This Is Me From Now On (2 page)

“Hi, honey. You remember our neighbor, Ms. Pattison?” Mom said, giving me a look

“Oh, sure,” I lied, because how could I remember someone I'd never even officially met? “Hi.”

“And this is her niece Francesca.” Mom turned to where
Francesca was sitting, but she wasn't there anymore. Now she was standing by our big bookshelf, pulling down book after book.

The first thing I thought about her was:
Omigod. That girl is a giant. Is she taller than Dad? I think she is.

“Your books are so BRILLIANT,” she was practically shouting.
“Wuthering Heights
—I
love
this book! It's the most gorgeous book ever written. Can I borrow it?”

“We can borrow books from the Blanton Library,” her aunt Samantha said. “Say hello to Eva.”

“Evie,” I said automatically.

“Francesca is entering seventh grade too,” Mom said, smiling. “She's a sort of transfer student.”

“Oh, really? From where?” I asked

“The depths of hell,” Francesca answered

Samantha Pattison giggled, rattling her ice cubes. “You don't mean that, sugarpie.”

“Oh yes I do.”

“Why? What was wrong with your old school?” I asked

“Everything,” Francesca said, looking right at me as if she were confessing some top secret. “They tried to suppress my spirit, but of course they failed miserably.”

The second thing I thought was:
Whoa. That girl looks incredible. I wish my hair was long and all wavy like that, and my eyes were that smoky sort of green. And I bet SHE doesn't have trouble finding a bathing suit!
The third thing was:
On the other hand, she's crazy.

“Evie, honey,” Mom said, “why don't you get yourself some lemonade, and then maybe you could take Francesca over to see Blanton Middle.”

“You mean right now?”

“Oh, that's not necessary, Mrs. Webber,” said Francesca. “I prefer not to think about school. It's not for ages, anyway.”

Mom smiled. “Actually, it's less than a week away. In Blanton we start school in late August.”

“Then we still have eons,” Francesca answered cheerfully. “But I'd absolutely love a walk, Evie, if you really wouldn't mind.”

“I wouldn't mind,” I said, looking helplessly at Mom. “It's just incredibly hot out there.”

“That's all right,” Francesca said. “I've been living in Saudi Arabia. I'm used to extreme temperatures.”

“Francesca's dad is in the oil business,” Samantha Pattison explained

“Oh.” I knew I was supposed to be impressed by that, but
I didn't even know what “the oil business” meant, exactly. I looked at Francesca. “You want some lemonade too?”

“No thanks,” she said. “I've already had three absolutely scrumptious glasses.”

Okaaaay,
I thought. I went into the kitchen and got myself a glass of ice cubes surrounded by lemonade. Grace, my school-aholic big sister, was sitting at the dining room table hunched over a book called
Acing the SAT.
She filled in a test bubble and looked up at me, grinning. “Samantha Pattison,” she said

“I know. In broad daylight.”

“With her niece.”

“I know. Did you meet her? She seems—”

“Not now,” murmured Grace, raising her eyebrows

“Are you ready, Evie?” someone said from behind me. Francesca clomped into the dining room. That's when I noticed she was wearing a normal-looking outfit (purple tank top, green shorts) but also these pointy-toed, sparkly blue stilettos with, like, four-inch super-skinny heels.

I swear, when I saw those shoes I practically choked on an ice cube. Because I'd never seen anything like them in my entire life; I had no idea what I was supposed to think about them. It was like a quiz from one of Lily's magazines

And here's the funny part: I realized I was thinking all four things at the same time. So maybe the right answer was (e) All of the above. Even if that wasn't a choice

Now Francesca clomped over to Grace. “What are you doing?” she asked, trying to read upside down

“Studying for the SAT,” Grace answered

“But it's only August. Why worry about some bloody awful test before school even starts?”

Grace smiled in this superior way she has. “Well, I'm a senior in high school. Going to be. And if I want to go to a good college, I need to take the SAT this fall.”

“How
sad
,” said Francesca. “That's why I absolutely refuse to go to college, among other reasons. Well, don't let us distract you.” Then her face brightened. “Unless you'd like to come with us? We're going for a nice long walk.”

