Nothing Like You Read online

  Nothing Like You

  Nothing Like You

  Lauren Strasnick

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  First Simon Pulse hardcover edition October 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Lauren Strasnick

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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  Designed by Mike Rosamilia

  The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Strasnick, Lauren.

  Nothing like you / Lauren Strasnick. — 1st Simon Pulse hardcover ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Six months after her mother’s death, seventeen-year-old Holly finds some happiness in a secret affair with Paul, a boy she barely knows, but after becoming friends with Paul’s girlfriend, Saskia, Holly worries that her best friend,

  Nils, or Saskia will learn the devastating truth.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-8264-7

  [1. Grief—Fiction. 2. Self-esteem—Fiction. 3. Sex—Fiction.

  4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction.

  7. Malibu (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S89787Not 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008050092

  ISBN 978-1-4169-8658-4 (eBook)

  For Mameleh,

  Mummy,

  Caren,

  Cookie,

  Mom.

  I miss you.

  Nothing Like You

  Chapter 1

  We were parked at Point Dume, Paul and I, the two of us tangled together, half dressed, half not. Paul’s car smelled like sea air and stale smoke, and from his rearview hung a yellow and pink plastic lanyard that swayed with the breeze drifting in through the open car window. I hung on to Paul, thinking, I like your face, I love your hands, let’s do this, let’s do this, let’s do this , one arm locked around the back of his head, the other wedged between two scratched-up leather seat cushions, bracing myself against the pain while wondering, idly, if this feels any different when you love the person or when you do it lying down on a bed.

  This was the same beach where I’d spent millions of mornings with my mother, wading around at low tide searching for sea anemone and orange and purple starfish. It had cliffs and crashing waves and seemed like the appropriate place to do something utterly unoriginal, like lose my virginity in the backseat of some guy’s dinged-up, bright red BMW.

  I didn’t really know Paul but that didn’t really matter. There we were, making sappy, sandy memories on the Malibu Shore, fifteen miles from home. It was nine p.m. on a school night. I needed to be back by ten.

  “That was nice,” he said, dragging a hand down the back of my head through my hair.

  “Mm,” I nodded, not really sure what to say back. I hadn’t realized the moment was over, but there it was—our unceremonious end. “It’s getting late, right?” I dragged my jeans over my lap. “Maybe you should take me home?”

  “Yeah, absolutely,” Paul shimmied backward, buttoning his pants. “I’ll get you home.” He wrinkled his nose, smiled, then swung his legs over the armrest and into the driver’s side seat.

  “Thanks,” I said, trying my best to seem casual and upbeat, hiking my underwear and jeans back on, then creeping forward so we were seated side by side.

  “You ready?” he asked, pinching an unlit cigarette between his bottom and top teeth.

  “Sure thing.” I buckled my seat belt and watched Paul run the head of a Zippo against the side seam on his pants, igniting a tiny flame. I turned my head toward the window and pressed my nose against the glass. There, in the not-so-far-off distance, an orange glow lit the sky, gleaming bright. Brushfire.

  “Remind me, again?” He jangled his car keys.

  “Hillside. Off Topanga Canyon.”

  “Right, sorry.” He lit his cigarette and turned the ignition. “I’m shit with directions.”

  Chapter 2

  Topanga was burning.

  Helicopters swarmed overhead dumping water and red glop all over fiery shrubs and mulch. The air tasted sour and chalky and my eyes and throat burned from the blaze. Flaming hills, thick smoke—this used to seriously freak me out. Now, though, I sort of liked it. My whole town tinted orange and smelling like barbecue and burnt pine needles.

  I was standing in my driveway, Harry’s leash wrapped twice around my wrist. We watched the smoke rise and billow behind my house and I thought: This is what nuclear war must look like. Mushroom clouds and raining ash. I bent down, kissed Harry’s dry nose, and scratched hard behind his ears. “One quick walk,” I said. “Just down the hill and back.”

