Girl on the Other Side (11 page)

“Um … could you pass me some paper please?” I whisper, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “I'm all out in here.”

I hear the sound of rolling, then a short rip and then a thin, freckled hand appears under the stall with a wad of paper.

“Here,” says the voice with a sniff.

“Thanks.”

I wipe my nose and frown. Even her hand is familiar. Who is this girl? Should I ask? Does she know who
I
am?

“You don't sound too happy, either,” says the voice softly. “Are
you
all right?

She sounds concerned. For a moment I actually consider telling her some of my problems. After all, it sounds like she could probably understand. I lean my head up against the stall and try to figure out which part I should start with. My messed-up parents? The incriminating email I leaked? Being the most hated kid in school?

But before I can do that, the first bell rings. I glance at my watch and see that it's time to go back to class. With a final wipe of my eyes, I undo the lock and swing the door open at the exact same time as my cry-buddy does. We turn to face each other and my stomach does a somersault. I can't help letting out a small scream of shock when I see who it is.

Oh.

My.

God!

Lora

Oh my God!

It's Tabby Freeman! I'd been opening up my heart and soul to the head piranha! I hear my own pulse pounding in my ears as we stand there, staring at each other in astonishment. Predator facing prey. I swallow a hard lump in my throat, close my eyes and steel myself for the inevitable verbal attack.

“Oh, um … hi,” she says.

My eyes fly open.

That's it? Hi??

I'm so stunned, I can't even think of a reply. So I don't say anything at all.

“I didn't know it was you … um,
Lora
,” she says.

My face burns when I hear her say my name. We've known each other since kindergarten and that was definitely a first. I can tell from the hesitation in her words that she had to stop herself from saying Frog-face.

“Well, um …” She shuffles her feet and looks wistfully at the door. It's clear she wants to go. My skin itches with her desperation.

“Are you going to be okay now?” she asks, looking back at me.

I shrug and stare down at my feet.

What do you care?
I think.
Just go!

Suddenly Tabby's hand is on my arm. The warmth of her touch slices through my shirt and burns the skin beneath. I look up and see her round cat's eyes staring deeply into my own.

“
Are
you?” she asks again. Her question is sincere.

I shake my head and answer as honestly as I can.

“I don't think so.”

She takes a long breath.

“Listen, Lora, don't let the bastards grind you down. Stand up for yourself. If they see that you're a fighter, they won't be so hard on you.”

My chin drops down and smacks into my neck. I don't know what's shocked me more … having Tabby Freeman offer me advice or hearing her quote a line from a Margaret Atwood novel? The funny thing is that Madison's been telling me the same thing for months now. But somehow, having one of my tormentors say it makes the point all that more clear.

“So? Do you think you can you do that?” she asks.

I shrug my shoulders and change the subject.

“What about you?” I say. “Are
you
going to be okay?”

She drops my arm and takes a small step back. For the briefest of moments, her face opens up and I can see her vulnerability fly across her features. And then it's gone — like a tiny hole in a thick layer of cloud that flashes a glimpse of blue before sealing up the sky again.

“Of course,” she says after a small pause. “I'll land on my feet … I always do.”

But she's too late to convince me. I've already seen the doubt in her eyes.

The words are still hanging in the air when the second bell goes off, ripping through the tiled bathroom with a piercing screech. This strange little confession-session is over.

As Tabby turns to leave, I can see the tear-soaked, wadded-up toilet paper still clutched in her hand. I watch her walk away and I wonder where she learned how to lie so well.

But then I remember about her parents.

June 3

tabby

Sam is barking. Chasing rabbits in his dreams again.

“Go back to sleep, boy,” I mumble, rolling over in my bed. It's late. Or maybe it's early … the room is too black to tell. Sam barks again and suddenly I smell the smoke. I lift my head and open my eyes. Even through the darkness, I can make out the thin, grey haze that is filling the room. Panic grips my chest as my dreams fall away and reality closes in.