“That's okay,” Grace said, catching my eye. “Have fun,
you two.” She picked up a pencil and flipped a page in her SAT book, pretending not to laugh.

I squinted at Francesca. Even outside in the glaring sunshine she looked fantastic: her skin was a golden tan, and her hair was the color of Kraft Caramels. “So where do you want to go?” I asked, my teeth skidding on the last little slivers of ice cubes

“Oh, you decide,” Francesca said happily. “You're the expert.”

“I am?”

“Well, you live here, don't you? Where do you go when you want to have fun?”

“I don't know. The mall, probably. When someone's mom can drive us.”

She made a face. “Where else?”

“The park. The movies. The stores on Elm.”

“Blah. Boring.”

“The ice cream place—”

“Ooh, ice cream,” she said, clapping her hands. “What a genius idea. Is it far?”

“Sort of. Half a mile, maybe.”

“Oh, that's nothing. I love to walk.”

I looked at her feet. “Even in those shoes? They don't look very comfortable.”

“Oh, they're not. They're bloody torture, actually. But they're so epically gorgeous, don't you think?” She took off her left shoe. I could see the side of her foot near her big toe looked pink and peely. She rubbed it, then put the shoe right back on and beamed at me. “Besides, if Mother Darling saw me wearing them, she'd go berserk. So who cares about stupid blisters.”

I didn't know what to say to that; it never occurred to me to
want
my mom to go berserk. The truth is, Mom went berserk all the time, over things like unwashed dishes and unmade beds, and I didn't exactly find it entertaining. And why did Francesca just call her own mom ‘Mother Darling'? She talked really, really strangely, like everything she said was in quotation marks or something

We walked long blocks without saying very much. The air was so hot, it was almost chewy, and I could feel the sweat trickling down my armpits, even though this morning I'd snuck some of Grace's powder-fresh deodorant. Francesca was definitely limping by now. Once or twice I saw her stop and rub her foot, but she never complained or took her shoe off again. Finally she pointed
across the street. “Is that the ice cream place, Evie? It looks like heaven.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” I said. “But I really like their chocolate chip.”

She wiped her forehead. “Yum, chocolate chip. My absolute favorite.”

We crossed the street and went inside. Oh, I should tell you that I Scream for Ice Cream (I know, I know: dumb name) was owned by Zane's dad, and Zane helped out there sometimes. Today was one of those days, probably because the place was packed with sticky first graders off the camp bus and moms sick of dieting all summer to fit into bathing suits and middle schoolers in denial about the end of vacation.

We got in line. As soon as we did, the door opened again, and two girls I knew from school walked in: Kayla and Gaby. Definitely cooler-than-me types, but I'd say lower-medium-nice

“Hey, Evie,” said Kayla, finger-combing her fakely highlighted long brown hair. “What Team are you on? Hard or Easy?”

“I don't know. I haven't read my letter yet.” This was true; I'd gotten my Seventh-Grade Team Assignment Letter last week, but I'd just stuffed it into my desk drawer.

Kayla smiled like she didn't believe me. “We're both on Hard. What about Nisha and Lily?”

“Hard,” I said. “Like always.”

“Poor them,” Gaby commented. “Hard has Espee.”

I nodded. Oh yes, I knew all about the Espee business. When my sister, Grace, took seventh-grade U.S. History, all she did—I mean literally, ALL SHE DID—was research and write bibliographies, sometimes until two in the morning. Her social life basically ended that year; the only thing she cared about was satisfying this insatiable monster she referred to as SP. I was, like, seven years old then, so I thought “SP” stood for something too horrible to call a teacher out loud, like Scary Person or Sour Pickle. Finally I asked Grace what SP meant, and she said, “Stephanie Pierce. She signs everything SP, so that's what we call her.” “To her
face
?” I'd asked. “Of course not,” Grace had said, hooting at my stupidity. “She'd vaporize you.”

