This Is Me From Now On Page 5

  “Of course not. Lily’s at your house, anyway. So yeah, it makes perfect sense.”

  “We’ll switch for the next assignment, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. But I was thinking: Lily will still be at your house for the next assignment. And probably for all the assignments the entire rest of the year. So how will it ever “make sense” to partner up with me?

  Now Lily was patting my arm. “Thanks for being so great about this, Evie. So who do you think you’ll work with?”

  I swallowed. “I don’t know.”

  “Ask Brendan Meyers,” Nisha said.

  I made a face.

  “What’s wrong with him? He’s using deodorant now; he’s fine.”

  “Well, maybe he doesn’t smell, Nisha, but he has all this extra spit. And every time he talks—”

  “Okay, whatever. We’re trying to eat here. How about Katie Finberg?”

  “She’s very nice.” I sighed.

  “But?”

  “But I don’t know. Don’t you think she’s a little too perfect-perfect?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gaby sit down with Kayla and Zane.

  Lily shrugged. “Maybe. But don’t you want someone who works incredibly hard?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I said, crumpling my Sun Chips bag to drown out Gaby’s horrible laugh. “And she might be the best person left. Anyway, I’ll think about it, you guys.”

  “Great,” Nisha replied, smiling at us both like everything was all decided.

  In the hallway outside her classroom, Espee was talking to Mr. Rafferty. As soon as he saw me he said something in her ear, then walked away, grinning.

  She swung her hair at me. “What’s up, Evie?” she asked in a friendly voice.

  So I told her what had happened, how I needed a partner. “I was thinking maybe Katie Finberg,” I added. “If she’s free.”

  “Unfortunately, I believe Katie’s working with Brendan Meyers. And you know, most of the pairs are set by now.” She smiled, her pale aquamarine eyes lighting up. “What about Francesca Pattison?”

  “You mean as a partner?”

  “Well, she’s looking for one, and just this morning she asked me about you. Why? Is there a problem with Francesca?”

  I shook my head. No problems at all, unless you counted the fact that the girl was a total liar. And wore weird costumes. And ran in front of sprinklers. “Isn’t there anybody else?” I asked hopefully.

  “Not that I know of,” Espee replied, with a little frown in her voice. “This is seventh grade, Evie; I’m not going to figure this out for you. You’re welcome to ask around, but I’ll need to know by the end of today.”

  Then she turned around and speed-walked into the classroom. If she had come right out and called me babyish, the way Mom had yesterday at breakfast, it wouldn’t have felt any worse.

  “Hi, Evie, did you get my phone messages yesterday?” Francesca asked the second I sat down.

  “Yes. Sorry. I’ve just been really busy,” I said, opening my Spush notebook.

  “Me too. But I was calling about the Attic Project. I have this staggering old diary. From the San Francisco Earthquake!”

  Nisha kicked me.

  “You do?” I said, kicking her back.

  “From my great-great-aunt Angelica Beaumont. She was sixteen when it happened, utterly gorgeous and fabulously rich, and absolutely everybody was in love with her.”

  “Kind of like Paris Hilton?” Nisha asked innocently.

  Francesca laughed. “Oh no, not at all. She was an artist. And an intellectual. And I believe a suffragette.”

  “A what?” Lily said, leaning over.

  “Woman who fought for the right to vote,” I told her.

  “Cool,” Lily said, glancing at Nisha.

  Francesca nodded proudly. “She was all alone in her mansion when the earthquake hit. Almost everything she owned was completely destroyed, but she never stopped writing in her diary. Even with all the chandeliers swaying.”

  “Awesome,” said Nisha, trying not to laugh. “I mean, truthfully, Francesca, it almost sounds unbelievable.”

  “I know,” Francesca said. “I’m blessed just to have it.”

  Nisha rolled her eyes at me.

  Right at that moment Espee started talking, and so class officially started. And I know this sounds exactly like that scene in every horror movie, where the heroine is about to walk into the haunted house, and you’re yelling at the screen, JUST DON’T. JUST WALK AWAY, YOU IDIOT, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE. And I swear, I completely understood that the sane thing to do at that point would have been to say, So sorry, Francesca. I’ve already made plans, have fun with your diary, and leave it at that.