“Fire! Fire!” I shriek to no one in particular, bolting upright in bed. Desperately, I begin feeling around the covers for Sam. After a few seconds, I find him standing beside my bed, still whining and barking for me to get up. He hadn't been dreaming about rabbits after all — the smell of smoke must have woken him up. I pull him into my arms and kiss his floppy ears.

“Thank you, Sam, you smart dog! I'm awake now, it's okay. We've got to get out of here, boy!” I say. Holding him by the collar, I slide out of bed, stagger to my bedroom door and grab the knob. The metal is hot.

I yank the sleeve of my pajamas down over my hand like a mitt, turn the knob, and fling the door open. Immediately a big, grey cloud of smoke flies at my face, stinging my eyes and filling my mouth with the taste of burning house.

Oh God! This is really bad!
I think, squeezing my eyes shut to keep the smoke out. Dropping Sam's collar, I cover my mouth with my hands to keep myself from breathing the toxic air that's rushing into my bedroom. But it doesn't work. A moment later I'm doubled over in a violent coughing fit. Scared, Sam crouches down onto the floor and starts to whine and bark again. He might be old and lazy, but he's smart enough to know that something is terribly wrong. As I cough, I rack my panicked brain, trying to remember what I'd been taught to do in a fire.

Stop, drop, and roll … is that right? No, that's if your clothes are on fire. But wait … dropping sounds good. Doesn't smoke rise? I look down at Sam who is flattening himself out on the floor beside me and covering his nose with his paws. I fall down to my stomach next to him and try to breathe. My coughing eases up a bit. Yes, the air is definitely a bit better down here.

“Come on, boy, follow me,” I yell at Sam. On our tummies, we start making our way down the smoke-filled hallway. I crawl in front while Sam creeps behind. All the while, my mind is pounding with questions.

How did this happen?

Why aren't the fire alarms going off?

Where are my parents?

Oh no … where's Nanny?

The air is so thick with smoke that I can't see where I'm going. My eyes are burning and my lungs are screaming with every breath. Another coughing fit seizes my body and I curl up into a ball, gasping for air until it passes. I open my eyes and try to look through the haze, but I can't see anything. I keep crawling toward my parents' room, checking every couple of seconds to make sure Sam is still with me. My whole chest feels like it's burning up. I cough so much, I have to stop again. I try to catch my breath, but it's like fighting a losing battle. I struggle to get air into my lungs. I see the flames just as I reach the top of the stairs. They're climbing up the living room curtains, licking at the ceiling, swallowing Catherine's prize Biedermeier couches whole. Most of the main floor is on fire! How are we going to get out?

Shutting my eyes to block the smoke, I blindly grope my way in the direction of my parents' room. When I get to their door, I push it open and scream as loud as my smoke-filled lungs will allow:

“Mom? Dad? Are you here? The house is on fire!”

Before the answer comes, I collapse into another coughing fit. This one is so bad, it feels like it will never stop. Sam grabs my pajamas between his teeth and pulls, trying to keep me going. But I'm drowning from the smoke. Every breath is a struggle.

Giving up, Sam creeps over and licks my face. I reach up and stroke his ears. A cloud of little stars explodes in front of my eyes.

Suddenly, I hear someone else coughing beside me and feel a pair of strong hands lift my body up from under my arms. I peer through the smoke and the stars to see who it is, but before I can make out a face everything suddenly goes black.

Lora

Daddy is waiting in the car when I come out of the mall. I wave to him sheepishly through the windshield, hoping he's not upset. By the time we finished cleaning up the coffee shop after tonight's poetry reading, it was way past midnight.

“Hi, sorry I'm late,” I say, jumping into the front.

“Aw, s'okay,” he replies, leaning his large frame toward me for a kiss. Without a word of reproach, he turns the key and we wait while the engine coughs and chokes like a cat working out a hairball.

Our family car is a big, forest-green minivan with a dented front bumper. My parents bought it fifteen years ago when they found out they were expecting me. They always wanted a big family and their plan was to keep having kids until every seat in the car was filled. They almost got there, too … and then Mommy got sick.

