This Is Me From Now On Read online

  Francesca stuck her spoon in the Triple Fudge Marshmallow Chunk. “Don’t you wonder about her? I do. Because she’s obviously a deep person. So I can’t imagine all she cares about is teaching boring U.S. History to boring seventh graders. Especially in Blanton.”

  “Hey, Blanton’s not so bad,” I protested.

  She ignored that. “You’ve seen those posters on her walls. She’s traveled all over the world. So why is she wasting her life here? Unless,” she added dramatically, “she has some dark, romantic secret.”

  “Like what?”

  She leaned forward, breathing chocolate in my face. “I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell anyone else.”

  OTHER BOOKS BY BARBARA DEE

  JUST ANOTHER DAY IN MY INSANELY REAL LIFE

  SOLVING ZOE

  This is me

  from now on

  BARBARA DEE

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALADDIN M!X

  Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

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  First Aladdin M!X edition April 2010

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 2010 by Barbara Dee

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

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  Designed by Ann Zeak

  The text of this book was set in Lomba Book.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  0310 OFF

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Library of Congress Control Number 2009928150

  ISBN 978-1-4169-9414-5

  ISBN 978-1-4169-9923-2 (eBook)

  For Chris, with love

  Acknowledgments

  Heartfelt thanks to my agent, Jill Grinberg, for taking such good care of this book right from the beginning. A majillion thank-yous to my editor, Liesa Abrams, for connecting so strongly with the characters and with me. I’m incredibly lucky to be working with you both.

  Thanks also to Karen Wojtyla for putting me on the right track with the first draft, and to Frances O’Roark Dowell for making sure I didn’t derail. Helen Silberblatt, thanks so much for all your freelance publicizing—but really for the precious gift of your friendship.

  Infinite gratitude to my husband, Chris, for reading every word of every draft, and for making every word possible.

  As always, thanks to my mom and dad for endless love and support. And to Alex, Josh, and Lizzy, thanks for . . . aw shucks, just being you.

  chapter 1

  Sometimes your life just needs a little jolt.

  That’s what Francesca told me once, and she was right. I mean, she was wrong about practically everything, but she was right about that. Because the more I think about it, the more I look back at all the chaos that happened last fall, it’s almost like she rescued me.

  Okay, okay. I know that sounds incredibly melodramatic. And I know that mainly she messed things up. Really, really badly, in fact

  But let me put it this way: The Thursday late last summer when I first met Francesca Pattison is the last boring day I can remember. I’d spent most of the morning Mother’s Helping and most of the afternoon in my best friend Lily’s bedroom, eating Pringles (which I didn’t even like) and taking personality quizzes from this enormous stack of magazines that Lily had borrowed from her cousin in New Jersey. “Was I Due for a Hot New Makeover?” Well, maybe. Maybe not. “Was I You Ready for a Steady?” Definitely no. Not even close

  The room was totally sweltering, because Lily’s dad didn’t believe in air-conditioning (“for the environment,” he said, but to be honest I think he was just cheap). And the rotating fan was making this fwish-fwish-fwish noise that was starting to make me woozy.

  Nisha, my other best friend, opened a magazine. “Here’s one, Evie,” she said. ‘Are You Crushed by a Crush?’”

  “Did that one,” I said, yawning

  “And are you?”

  “What? Of course not.”

  “What about your crush on Zane?” Lily asked, smiling.

  “Gah. I don’t even know if I like him anymore.”

  “Oh, right,” Nisha said. “We totally believe you, Evie. So how about this one: ‘Feel Bad About That Bod?’”

  “Also did,” I said. “And I happen to feel great about my bod. In fact, I love my bod, I worship my bod.”

  Nisha rolled her eyes. She’d been bathing suit shopping with me a million times that summer, so she knew exactly how I felt about my flat chest and bony elbows. Not to mention my blobby nose and used-to-be-blonder hair. “What about ‘Cheat Sheet: Rate Your Talent for Trickery.’”

  “Actually, I think I missed that one. Ask me it, okay?”