Francesca, who I
could
have introduced at that point, was standing on her tippy-toes, even though she was nearly six feet tall with those all-of-the-above shoes. “What does that sign say?” she asked too loudly. “Mochaccino Supremo? What's that?” And then she turned around and grinned at me. “Deeply gorgeous boy. Behind the counter.”

In back of me, Gaby started giggling. I've always hated the way she sounded when she laughed, kind of like a car alarm

“That's Zane,” Kayla announced. “He's in eighth grade.”

“Zane,” Francesca repeated still-too-loudly. “What an odd name.” Then she stared at me with her huge, smoky green eyes. “You're in love with him, Evie, aren't you?”

“What?”

“I'm psychic about these things. I should have warned you.”

“Yes? Next in line?” Zane called out

“Oops, my turn!” Francesca walked right up to Zane, gave him a dazzling smile, and asked, “So, Zane, what do you recommend?”

I could have died. What did he
recommend
? Gah. Didn't she even know how to order ice cream like a normal human being? I could hear Gaby and Kayla laughing, maybe about Francesca, maybe about me. And then I saw Zane hand Francesca a tiny plastic spoon and one of those little paper cups they used for free samples

Francesca took a spoonful of whatever-it-was. “Ooh, lovely,” she said. She pointed to some other kind of ice cream in the case. “What's that?”

“Triple Fudge Marshmallow Chunk. Try it,” said Zane, handing her another paper cup

“Yumyumyum,” said Francesca when she'd taken a bite. “What's that?”

He read the label upside down. “Um, Golden Brownie with Caramel Fudge Ripple.”

Francesca clutched her chest like she was having a heart attack

So Zane handed her another free sample

“Bliss,” Francesca said. “I've never tasted anything so epically delish!”

“Aaaa, come on, dude, we're waiting here,” snarled some high-school-looking boy three customers behind me.

“Be right with you,” Zane answered. But he just kept handing Francesca free sample after free sample. And Francesca just kept pointing at the ice cream freezer and saying “lovely” and “yummy” and “Ooh, what's that?” Finally a grouchy mom with one of those sticky camp kids called out, “Excuse me, but is this line ever
moving
?” And then the sticky camp kid yelled at her, “Mommy, you said I could have ice cream
NOW
!”

I felt a jabbing poke on my shoulder

“Hey, Evie, aren't you with that girl?” Kayla was asking

“Who?”

She tilted her highlights toward Francesca. “
Her.
The one eating up half the freezer.”

“Her name is Francesca,” I said. I was about to add, “I don't even know her,” but I stopped myself. After all, they'd heard her call me Evie; they'd almost definitely also heard about her psychic powers.

Suddenly, Sticky Camp Kid started screaming his head off, and Grouchy Mom was telling him, “You'll get your ice cream in TWO MORE MINUTES, buddy,” like it was a threat aimed right at Zane, and I thought:
Okay. If I don't do something NOW, Francesca Pattison is going to start a riot in here. Everyone in this line is going to leap into that freezer and start scooping ice cream with their bare hands And maybe throwing it at her like snowballs
. And even though walking over to Francesca was like posting on YouTube that we had some kind of official connection, at this point I really didn't think I had too much of a choice

So I went over to her. She was pointing at a melty-looking tub of Rainbow Cotton Candy. “Ooh,
that
looks
interesting,” she was commenting to Zane. Then she noticed me. “Have you ever tried that flavor, Evie?”

“Not really. But I bet it's great.” I added under my breath, “Just order something, Francesca. Okay?”

“Are you all right?” she asked me, scrunching up her forehead like she was worried about my health

“Yes! Just
please, please
hurry up.”

“Oh, sure.” She put her tiny paper cup and her plastic spoon on the counter, smiled at Zane, and said, “It's all spectacular, Zane. But I'm afraid I'm absolutely stuffed. I'll have to come back for a cone some other time.”

He blinked his gold-hazel eyes. “You mean you're not buying anything?”

“Oh,
no
thank you. But Evie will, I think.”

We watched her clomp to the door.

“I'll have a chocolate chip cone,” I said quickly. “Single scoop, please.”