Reaching my hand out across the bed we share, I brush her bangs gently out of her face.

  When they’re quiet and sleeping, it’s so much easier to love these little guys. Sometimes I feel like I’m their real mother. And, even though we all know Mommy is nearby, I think they feel the same way about me. Thank God, so far none of them have had an issue with bullies. Allie’s in grade two now and there hasn’t been even a hint of trouble. I don’t know what I’d do if any of them had to deal with problems like mine.

  Her little arm flops across my shoulder as she tosses onto her back. I hear her sigh in her sleep like she’s having a nice dream. I turn and look at the clock.

  1:03 a.m.

  I think about all the things other kids my age might be doing right now. Staying out late with friends, talking on the phone, going to parties, hosting sleepovers, having fun, smiling and laughing … not a care in the world. And a piranha like Tabby Freeman? Would she be sneaking out with one of the pit bulls? Probably. For me, the idea of dating is a foreign concept. And the thought of having a boyfriend is completely inconceivable. Even if I had time for one, every boy at my school is an enemy. And every girl, too, for that matter.

  There are times when I wish more than anything I could do normal, teenaged things like other kids. But I know that’s nev
er going to happen. Even if I had friends, I can’t have them over to my house. Mommy needs it to be quiet here so she can rest. And anyway, what would I do with my little brother and sisters if a friend ever wanted to come over and hang out? And how would I have a sleepover in this crowded room? Where would I put an extra person? Under the birdcage? No, there’ll be no sleepovers for me. My childhood is officially over.

  I flip over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. For the first time in my life, I notice the shape of my room. It’s a perfect square. A small square box crammed inside a slightly bigger box — this house. Suddenly the walls dip inwards and I realize in one awful moment that I’m really no different than any of these animals in their cages. I am just as trapped as them. And I’m spinning my wheels harder then those hamsters.

  In that moment, the room darkens like a shadow has fallen over the house. Tears roll down my face and into my hair. Some drops manage to make it to my ears where they form little saltwater pools. I close my eyes as the burden of my life comes crashing down from above, pinning me to the mattress with a weight heavier than a thousand cruel jokes.

  May 8

  tabby

  Dylan and Brandi did exactly what I knew they’d do and sent the incriminating email out to everyone in their address books. Word spread really fast. It only took two days for the police to make an arrest. The next morning, the story was the headline in the local newspaper.

  When I picked our copy up off the front porch, David’s bright orange prison jumpsuit was the first thing I saw. Next was his unshaven face, flooded with shame. I’d never seen him look that way before. I stared at the photo for a full minute before noticing the headline.

  Local Businessman Arrested for Fraud

  Then I started to read:

  Yesterday, police raided the office of the town’s most prestigious legal firm, Freeman Law. Officers seized all the files and computers in the building and temporarily shut down operations pending the completion of their investigation.

  David Freeman, president and CEO of the firm, has been charged with multiple counts of fraud, obstructing justice, and destroying evidence. His wife, Catherine Freeman, is also being questioned on suspicion of destroying evidence.