This Is Me From Now On (12 page)

“I thought this was supposed to be a history project,” Aunt Ponytail said, smiling.

“Oh, it
is,
” Francesca told her. “But we're supposed to research the whole person. To get the whole story.”

“We-ell,” Aunt Yellowteeth said, slowly and loudly, “under the circumstances, I really don't think Frankie needs to hear gossip and innuendo.”

“Under
what
circumstances?” Samantha demanded. She'd been so quiet, I'd forgotten she was at the table. But now she was looking at Aunt Yellowteeth with blazing eyes.

“Do we really need to spell it out?” Aunt Yellowteeth replied, tilting her chin toward Francesca.

“That's enough,” Aunt Ponytail said sharply. “Frankie honey, would you like some ice cream? There's chocolate chip and strawberry.”

“You know, Bitsy,” said Samantha, still staring at Aunt Yellowteeth, “I don't think it's necessary to treat Frankie like a baby. She knows exactly what's going on with her own mother.”

“Oh, does she, Sammy? And why is that?”

“Because we
talk,
” Samantha said in a dramatic stage voice
. “
Her understanding of the situation is
extremely
mature.
Sometimes I think she's more mature than I am!”

“Well, I'll certainly agree with that,” Aunt Yellowteeth said into her napkin.

“Okay, you two, now stop it!” Aunt Ponytail snapped. “Mimi's relationships are her own business, and not the sort of thing we should be discussing at the table!” She scooped some strawberry ice cream into a small chipped bowl and shoved it in front of Francesca.

The conversation went on and on from that point, but I tuned out most of it, because by then my head was spinning. Mostly about this: FRANCESCA HAD NEVER READ THE DIARY. Why had I thought she had? Had she ever specifically
said
She'd read it, or was that something I'd just assumed? “Uncle Teddy” had read it, but who was he? And also
where
was he, and would he rescue the diary before Isabel's house was sold? Or worse, bulldozed into the ground?

And how were we supposed to research Angelica Beaumont's fascinating private life if nobody would even talk to us? We weren't asking about Francesca's mom, and it seemed crazy to me that anyone would think we were.
Excuse me, guys, but this is U.S. history,
I wanted to shout.
We're not discussing your messed-up family!

Finally my brain slowed down and I took a peek at
Francesca. She hadn't even touched her ice cream; she was just sitting there, twirling the corners of her napkin. And when supper was finally over and Aunt Yellowteeth announced that everybody would be playing Scrabble, she leaned over to me and murmured, “Evie, we
desperately
have to get out of here.”

I followed her out of the dining room through a little side door I hadn't noticed, and into the almost-moonlight. We both took off our flip-flops and started walking along the windy beach, listening to the waves crash.

For a long time we didn't talk. Finally Francesca said, “Sorry about dinner.”

“It was fine.”

“No, it wasn't. My family is a tad deranged.” She picked up a broken clamshell. “So you're mad that I never read the diary?”

I took a deep breath of salty air. “Well, to be honest with you, Francesca, I'm really not thrilled about it. I mean, the project is due in eight days, we don't have the diary, and now who knows what it even
says
.”

“Oh, don't worry about
that
! Uncle Teddy's been telling me about the diary
forever.
I feel as if I have the whole thing memorized. It'll be staggering once we get it, you'll see.”

“Well, I hope so,” I said doubtfully. “But when exactly will we have it?”

“I'll e-mail him as soon as we get home tomorrow. I'll tell him to overnight it, the very second he gets to Isabel's. So we'll definitely have it in time to write an utterly brilliant project.”

What could I possibly say to all that? “Okay, then. Great.”

She smiled, almost shyly. “So we're good, Evie, right?”

“Sure. I guess.”

“Well, that's a huge relief!”

We walked some more. My toes were starting to get numb from the freezing tide and my eyes were stinging from the salty wind. The truth was, I wanted to go back to the house and play Scrabble or just start packing for tomorrow's trip home, but Francesca seemed to be having fun picking up shells, examining them carefully, and then tossing them as far as she could into the roaring waves.

