This Is Me From Now On (5 page)

“And she doesn't even
know
Francesca,” I continued, definitely not relaxing. “I swear, if Mom had any clue what a liar she is—”

“Francesca lies?” Nisha asked. “Really? So it's not just that she steals ice cream?”

I looked at her. Nisha was the most honest person I knew. Too honest, sometimes. Now her eyes were wide and interested.

“She didn't exactly steal it,” I said, sighing. “Anyway, you guys, let's forget about Francesca. What period is Espee?”

Nisha glanced at her schedule. “Sixth. But you're walking with us tomorrow morning, right?”

“Of course I am.”

“Well, good. Because, Evie? That girl is definitely a little
off.”

I can't tell you a whole lot about the rest of that morning because it was basically just one big blob of meeting teachers, getting textbooks, and filling out Learning Style questionnaires that were probably thrown away the second we walked out of the classroom. Most of the Hard Team teachers seemed human (or at least humanoid) and, anyway, at least they didn't make us do any actual work. The only really interesting one was the new Art teacher, Mr. Rafferty, who Lily swore looked exactly like Orlando Bloom if he were ten years older with soul patch and a really bad haircut, but Nisha said she was hallucinating.

I didn't see Francesca very much because they had her doing all sorts of Welcome to Blanton Middle–type activities. But finally, it was sixth period, which meant, drumroll, Espee's U.S. History. And I don't know how this could have happened, but somehow, instead of taking seats the way we always did—LilyEvieNisha—we ended up LilyNishaEvie. So the
very second
I sat down, Francesca slipped into the empty seat to my right. She dumped some loose papers on
the desk, gave me her dazzling smile, then pointed at some writing on the whiteboard

“SPUSH?” she practically shouted. “What's Spush, Evie?”

“It's not Spush, it's SP's U.S. History,” I said. “Stephanie Pierce.”

“Oh, right. Her. I met her at the New Students Breakfast. She's sort of funny, actually. They put out all these yummy pastries, but all
she
had was gallons of black coffee.”

Immediately I saw the entire scene: Francesca taking random bites of fifteen different muffins, while Stephanie Pierce stood behind her, caffeinating herself for the entire school year and thinking,
What is this girl's PROBLEM?

The classroom door opened. “See you later,” Espee called to someone down the hall, then speed-walked into the classroom.

That was when Nisha started humming the Miss Gulch, Wicked Witch of the West music from
The Wizard of Oz
.

“Shut up,” I hissed. “She'll hear you!”

“Evie?” Nisha said. “You okay?”

I nodded. But I didn't look at her. Instead, I was staring at Espee.

Because I'd seen her a bunch of times rushing past in
the hallways. But this was the first time I'd ever seen her
up close
, and after a summer of Lily's fashion magazine, I couldn't decide if this was the weirdest-looking woman I'd ever seen in my life, or the coolest. Aside from the tallness and the skinniness and the random silvery streaks in her almost-black hair, she had pale, un-made-up skin, and light aquamarine eyes. She might have been wearing a sort of intellectual black eyeliner, but she moved around so much, I couldn't get a good look. And her clothes—it was hard to imagine someone waking up for the first day of school and thinking,
Oh, I know. I'll wear my shapeless black pants outfit today.
But you knew she'd been thinking something, because everything about her seemed sharp and focused and on purpose. Even the way she grabbed a blue marker and wrote under the word “SPUSH,” in a very straight,
un-penmanshippy script:

History is a story we tell ourselves

“What do you suppose this means?” she asked suddenly, as if she'd just discovered some kind of important clue

No one answered

Someone in the back of the room coughed

“It means history is a lie,” called out this boy named Brendan Meyers who all of last year never once wore deodorant

“Really?” Espee cocked her head to one side, which made her hair swing excitedly. “Then why study it?”

“Because we have to?” Kayla asked. I didn't look, but from the car alarm sound, I could tell Gaby was giggling.

“Okay, true, but that's the brainless answer,” Espee said, her eyes sparkling. “What if we
didn't
have to? Would we somehow
want
to tell ourselves lies?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Francesca blurted out

“Really? Why do you say that, Francesca?”

