The Other, Better Me by Antony John

Author:Antony John
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-07-04T16:00:00+00:00

18

Pretty Dresses

Just after three o’clock, I hop off the school bus, run along the worn grass at the edge of the road, and cut into our yard. Momma’s sitting in her rocking chair, waiting for me.

“Lola!” she cries like she hasn’t seen me in weeks. “How was school?”

“Good,” I say.

“What did you do?”

What did I do? I thought about ways to find my daddy. Or stuff about him, anyway. But I don’t think she wants to hear that. “Projects,” I say.

“What kind of projects?”

“Writing assignments.”

“Like the one about your Patronus? You loved that!”

“Yeah, but . . . different.”

“Uh-huh. So what’s this one about?”

“Just stuff.”

She’s giving me a stern look, like she thinks I’m trying to be difficult. Which I’m not.

“Okay, fine,” I say. “It’s called Other Me. We’re supposed to imagine how our life would be if things had turned out differently.”

Momma keeps rocking, but slower. “I imagine there are a lot of things you wish could be different right now.”

Oh no. Momma thinks she is the thing I wish could be different. Sure, I wish she felt well again, but it’s not her fault she’s sick. But now I can’t ask her about the pills she took today, because then she’ll be even more worried. I don’t know what to say, so I run over to give her a hug instead.

“Stop!” she yells.

I freeze.

“You can’t come near me, remember? Not for a week.”

I’m like a statue. Momma is so close, but she’s never felt farther away. And there’s nothing I can do to close the gap.

“Lola,” Ms. Archambault shouts from behind me. “Come have a drink.”

I look over my shoulder. She’s standing on her porch with a glass of something green. I don’t want to drink anything that looks like it came out of a shmorpel, and I don’t want to turn away from Momma. But staying here feels weird too.

“I’m sorry, Lola,” Momma says sadly. “I should’ve gotten checked out sooner.”

“It’s okay, Momma.”

“And I should’ve been honest with you. Except, you’re only ten. You shouldn’t have to . . .” She doesn’t finish the thought, but I think I can fill in the blank: I shouldn’t have to do this alone.

I think she’s right, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Especially not while I’m standing in the middle of the yard. I just need to face it: Momma isn’t my momma this week. She can’t touch me and hold me and comfort me. She can’t snuggle up on the sofa. She can’t even check my homework.

All she can do is count down the days until I return. It’s the same thing I’m doing.

I walk across the yard to Ms. A’s house. She holds the door open and studies me like she’s the judge of a beauty pageant, one eyebrow cocked to show she doesn’t much like what she sees.

“You smell,” she says.

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Reek like a skunk’s behind, you do. Back when I was in television, I had an elephant evacuate right onto my shoes, and it still didn’t smell as bad as you.

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