  He barked.

  We sped through the canyon. Past tree swings and chopped wood and old RVs parked on lawns. Past the plank bridge that crosses the dried-out ravine, the Topanga Christian Fellowship with its peeling blue and white sign, the Christian Science Church, the Topanga Equestrian Center with the horses on the hill and the fancy veggie restaurant down below in their shadow. That day, the horses were indoors, shielded from the muddy, smoky air. Harry and I U-turned at the little hippie gift shop attached to the fancy veggie restaurant, and started back up the hill to my house.

  Barely anyone was out on the road. It was dusky out, almost dark, so we ran the rest of the way home. I let Harry off his leash once we’d reached my driveway, then followed him around back to The Shack.

  “Knock, knock,” I said, rattling the flimsy tin door and pushing my way in. Nils was lying on his side reading an old issue of National Geographic. I kicked off my sneakers and dropped Harry’s leash on the ground, flinging myself down next to Nils and onto the open futon.

  “Anything good?” I asked, grabbing the magazine from between his fingertips.

  “Fruit bats,” he said, grabbing it back.

  I shivered and rolled sideways, butting my head against his back.

  “You cold?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Just a chill …”

  He rolled over and looked at me. My eyes settled on his nose: long and straight and reassuring. “You freaked about the fire?” he asked.

  I shrugged.

  “They’ve got it all pretty much contained, you know.’Least last time I checked.”

  I grabbed a pillow off the floor and used it to prop up my head. Harry was sniffing around at my toes, licking and nibbling at my pinkie nail. I laughed.

  “What?” said Nils. “What’s so funny?”

  “Just Harry.” I shook my head.

  “No, come on, what?”

  I grabbed his magazine back. “Fruit bats,” I squealed, holding open the page with the fuzzy flying rodents. �
��I want one, okay? This year, for my birthday.”

  “Sure thing, princess.” He moved closer to me, curling his legs to his chest. “Anything you say.”

  Nils is my oldest friend. My next-door neighbor. This shack has been ours since we were ten. It was my dad’s toolshed for about forty-five minutes—before Nils and I met, and took over. The Shack is its new name, given a ways back on my sixteenth birthday. Years ten through fifteen, we called it Clubhouse. Nils thought The Shack sounded much more grown up. I agree. The Shack has edge.

  “Have you done all your reading for Kiminski’s quiz tomorrow?”

  “No” I said, flipping the page.

  “Where were you last night, anyway? I came by but Jeff said you were out.”

  Jeff is my dad, FYI. “I just went down to the beach for a bit.”

  “Alone?” Nils asked.

  “Yeah, alone,” I lied, dropping Nils’s magazine and flipping onto my side.

  Nils didn’t need to know about Paul Bennett or any other boy in my life. Nils had, at that point, roughly five new girlfriends each week. I’d stopped asking questions.

  “Hols, should we study?”

  “Put on Jethro Tull for two secs. We can study in a bit.” The weeks prior to this Nils and I had spent sorting through my mother’s entire music collection, organizing all her old records, tapes, and CDs into categories on a shelf Jeff had built for The Shack.

  “This song sucks,” shouted Nils over the first few bars of “Aqualung.” I raised one hand high in the air, rocking along while scanning her collection for other tapes we might like.

  “Hols?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your mom had shit taste in music.”

  I squinted. “You so know you love it. Admit it. You love Jethro Tull.”

  “I do. I love Jethro Tull.” He was looking at me. His eyes looked kind of misty. Don’t say it, Nils, please don’t say it. “I miss your mom.” He said it.

  I sat up. “Buck up, little boy. She’s watching us from a happy little cloud in the sky, okay?”

  He tugged at my hair. “How come you never get sad, Holly? I think it’s weird you don’t ever get sad.”

  “I do get sad.” I stood, dusting some dirt off my butt. “Just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

  Chapter 3

  School.