  But I thought about walking around the Spush classroom, begging unclaimed people to “partner up” on a Mystery Box. I thought about Nisha telling me who I was supposed to work with, and then making fun of Francesca for wanting to. I thought about Francesca eating lunch by herself, and how horrible I’d been for avoiding her, not even returning her phone calls, slipping out of the house super-early this morning so I could walk to school in private with Nisha and Lily.

  Oh, and I thought about something else, too: the way she’d called me boring yesterday because I wouldn’t go in the sprinkler. She was right; I was boring. My entire life was boring. And whatever else it was, this was a chance to make it unboring.

  So I waited for Espee to be writing some long philosophical quote on the whiteboard. Then I leaned over to Francesca and whispered, “That diary sounds great. Of course I’ll work with you.”

  She gave me her dazzling smile. “Oh, I knew you would,” she said.

  chapter 6

  You’re WHAT?” Nisha shrieked. We were at the lockers, where, like, the entire seventh grade was hanging out before dismissal.

  “Katie Finberg was taken,” I whispered. “And Francesca needed a partner.”

  “So why is that your problem?”

  “It’s not. But she has that diary—”

  “If she has that diary. Evie, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re making a huge mistake.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked, pretending to fight with my jacket zipper.

  “Oh, come on, Evie,” Lily murmured. “You said you didn’t trust her. Isn’t there anybody else?”

  “Not really. Espee said—”

  “Hey, Evie, are you ready to go?” Suddenly Francesca was standing at my locker. She was wearing a rainbow-tie-dyed poncho, a purple miniskirt, and black tights with little silver stars on them. Oh yes, and cowboy boots. It was maybe the weirdest outfit I’d seen her in so far, and my eyes couldn’t figure out where to focus.

  “Um, Evie?” Nisha was saying in a strangely loud voice. “Did you forget what you just told me?”

  “What?”

  “You know,” she said, her eyes shooting message-beams. “That doctor appointment thingy. That you just remembered was this afternoon.”

  I stared back at her. “Oh, yeah,” I muttered. “The doctor appointment. Actually, Nisha, I rescheduled that.”

  “Are you sure you should have?”

  “Uh-huh. Definitely.”

  “Because you were feeling so sick before. Weren’t you?”

  Okay, this was going way too far. Nisha was only trying to rescue me, obviously, and I knew I should have been grateful. But was she going to stand here and insist that I dump Francesca in front of everyone? And also act like I couldn’t make a decision for myself? “Well, I’m fine now,” I said firmly. “So stop worrying about me.”

  And then, with probably the whole school gawking at us, plus Nisha and Lily whispering and frowning, I left the building with Francesca Pattison.

  As soon as we were outside, I wanted to get down to business, ask about the “staggering old diary” and also about her great-great-aunt’s incredibly unboring life. But before I could even open my mouth, Francesca said something that almost made me choke on my Bubblelicious: “Okay, Evie, so tell me all
about Zane.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Zane. Your boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” I spat my blobby gum into a tissue, then stuffed the tissue into my jeans pocket.

  “But I told you, I’m psychic about these things.” Francesca was smiling. “And I can tell you’re madly in love with him.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Okay, let me put it this way: You have a massive passionate crush. But you don’t have the slightest idea what to do about it. Am I getting warmer?”

  I felt my cheeks burning. “Okay. Um, no offense, Francesca, but it’s kind of none of your business. Can we please just talk about Angelica Beaumont?”

  “Of course! If Zane is a painful subject, let’s absolutely talk about Angelica.” She did the heart attack thing. “Don’t you adore her name, Evie? Although I wonder what her friends called her. Maybe Angie. Or Angel.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “How would I?”

  “You have the diary, right?”

  “In my hands? Oh, no, Evie, my great-grandmother does.”

  “Who?”

  “Angelica’s baby sister Isabel. In San Francisco.”