Finally, though, she plopped onto the sand and patted a space next to her for me to sit. “Evie?” she said sweetly. “Can we talk about something? And you won't freak out or be absolutely furious?”

“I'll try,” I said, suddenly aware of a prickly feeling in my stomach. “What is it?”

“All right, this is a true confession. Are you ready?”

“No.”

“I'll tell you anyway. Here goes: I sent Espee's letter to Theo.”

“You …
what
?”

“I wrote it out on nice paper, and then I mailed it. ‘O my darling, truest feelings, cruel fate.' Exactly what you quoted from her computer.”

“Omigod.”

“I used her printy handwriting. You'd never know the difference, Evie. And I signed it Stephanie Pierce.”

“Francesca. You
didn't.
”

“No, I did.”

“Oh, God. Oh, God.”

“Okay, you're furious at me, aren't you?”

I couldn't talk. Finally, after maybe twenty seconds, I asked, “When did you send it?”

“Friday night. Right before we came here.”

“So last night, when we were talking about this, when you
promised
me, you'd already—?”

“I didn't know you'd think it was a bad idea! I thought you'd actually be happy!”

“Why would you possibly think
that
?”

“Because you read Espee's computer screen! Why would you, if you didn't care about her personal life? And why would you
tell
me about it if deep down you didn't want something amazing to happen?”

I stared at the goosebumps on my arms. “Listen, Francesca. Even if I wanted something to happen, even if I thought it would be a great idea, I wouldn't just
do
it.”

“I know,” she said seriously. “And that makes me so sad for you.”

I looked up at the stars, which seemed different from last night, as if they'd all shifted over two spaces. Everything was off somehow. I couldn't even find Orion's belt.

“Evie,” Francesca begged. “Please, please,
please
don't hate me for this. I truly feel we've done an incredibly wonderful thing. A
helpful
thing. For two beautiful soulmates.”

“Maybe,” I answered in a tight voice. “I really just need to think about this, okay? Can we please go back to the house now?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She stood up and tossed one last shell into the ocean. “Of course we can. We'll do anything you want.”

The whole ride home, we didn't sing. Or talk very much, either, come to think of it. Just before we'd left, Samantha had had a loud whisper-fight with Aunt Yellowteeth in the run-down-looking ranch part of the house, and I could tell she was still really upset about that. And Aunt Ponytail had taken Francesca upstairs to the fancy Blanton-looking floor and said a lot of nice things about how much Francesca's mom loved her, but how “complicated” families could be sometimes. (I heard about this because Quentin had listened by the door, and then come downstairs to tell me about it while I was packing. “What's so complicated about
families
?” he'd snorted.) I
knew Aunt Ponytail had said all that stuff to make Francesca feel better, but she hardly said a word once we were packed up and on the road. And of course I couldn't talk about the love letter in front of Samantha, so I spent most of the trip home staring out the window, worrying.

When we finally got back to Blanton, I thanked Francesca for the weekend, and Samantha, too, and helped carry their bags inside. (“You poor little things, did you miss us?” Samantha shouted at the rabbits, who scampered away.) And then I dragged my stuff into my own house, which seemed sane and safe and normal, even though Mom didn't put down her cell when she gave me a welcome-home hug, and Grace immediately shouted down the hallway that she was studying for the SAT, so could I please keep it down?

“Keep what down?” I asked.

“Whatever you're doing,” she growled.

I stood in her doorway. “So how were your college visits?”

She groaned. “Excellent. Of course if I want to get into any of those places, I'll need ultra-perfect scores.”

“No you won't, Grace,” I said. “Besides, with your grades—”

“You don't know a
thing
about the college process, Evie,
” she interrupted. “Just be glad you're in seventh grade, which doesn't even
count.
”

Well, it counts to me,
I thought as I dumped my sandy clothes in the hamper. I was just about to go find Dad to see how he had survived three days in the car with Grumpy Grace when my cell phone rang. I didn't even have to look at the screen to know who it was.