  Nisha read out loud: “‘You’re committed to Saturday night with your BFFs, but the new hottie asks you to the movies. You (a) ask the hottie if your BFFs can join you; (b) tell your BFFs your cousin’s in town; (c) call your BFFs at the last minute and say you’ve come down with the flu—’”

  She stopped. “Eww, this is disgusting. I’d hate any girl who acted like this.”

  “Me too,” Lily said. She leaned across my legs and tickled her smelly old dog, Jimmy, whose giant paws were twitching in his sleep. “So two-faced.”

  “But what’s wrong with ‘a’?” I asked curiously

  “What’s wrong with it?” Nisha repeated. “Evie, ‘a’ would be totally wimping out on your friends.”

  “Even if they were invited along?”

  “They wouldn’t want to be ‘invited along.’ You were supposed to be going out with them. See the word ‘committed’?”

  “Hey, don’t attack me, Nisha. I’m just saying—”

  “You’re saying some boy would be more important than your best friends since preschool? Well, thanks a lot, Evie. At least we know where we’d stand.” Nisha’s black eyes flashed, the way they do whenever she’s mad. But then all of a sudden she grinned at me. “Just kidding,” she said, sticking out her tongue

  So Lily threw a magazine at her.

  I stood up then and brushed off the Pringle bits that were sticking to my legs. “Okay, you guys. This has been oodles of fun, but I think I’m going home now.”

  “But it’s only three thirty,” Lily protested.

  “Yeah, but I’m tired. And summer’s almost over, and we’re just sitting here wasting time with these old magazines.”

  Lily’s eyes looked hurt. “So what would you rather be doing?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Something crazy and
different. And fun.”

  Nisha closed her magazine. “You know what, Evie? I think the heat’s melting your brain. Why don’t you take a long, cold shower, and tomorrow we’ll go buy school supplies.”

  “ School supplies? Nisha, that’s not my idea of—”

  “And afterward we’ll go bungee jumping. And hot-air ballooning.”

  Lily laughed. “Don’t forget white-water rafting.”

  “Okay, stop,” I said. “Really.”

  “And then we’ll go visit Zane,” Nisha added. She winked at Lily like it was all decided

  I groaned at that. You have to understand that I loved my friends, even though they knew exactly how to annoy me. Nisha was an expert in teasing and also organizing my life; Lily was an expert in calming me down, even when I didn’t want to be calmed down. They also knew how to make me laugh and keep me sane, but right now what I really needed was to get out of that sweaty bedroom

  So I left.

  The second I was outside on the baking asphalt, I was thinking: Well, Evie, that was smart. In a few days the three of us would be in total Back-to-School mode, like summer never even happened. I’d left Lily’s to do what? Take a ten-minute shower? And then what was supposed to happen the whole rest of the afternoon

  At least my own house was freezingly air-conditioned. As soon as I opened the front door, I took a deep breath of that dead-cold air and felt the sweat ice up on my legs. Then I took off my flip-flops and walked into the living room, which was always the nippiest room in the house.

  Francesca Pattison was sitting in what Mom calls the loveseat. I didn’t really focus on her at first—I was too busy staring at her aunt Samantha. It was one of the few times I’d seen Samantha Pattison in daylight. Mostly my sister and I had just peeked at her late at night slamming the door of a black BMW convertible, and then clattering up her driveway in noisy, high-heeled shoes. None of us could figure out why a thirty-fivish woman with no kids and an obviously amazing social life would choose to live in our nice but extremely nonamazing subdivision. Samantha Pattison was something to talk about when we needed a topic at the dinner table.

  And now here she was sipping Diet Snapple with my mom, looking normal and suburban in a yellow flowered sundress and sandals. “So grateful,” I heard her saying as I plopped into a squishy armchair

  “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

  What’s your take on Francesca’s shoes

  (a) Soooo tacky— What was she thinking?

  (b) Soooo babyish— Is she channeling Cinderella?

  (c) Soooo weird— Do they wear those things on Neptune?

  (d) Soooo hot— I wonder if they’d fit me!

  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.