So Espee knew her name; not a good sign. On the other hand, she was smiling. You could see she had slightly crooked teeth, which for some reason made her seem younger

And Francesca was smiling back. “Because lies make people feel good. And maybe nobody knows the whole truth, anyway.”

Omigod
, I wrote in teeny-tiny letters on the first page of my Spush notebook.
Francesca is sitting here admitting she's a liar
!!

“Hmm,” Espee said. “Interesting. But don't we have an obligation to figure out the truth?”

“Not if lies make more sense,” Francesca answered cheerfully

She did it again
!!!

“That's just stupid,” Brendan snorted.

“I agree,” Nisha said. “Who cares if a lie makes sense. It's just wrong.”

Espee bowed her head. “Fair enough. But let's avoid words like ‘stupid' and ‘wrong.'”

“Even if you totally disagree with someone?” Nisha argued. She glanced quickly at Lily, who glanced quickly
at me.

“Listen, guys, this is really important,” Espee said firmly. “In this class, there's never just one answer, like in math. There are only
interpretations,
supported by
evidence.
So what about yours?”

I realized she was pressing on my shoulder with a cool, dry hand.

“Mine?” I said.

“Yes, you. Our note taker.”

“Her name is Evie,” Francesca announced. “Evie Webber.”

Nisha kicked me

“Thanks, Francesca,” Espee said. She looked at me as if she was expecting something important.

And then I panicked, because I'd totally lost track of this discussion. I stared blindly at the quote on the whiteboard:
History is a story we tell ourselves.
“Um. Well. I think lies always get found out, even if they
look
like they make sense. I mean, at first. But maybe . . .”

“Yes?”

“I don't think that's what the quote means. It's about stories. And stories are different from lies.”

“How so?” Espee asked, speed-walking away from me. “Are stories true?”

“They don't have to be. But they could be
based
on the truth. They make more sense if they are. In the long run. And, anyway, no one
means
them to be false, so it's like they're bigger than lies.”

Kayla made a face. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Evie.”

“Neither do I,” I admitted. A couple of kids behind me laughed.

But then I said, “Maybe stories just have more sides to them. So they're more complicated than lies. And also more interesting.”

“Hmm. Very thoughtful, Evie,” Espee said. Her eyes sparkled at me from across the room, and I realized I
was blushing. “Well, we'll have to keep thinking about the difference between stories and lies, and why we tell ourselves U.S. history in the first place.”

She reached her strong-skinny arm into a leather briefcase and took out some papers. Then she sat on top of her desk and crossed her legs like she was doing yoga.

“All right, then,” she said, in a campfire sort of voice. “If history is a story, whatever that means, this year let's agree to tell ourselves the best, most fascinating story we can. So we'll be doing very little textbook work. That's the good news.”

“What's the bad?” asked Brendan

Espee smiled. She started passing around the papers

Nisha looked at me and murmured, “Omigod, Evie. She's giving work
already
?”

I didn't answer. I just took a paper and read

Twelve days?”
Nisha screeched as we left the building. “She's giving us twelve puny days for a major research project? That she assigns to us the first day of school? I swear, you guys, that woman definitely
is
a wicked witch.”

“Actually,” Lily said, “I feel kind of sorry for her.”

Nisha laughed in disbelief. “You do? Why?”

“Because she obviously has no life.”

“How can you tell that?” I asked curiously

“Just the way she's so intense about everything. Like she really thinks U.S. history is so important. And interesting. And also the way she looks.”

“Omigod. Her hair. Those
pants,
” Nisha hooted. “Almost goth.
Nerd
goth.”

“There's no such thing as nerd goth,” I said. “Besides, I think she looks sort of cool.”

“Right. And you also like bug jewelry.”

I pretended to ignore that. “Anyway, who cares what she
looks
like? Don't you think she's incredibly un-teachery? I mean, compared to, like, Mr. Womack?” Last year Mr. Womack was our teacher for sixth-grade Social Studies. All he did the whole year were these dorky PowerPoint presentations with the same title:
The Legacy of Ancient Greece, The Legacy of Ancient Rome, The Legacy of Fill in the Blank.