  I blinked. “Well, so how are we going to get it, then?”

  “We’ll write to her. This afternoon.”

  “Shouldn’t we call? Wouldn’t that be faster?”

  “Well, yes, but Isabel doesn’t hear well on the phone. Believe me, I’ve tried, and so has Aunt Sam. It’s utterly hopeless.”

  “What about e-mail?”

  “She’s ninety-four years old, Evie. I sincerely doubt she e-mails.”

  A few minutes later we were standing in front of our two houses. A teeny frantic voice in my head was whispering: JUST GO HOME, EVIE. IT’S NOT TOO LATE FOR A MYSTERY BOX, EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO WORK ALL BY YOURSELF. But I told the voice to shut up; I was going to do this thing with Francesca. Starting now.

  “We could write the letter at my house,” I offered, not very enthusiastically. “As long as we’re super-quiet. Grace has an SAT tutor this afternoon.”

  “On the second day of school?” Francesca said. “Help, how alarming. Let’s just go to Aunt Sam’s.”

  “Is she home?”

  “Yes, I think so. Wait, hold it, she’s in the city this afternoon, auditioning for a soap. Reading for the part of the vixen scientist. Isn’t that hilarious?” She turned her key in the door. “Topaz? Tourmaline? Hey, little girls, I’m home.”

  I expected two miniature poodles with pedicures and poofy haircuts to come yapping over to greet her, but the house stayed dark and quiet. So then Francesca pulled off her poncho, kicked off her cowboy boots, and turned on every light in the entry. Way down the front hall I spotted something lumpish and gray, like a dusty old bedroom slipper. Suddenly it hopped away.

  “Topaz!” Francesca cried. “Have you been chewing up the rugs again?”

  “Was that a rabbit?” I practically shrieked.

  She nodded, laughing. “Aunt Sam’s true loves. Other than gorgeous Tristan, but alas, he broke her heart.”

  “Wait. Wait. Her heart was broken by a rabbit?”

  “What? No, Evie, don’t be an imbecile. Tristan Royce is an actor. Was. In the play that just ended.” Francesca walked into the living room, which had huge, cream-colored pillows, and CDs, all over the floor, and the heavy leftover wine-and-perfume smell of Samantha’s party. One corner of the coffee-colored rug was in shreds; Francesca got on her knees and tied the wool strands into little knots, then tucked them underneath.

  “So, anyway,” she continued calmly, as if covering up for rabbit vandalism was something she did all the time, “now they’re both looking for new acting jobs. And new relationships, too. It’s all so deeply tragic, don’t you think? Oh well, c’est la vie. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.” All I’d had for lunch was Sun Chips, and I’d barely eaten those. I followed Francesca into the stainless-steel kitchen, which looked shiny and empty, as if it had been used maybe a total of three times. She opened the enormous fridge.

  “Take what you want,” she said, waving her hand. “We’re absolutely loaded from the party. None of those actors ever eat anything, so we’ll be living off this junk forever.”

  I looked inside. Someone—was it Samantha?—had crammed in all the leftovers without wrapping anything, so it was like this one big cheese puff/sushi/guacamole/salsa/ shish-kebob stew. Plus in the way back of the fridge there were huge Glad bags of lettuce leaves, which I guessed was what Topaz and Tourmaline ate when they weren’t gorging on wool.

  “Uh, thanks. Maybe later,” I said.

  Francesca looked disappointed. Then suddenly her eyes widened. “I know,” she said.

  She opened the freezer and pulled out five quarts of I Scream—Triple Fudge Marshmallow Chunk, Golden Brownie with Caramel Fudge Ripple, Peanut Butter Chip Cookie Dough, plus two others with the labels peeled off—and then grabbed two spoons.

  I stared in shock. “More party food?”

  “Oh, no. Actors don’t eat ice cream. Well, actually, Aunt Sam sneak-eats it late at night when she thinks I’m asleep. Here.” She handed me a spoon. “So does Grace sneak-eat?”

  “Grace? Of course not. She’s way too self-disciplined.”