Daddy says that our old car is tougher than any of the new cars on the market today. But it shakes and rattles like there's rocks under the hood and I know it's only a matter of time before it conks out on us for good.

Dear God, when that happens, I don't know what we'll do.

After a few more coughs, the engine turns over. I breathe a silent sigh of relief as Daddy puts it into gear and we pull away from the parking lot.

“So, did you get to read your poem tonight?”

“I did,” I confess with a shy smile. It actually took me all night to work up the courage to do it. When I was done, the entire coffee shop rose to their feet and applauded. There were only about twenty people there but it was overwhelming and exhilarating and terrifying and amazing all at the same time. Maybe I'll be a poet instead. Or maybe I'll do both — a zoologist/poet.

“And I think they liked it,” I add. “I guess it's ready to hand in now.”

Daddy looks away from the road for a quick second and raises his eyebrows at me.

“So does that mean I'm going to get a chance to hear it one of these days?”

“Um … maybe,” I reply, twirling my hair around my finger. “But I don't know if it's your taste … it's a bit sad.”

Hoping the subject will end, I turn my face toward the window and stare out into the night. Why is it so much easier to bare your soul to strangers than to the people closest to you? It's late and the streets are almost deserted. Through the darkness, I can just make out the outline of a big, grey cloud of smoke rising up above the rooftops. There's no mistaking what it is. I jab my finger against the glass and yell:

“Look! There's a fire!”

Daddy ducks his head down to get a better view of the smoke and lets out his signature monotone whistle.

“You're right … and it's a big one.”

Without even a second's hesitation, he turns the car in the direction of the rising cloud.

I turn to look at him in surprise.

“Are we going?”

“Of course we're going.”

“But … but you don't have any of your equipment here,” I start to protest. “And Mommy's waiting for us at home. Can't we just call the department and let them handle it?”

Daddy doesn't answer and his silence speaks for itself. I know every instinct in his body is compelling him to follow that dark cloud. He drives toward it, completely ignoring the speed limit. After all his years of firefighting, Daddy must have developed a sixth sense for smoke because it only takes him a few minutes to find the source.

When I get my first look at the blazing building, my heart plunges into my stomach. It's a huge house, three stories tall and set far back from the road across a massive, landscaped lawn. The entire front part of the building is engulfed in flames.

Daddy parks our car across the road from the house, digs his cellphone out of his pocket and immediately calls 911.

“This is Lieutenant Froggett,” he barks into the phone. “There's a fire at 45 Thurston Road and I need backup. Send every available engine now!”

Tossing the phone onto the dashboard, he throws open the door and unfolds his big body from the car with impressive speed. I lean across the seat and yell after him through the open door:

“Wait, Daddy! What are you doing?”

But of course, he doesn't listen.

“Stay there!” he commands over his shoulder as he runs up the grass toward the house. Before he reaches the front door, it bursts open and three pajama-clad people appear through a cloud of black smoke. A blonde woman and a dark-haired man carrying a girl in his arms all stagger away from the burning house, across the lawn to the safety of the street. A little beagle follows closely behind the family. As they get closer, I recognize the girl in the man's arms.

It's Tabby Freeman!

I watch in horror as the man lays her down on the grass right next to the sidewalk. Her eyes are closed, her body is limp, and it looks like she's unconscious. The blonde woman is screaming so loudly that I can hear her from the car.

“Darling, wake up! Please! Somebody help! Help my daughter!”

Daddy reaches them and I can see him loosen her clothing and begin AR. Ignoring Daddy's instructions, I jump out of the car and run toward them. My knees are shaking so hard, I worry they'll give out. But, as terrified as I am, I have to go.

As I approach I can see that the blonde woman is sobbing and clutching onto the man, whose face is scraped and bleeding down his neck. Even though they're both sooty-skinned and dishevelled, I recognize David and Catherine Freeman from their pictures in the newspaper. They look very different — he's grown a beard since the scandal broke and she looks much younger without all the glossy makeup.