Girl on the Other Side (2 page)

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 have 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.

This year is turning out to be worse than ever. Maybe it's because the piranhas are beginning to date the pit bulls.

I remember reading that animals display their physical prowess to the opposite sex by attacking other, less dominant, animals. If that's true, it would explain a lot of stuff going on at my school this year.

Tabby Freeman walks in to class just ahead of me. She's the head piranha — the one all the other girls look up to and copy. She isn't the prettiest girl in school, but her family is the richest and most powerful in town and that matters a lot more than looks around here.

I plop into my seat just as the second bell rings. Putting down her marker, Miss Wall turns around to face us. She catches my eye and her face crinkles into a wide smile. I smile back. Miss Wall is my favourite teacher this year. Maybe my favourite teacher ever. Plump and pleasant and gray-haired, she reminds me of a grandmother — not my own, of course. I never actually had a grandparent — all four of them died before I was born. Clearly our family's DNA has serious flaws. But I guess that's pretty obvious when you look at my mother. She was diagnosed with primary-progressive Multiple Sclerosis a few months after my baby brother Cody was born. Although at first the symptoms were mild, they got bad really fast. Mommy's a different person now than she was four years ago — unsteady on her feet and exhausted and weak all the time. Sometimes weeks go by when she doesn't get out of bed except to use the bathroom. Daddy tries to help, but he isn't around very much. He's a firefighter and works crazy shifts so when he's home he ends up sleeping a lot, because his body clock is so turned around. Most of the time, I'm on my own taking care of the house, my baby brother and two little sisters, and the pets, of course. I try not to complain. Compared to what Mommy's dealing with, my problems are pretty insignificant.

“Today we're about to embark on an adventure,” Miss Wall says, picking up a thin paperback book from her desk. “And I promise it will be an adventure you'll never forget.”

She holds up the book. It's
Romeo and Juliet
. The class groans in unison. I'm not surprised. This is probably the first time any of them had ever been asked to read Shakespeare. I, of course, read the Bard's complete works the summer I turned thirteen. And
Romeo and Juliet
is one of my favourites.

Miss Wall walks around the class carrying an armful of books and a small plastic medicine bottle. Everyone receives a copy of the play along with a little yellow pill. I turn it over in my hand. It doesn't take more than a second to find the tiny M&M logo stamped on the shell.

“Shakespeare's plays are arguably the most beautiful works of literature ever written,” Miss Wall explains over the noise of crunching candies. “And certainly, the Bard's tragedies are the most stirring and powerful of all his works. But understanding sixteenth-century English can be quite difficult at times. You've all received a special painkiller to help make this a little easier. Now, let's begin.”

Brilliant! Our own junior-high version of Mary Poppins. I put the “pill” in my mouth and let the chocolate melt slowly on my tongue, trying to make the sweetness last as long as possible. This class is the highlight of my school day. And it's all because of Miss Wall. Over the past few months, I've been wandering in here during the lunch hour to talk to her. It's as a good place as any to avoid my tormentors. She doesn't seem to mind. In fact, I get the feeling she likes the company. Not once has she ever asked me why I wasn't in the cafeteria with the other kids … but I have a funny feeling that she probably already knows why.

A couple of times I've come close to telling Miss Wall about my problems — the bullying, Mommy's disease, how I'm practically raising my little sisters and brother all by myself. But fear always holds me back. What if she calls Child Services? What if they take us away from Mommy and Daddy?

So, instead, I make sure to keep the conversation light. We talk about books and animals and I tell her which universities I want to attend. I once asked her why she never married and she told me it was because she spends all her free time re-reading the course materials and preparing her lessons.

“I never had much time for dating … guess you could say that I'm married to my job,” she said. I loved hearing that. When I get older, I want to be just as passionate about my career. I pretty much have it narrowed down to two choices. Because I love animals so much, I want to be either a zoologist or a veterinarian. Probably a zoologist.

“You've all heard of Romeo and Juliet,” Miss Wall continues as she strolls slowly up and down the aisles. “Before we begin the play, I'd like you all to write down anything you know, or think you know, about the characters. You have five minutes, then we'll discuss.”

I extract a pen from my pencil case, flip my binder open to a new page, lean forward, and take a deep breath. I love the crisp, clean smell of fresh paper … it's so full of promise and potential. Twirling the pen around my knuckles, I stare at the blank page and think about Miss Wall's question.

Who were Romeo and Juliet?

Simple enough. They were two kids I have a few things in common with. I lean over my binder and start writing.

Romeo and Juliet were a pair of tragic teenagers who were
mature beyond their years. They became desperate to find a
way to escape their unhappy circumstances and came up with
a plan. At the end of the play, everyone who'd ever tried to
push them around was sorry.

I feel a pair of eyes on me and look up to see Alison Villemere staring at my page from her desk across the aisle. Instinctively, I cover my work with my arm so she can't see what I've written. I don't like to brag, but I'm by far the smartest kid in school. Everybody knows it — which, of course, means that everybody wants to copy off me. But I never allow it. Let them trade their futures for hockey games and shopping malls. Not me. I have a plan to get away from here.

In four years, I'm going to graduate valedictorian and win a full scholarship to the university of my choice. Maybe even three years if I can pull off an early graduation. A scholarship is going to be my one-way ticket out of this abyss.