  “Oh, I bet she does, Evie. To work off all that academic stress. What about your mom?”

  I laughed. “Never.”

  She pulled off all five lids and licked the insides. “Veggie burgers and salad every night for dinner, right? God, you must be so sick of it.”

  “Well, sometimes,” I admitted. “But of course it’s good for you. I mean, you’re supposed to eat that way, right?”

  “I guess.” She screwed up her face. “But I really just detest all those bloody rules.”

  I dipped my spoon into the Triple Fudge Marshmallow Chunk: just the perfect temperature, slightly melty, but not soup. “Was that why you left your old school?” I asked casually.

  “Because of the food? Don’t be silly.” She took a gigantic spoonful of Unlabeled. Then she grinned at me. “Evie,” she said. “Here’s a burning question: Do you think Espee sneak-eats?”

  I laughed so hard, a gob of marshmallow went up my nose. “What?”

  “Because I’m positive she does. Here’s my theory: I think she’s desperately lonely, but she throws herself into her work. And then late at night when she simply can’t bear to confront her romantic yearnings, she eats a pint of—what is this? Dark Chocolate Snickers Truffle.”

  “Are you psychotic? Where did you get that from?”

  “I’m psychic. Not psychotic, Evie. Slight difference.” She 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.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m convinced,” she practically whispered, “that she’s passionately in love with Mr. Rafferty.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Yesterday I saw them chatting in the main office. And I saw them right before dismissal today, in the hall outside her classroom. She was gazing into his eyes as if her soul was on fire. Or don’t you believe me?”

  “I believe you,” I said, laughing. “I just think you’re crazy.”

  “Why?” She raised one eyebrow. “Just because she’s cool and deep and intellectual, you think she’s incapable of crushing on the one truly gorgeous male in the entire school?”

  “That’s not what I meant! And frankly, I don’
t even want to be thinking about this!”

  She pointed her spoon at me. “Okay. I’ve figured out your problem, Evie. You’re terrified of your own romantic imagination.” Then she tossed the spoon into the sink. “And that’s why you’re so paralyzed about Zane.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll shut up now. See? Lipstotallysealed. Can’teventalk. Omigod.” She jumped up. “I forgot about the vitamins.”

  She ran out of the kitchen without even putting the ice cream back in the freezer. I had no idea what was going on, but I guessed that, since she got rid of her spoon, she was done eating. So I put the lids back on the pints and lined them up on the middle freezer shelf. Then I walked out into the living room.

  Which was empty.

  chapter 7

  Uh, Francesca?” I called. “Hello?”

  No answer. From somewhere I could hear the air conditioner rumble on, like a huge lion snoring. It made the house seem bigger. And emptier.

  “FRANCESCA?” I called again.

  “Shhhh,” she answered from over my head.

  I looked up. She was standing on the second-floor landing holding a tiny bottle of something. “Come upstairs,” she whispered. “Qui-et-ly.”

  I kicked off my sandals and climbed the stairs. Just as I got to the top, she suddenly lunged. “GOT YOU,” she shouted, grabbing a white puffy bedroom slipper.

  Only it wasn’t—it was a rabbit. The other one. Tourmaline.

  She squirted something from a little dropper into the rabbit’s mouth. Then she opened her arms and it hopped frantically down the hallway.

  “One down,” she said, grinning at me. “Now for Topaz. Oh, Tooo-paaaz,” she sang in an Elmer Fudd sort of voice. “Come and get your din-din.”

  Laughing our heads off, we tiptoed from room to room, searching for the dustball-colored, rug-chewing little beast. I realized that while I was wabbit-hunting, I was also getting an up-close tour of Samantha Pattison’s house, and it shocked me how normal it was: just a bunch of sand-colored guest bedrooms no one seemed to be actually using. It occurred to me that one of those rooms belonged to Francesca, but really, they were all so blank, you couldn’t even tell which one.

  Finally Francesca sighed. “She’s probably in Aunt Sam’s boudoir. Which is strictly off limits to rodents, but Topaz is kind of a free spirit. Are your feet clean?”