Girl on the Other Side
Girl on the Other Side
Deborah Kerbel
Girl on the Other Side
a novel
Copyright © Ponytail Productions Ltd., 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Edited by Shannon Whibbs
Designed by Courtney Horner
Printed and bound in Canada by Webcom
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Kerbel, Deborah
       Girl on the other side / by Deborah Kerbel.
ISBN 978-1-55488-443-8
       I. Title.
PS8621.E75G57 2009 Â Â jC813'.6Â Â C2009-903258-9
We acknowledge the support of the
Canada Council for the Arts
and the
Ontario Arts Council
for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the
Government of Canada
through the
Book Publishing Industry Development Program
and
The Association for the Export of Canadian Books
, and the
Government of Ontario
through the
Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program
, and the
Ontario Media Development Corporation
.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and Bound in Canada.
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For my Mom
Who fought back hard and never lost her smile
Contents
Tuesday, May 23 â 12:09 p.m.
Tuesday, May 23 â 12:21 p.m.
Tuesday, May 23 â 12:09 p.m.
tabby
The toilet flushes beside me. A loud, liquid sucking sound rises up from the stall and echoes off the green tiled walls of the girls' bathroom. I peek under the door and watch as a beat-up pair of sandals trudges across the floor toward the sink. Then suddenly they're gone.
Without even washing her hands! Ew!
I'm alone again. I breathe a deep sigh of relief, trying not to take any air in through my nose. The smells in this place are nauseating â a mix of cheap soap, bleach, and pee. I feel like I might be sick. Shifting my weight on the hard plastic seat, I check my watch for the hundredth time. Still twenty minutes left of lunch period. My butt is getting numb from sitting for so long. But I can't go back out there. Not after what they've been saying about me.
The door creaks open. A moment later, a different pair of shoes appear in the stall beside me. These ones are cleaner, newer, trendier.
These ones will wash their hands
, I think to myself.
The sound of a zipper, a shuffling of clothes, followed by â¦
I cover my ears so I won't have to find out and swallow the sharp acid taste that's suddenly on my tongue.
Gross!
I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth.
The girls' bathroom is a disgusting place to hang out. But trust me, you'd do the same if you were in my shoes. Which, by the way, are pretty fantastic.
Kind of like how I
used
to be.
Suddenly, a pair of dirty sneakers flies across the green tiles and lands in the stall directly to my left. The door crashes shut and the sound of sobbing fills my ears. I lean down and examine the shoes beside me for clues as the crying quickly rises into an ear-splitting moan.
Lora
Thank God ⦠school hasn't been so bad lately. Not since they found someone new to pick on. Still, I'm careful to keep under the radar. At lunchtime, I choose an empty table in a quiet corner of the cafeteria and eat quickly, hoping to avoid trouble. But halfway through my sandwich it starts.
“Hey, Frog-face!”
I freeze mid-chew.
Please leave me alone
, I think, sitting perfectly still. You might not know this, but bullies are like dogs â they'll chase you harder if you run.
“Did you hear me?”
Gulping the lump of cheese and bread down, I hold my breath and pretend I don't hear ⦠pretend it doesn't hurt. But of course, it does. You'd think I'd be used to the teasing by now â it's been happening ever since first grade. My eyes dart around the perimeter of the cafeteria, searching for a teacher. But there's nobody in sight.
“Hey, show some manners â we're talking to you!” another voice calls.
I begin to quietly wrap the rest of my sandwich up, all the while imagining myself inside an invisible bubble â a magic force field where their words can't penetrate.
But out of my peripheral vision I see a group of tough-looking boys walking toward my table. Their smiles send chills up my spine. I don't know these boys personally, but I know their type all too well. Rough, rude, and vicious â like pit bulls, the meanest dogs of all. I ball up the remains of my lunch and jump to my feet. Instinct has taken over my body â dogs or no dogs, it's time to start running! But the boys are too fast. They grab me by the shoulders and push me back down onto the hard wooden bench.