“Evie?” Nisha was saying. “I've been calling you all weekend!”

She sounded a little anxious, louder and higher-pitched. But even so, it was just such a relief to hear her voice again.

“God, I missed you so much,” I blurted out.

“Me too. So where were you, anyway?”

“At the shore with Francesca.” Immediately I added, “She invited me. Her family has this fantastic old beach house.”

“Oh.” Nisha paused. “Well, lucky her.”

“Yeah, sort of. Anyhow, it was nice to get out of Blanton.” As soon as I said that, I wished I could hit the Delete key. “What about you? Did you do anything fun?”

“Hmm, let's see. You mean other than Lily making us walk Jimmy around her block four thousand times, and then being dragged by my mom to Home Depot so she could yell
at the store manager for not stocking the right door hinges? You mean
excluding
all that?”

“Sorry. It doesn't sound very … entertaining.”

“Yeah, well, don't rub it in, okay?” She sighed. “So. Since you were away I guess you haven't heard the news about Zane?”

“No.” I said quickly. “What news?”

“He broke up with Kayla. Or Kayla broke up with him, depending on which version you're getting.”

“That was fast.”

“Yah.” She waited. “You don't sound incredibly happy.”

“Should I be? I mean, truthfully, Nisha, I really don't think—”

“Oh, right, I forgot, we shouldn't keep bothering you about Zane.” She sighed again, sharply this time. “So just tell me about the beach, Evie. Did you get a good tan?”

“Not really. We mostly researched for our Attic Project. And we played pirates with Francesca's cousins.”

“You played
pirates
? Are you, like, joking?”

“Dorky pirates. It was awesome, actually, but I guess you had to be there.”

She didn't answer, and I realized I'd said that a little funny, like I was bragging I was invited to something she
wasn't. And to make it okay, what I
could
have done right then was tell her about Espee's love letter, and how Francesca had sent it to Theo. But I didn't. Because judging from the way Nisha was reacting to everything, I was pretty sure she'd just start screeching an are-you-joking sort of speech, and I didn't know how to deal with it, frankly. Besides, I told myself, Francesca and I had promised each other we'd keep Espee's love life private. And whatever I thought about Francesca's own ability to keep a promise, not blabbing about the letter felt like something I owed to Espee.

So instead of all that, I just asked Nisha about her Attic Project.

“Oh, it's
awesome,
” she snapped. “Well, I guess I'll see you at school tomorrow. Have a nice night.”

Then she hung up on me.

That night it rained. And rained and rained, as if suddenly Mother Nature had freaked out when she realized it was September, and she hadn't been keeping up with her Autumn Project. I didn't sleep very well; I think I heard every single raindrop splatter on my windowsill. In the morning when I got out of bed the floor was so cold, I put on thick cotton socks. And for the first time in months, I went into
my Serious Clothes drawer and threw on a sweater, a baggy orange one that made me look like a pumpkin.

After breakfast I rang Francesca's bell, my mind more than half made up to tell her I was quitting the Attic Project, and that I didn't want to hear one more word about Espee's
cruel fate.
As soon as she opened the door, though, it was like I just kind of lost my mental place. Francesca was wearing a yellow-and-black bumblebee scarf wound tightly around her neck, a boyish-looking white cable-knit sweater that reached her knees, red kneesocks, and the blue sparkly stilettos. On the beach she'd looked so normal; I'd totally forgotten about the costume business.

She greeted me with her dazzling smile. “Fabulous news!” she shouted as she slammed the door behind her. “I spoke to Uncle Teddy last night, and he's sending the diary!”

My heart bounced. “You mean right away?”

“Uh-huh. He's heading up there today to show the house. And he promises to overnight it first thing!”

And I told myself:
Okay, Evie, don't be stupid here. You're upset about Espee's love letter, but the Attic Project is a separate thing. Angelica's diary is finally on its way, and it's probably amazing. So why quit the project before you even
get to read it? Besides, you've already done a ton of research. What sense would it make to throw it out now and have to start all over with some dorky Mystery Box?