“I still think she's evil, assigning this huge project the very first day,” Nisha grumbled. “And then acting like there's no right or wrong, even if someone is lying.”

Before I could say that I actually didn't think that's what Espee had meant, Lily grabbed my arm. “Look, Evie, is that Zane?” With her non-grabbing hand, she pointed to a clump of jersey-wearing eighth-grade boys on the grass in front of the faculty parking lot.

“Uh, yeah, it is,” I said. I squinted as if he were a tiny, smudgy dot way off in the distance. “I mean, I'm pretty sure.”

Lily grinned. “So why don't you go over and talk to him, then?”

“And say what? ‘One scoop of chocolate chip, please'?”

“No. You could say something like, ‘Hey, Zane. I heard you had Espee last year. Is she actually a wicked witch, or does she just dress like one?'”

I groaned. I mean, I loved Lily, but she kind of thought she was an expert on flirting and dating just because she went to the mall last June with Tyler Corbett. And really, it was barely even a date. Tyler's mom left them at a booth at the IHOP and then went off to shop at Payless, and the only thing Tyler said to Lily
the entire time
was,
Can you please pass the syrup?
So that's what we've called him ever since: Can You Please Pass the Syrup. Of course not to his face

“Oh, leave her alone, Lily,” Nisha said. “Evie doesn't even like Zane, remember?”

“That's not what I said,” I protested. “I said I wasn't sure.”

Nisha grinned at me. “Well, that's not my
interpretation.
Based on the
evidence.”

Pretty soon we were at Nisha's. We'd be going there all the time now, because Mrs. Guptil had convinced Lily's dad to let Lily do homework there in the afternoons rather
than be totally unsupervised in a messy house full of junk food. I was happy for Lily, who I knew sometimes got lonely with no one home all day except Jimmy. But to be honest, I wasn't so sure about this new arrangement, mainly because we'd have to be dealing with Nisha's mom on a daily basis.

“And how was school?” Mrs. Guptil asked, pouncing on us the second we walked in the door. “Did you like all your teachers?”

Nisha opened the refrigerator. “Meh.”

“What does ‘meh' mean? Speak English, Nisha, my darling.”

“They seem okay,” Lily told Mrs. Guptil. Then she turned bright pink. “Especially the art teacher.”

“Oh, yeah, Mr. Rafferty's definitely hot,” Nisha said. “But I'm not so sure about that little soul-patch thingy. It's kind of ‘I'm so cool, I'm not really a grown-up.' Don't you think, Evie?”

Mrs. Guptil made a
tsk
sound. “Nisha, my darling, show some respect for your teacher, please. And shut the refrigerator if you're not taking anything out.”

Nisha grabbed a bunch of green grapes. She popped a couple in her mouth, then offered the rest to Lily and me. “So, Moms,” she said ultra-casually, in a way I knew Mrs. Guptil
hated, “do we still have Great-grandpa's scrapbook?”

“Of course we do,” Mrs. Guptil said. “It's in the attic. Do you think I'd just creep up there one day and toss it in the garbage? It's your
heritage,
Nisha, my darling.” She shook her head at Lily and me. “My daughter is such an American,” she said, sighing

After we finished the grapes and listened to Mrs. Guptil complain about her landscaper, Nisha went up to her attic and came back down to her bedroom with a big leather box. As soon as she opened it, I knew it was incredible. I mean, totally apart from the fact that it was like the whole Attic Project was lying there on her bed, all ready for Step 3, it was just an amazing thing to see: an enormous scrapbook covered in purple silk, with thick cardboardy pages full of faded photos and typed letters and fountain-pen-written notes. All of it was about Nisha's great-grandpa Mohan, who'd been a doctor back in Delhi. He was great at it, Nisha said, but when he came to Baltimore in the twenties, no hospital would hire him because his skin was dark and he had an accent. So he worked as a janitor in the local veterans hospital, and became president of the Baltimore Socialist Party. He sent a million letters and photos back to India, which some relative stuck in a scrapbook. And one day when he was visiting Delhi, the
relative gave him the scrapbook to bring home to Baltimore.