“Jake just wants to see if he's a prince,” they laugh, as they push me down farther. Down, down, until the back of my head smacks against the crummy, sticky cafeteria floor with a painful
thud
. Tiny pinpricks of light float in front of my eyes.
“Stop! Let go!” I gasp. But they don't listen. They don't even hear me. Two of them hold my arms while the third one sits on my stomach. My half-eaten sandwich rises up in my throat. If only I could projectile-vomit on command.
“Do it! Do it!” the two at my arms shout at the third. Terrified, I watch as the guy they call Jake closes his eyes, leans forward and smashes his lips down onto mine. His eyes are squeezed so tightly shut it looks like he's in pain â like he's the one being attacked instead of me. A second later it's over. Releasing my arms, they stand up and walk away, leaving me lying there on the dirty floor like a piece of trash.
“Damn, that's the last time I lose a bet to you guys,” the pit bull named Jake says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His friends laugh and punch each other in the arms.
The world around me blurs as I pull myself to my feet and dash out of the cafeteria. Dozens of laughing faces whiz by me as I run.
“Croak ⦠croak ⦠croak ⦔ sing the chorus of teen-fiends at my back.
I stagger to the girls' bathroom and lock myself in the last stall. Burying my face in my hands, I begin to sob so hard I can barely catch my breath. My life's mantra escapes from my mouth in a low, soggy moan:
I hate them ⦠I hate them ⦠I hate them ⦠I hate them â¦
After a couple of minutes, I grab some toilet paper and mop up my face. Trying to calm myself down in time for my next class, I inhale deeply and imagine myself far away from this place. It's the only thing that gives me any comfort â the idea that one day soon, this will all be over.
A light tapping at the right side of the stall interrupts my thoughts.
“Um ⦠hello? You okay in there?” whispers a voice.
Okay, wait. I think we need to rewind a couple of months â¦
tabby
They hang on my every word ⦠follow me around like a pack of eager puppies ⦠treat me like some sort of rock star. Right now they're watching me eat. I take a bite of my yogurt. Their eyes follow the spoon as it travels to my mouth. Wait and see, tomorrow they'll all bring low-fat raspberry yogurt for lunch. Just like me.
It's always been this way. When you belong to the richest family in town, people treat you like you're something special. Sometimes, I believe it, too. But other times I want to yell at them. Call them idiots. Nanny Beth would call them sheep â that's probably a better word.
Leave me alone!
I feel like shouting. But instead I just smile and look cool â as usual. I take another bite of my yogurt, enjoying the smooth sweetness in my mouth for a few extra seconds before swallowing, then push the half-eaten container away and reach for my carrot sticks.
“Aren't you going to finish that?” asks Brandi, eyeing the yogurt. Annoyed, I nibble on my carrot and ignore her. For God's sake, she's known me long enough to know the answer to that question. No matter what I'm eating or how hungry I am, I always leave part of my meal untouched â it's one of the “food rules” Catherine insists on. Another one of her rules is that our cupboards are only filled with healthy, low-fat, low-carb choices. Catherine's put Nanny under strict orders not to let me eat any junk food. Because, God forbid her daughter be anything but model-thin. It sounds harsh, but I've been eating this way for so long now, I don't know how to stop â even when I'm at school and Catherine's nowhere nearby.
By the way, in case you're wondering, Catherine is my mother. I've been using her first name for years.
“The word âMommy' makes me feel so old and stuffy, darling,” she'd said. It was the night of my sixth birthday when she was tucking me into bed. A rare event.
“And anyway, I'm more of a friend than a parent, right?”
I remember the way her eyes stole over to her reflection in my mirrored closet doors while she waited for my reply. I'd said “yes” quickly, because I knew that's what she wanted me to do. After she'd left my room, I cried a bit at losing my “Mommy,” but not as much as you'd think. She was never much of one anyway.