  7:44 a.m. and I was rushing down the hall toward World History with my coffee sloshing everywhere and one lock of sopping wet hair whipping me in the face. I got one “Hey,” and two or three half-smiles from passersby right before sliding into my seat just as the bell went ding ding ding.

  Ms. Stein was set to go with her number two pencil, counting heads, “… sixteen, seventeen … who’s missing? Saskia? You here? Has anyone seen Saskia?” As if on cue, Saskia Van Wyck came racing through the door, clickity-clack in her shiny black flats, plopping down in the empty seat to my left. “I’m here, sorry! I’m right here,” she said, dragging the back of her hand dramatically across her brow. Adorable. I slurped my coffee.

  “Take out your books, people. Let’s read until eight fifteen, then we’ll discuss chapters nine and ten.’Kay?”

  I pulled my book from my bag and glanced to my left.

  Saskia Van Wyck. Paul Bennett’s girlfriend-slash-ex-girlfriend. I barely knew her. I only knew that she was skinny, pretty, marginally popular, and lived in this old adobe house just off the PCH, wedged right in between my favorite Del Taco and the old crappy gas station on Valley View Drive. I’d been there once, in sixth grade, for a birthday party, where no more than four kids showed up, but I remembered things: her turquoise blue bedroom walls. An avocado tree. A naked Barbie and a stuffed brown bear she kept hidden under her twin wrought-iron bed.

  Saskia leaned toward me. “Do you have a highlighter or a pen or something I could borrow?”

  “Yeah, okay.” I reached into the front pocket of my backpack and pulled out a mechanical pencil. “How’s this?” Suddenly I had a flash of that chart they show you in tenth-grade Sex Ed—How STDs Spread: Billy sleeps with Kim who sleeps with Bobby who does it to Saskia who really gives it to Paul who sleeps with Holly, which makes Holly a big whore-y ho-bag who’s slept with the entire school.

  “That’s great,” said Saskia, smiling. “Thanks.”

  I nodded and smiled back.

  •••

  “Holly, move downstage a bit—to your left. And try your line again.”

  “Once more, with feeling,” I deadpanned, closing my eyes and letting my head fall forward. Gosh, I’m so clever.

  I walked downstage and shuffled sideways. “Wait—from where?”

  “Start with: ‘O, the more angel she, / And you the blacker devil!’ And Desdemona, stay down—you’re dead, remember?” Desdemona, or Rachel Bicks, who’d been sitting Indian-style on the stage sucking a Tootsie Pop, rolled her eyes and slinked back down. “Look more dead,” Mr. Ballanoff barked. “Okay. Emilia, Othello. Go.”

  “‘O, the more angel she, / And you the blacker devil!’”

  “There’s the spirit.” Ballanoff turned toward Pete Kennedy, my scene partner, who was standing stage right holding a pillow. “Othello?”

  Pete did his thing, kicking around the stage like an overzealous mummy—he was big into gesturing and, somehow, still, he seemed so stiff. I blah-blahed back, just trying to keep my words straight without flubbing my lines. I don’t think we’d made it through half the scene before Ballanoff was waving his clipboard, recklessly, suddenly , interjecting, “God, both of you, stop, please.” Then, “Holly, god, come’ere.”

  I walked forward. “What? What’s wrong now?”

  “Where’s the fire ? He’s just killed someone you love, he’s calling her a whore—where’s the fire , Holly?”

  I shifted back and forth from leg to leg. “I ate too much at lunch. I’m tired. We only have three more minutes of class left… .”

  He mashed his lips together, exhaling loudly, out his nose.

  Ballanoff is Jeff’s age about, early forties, but I’ve always thought he looked older than my dad until this year when Jeff aged ten years in a blink; going from salt and pepper to stark white in three months.

  “All of you,” Ballanoff shouted, “Learn your lines this week. Please. Work on feeling something other than apathy. Next class I expect changes.” He smiled then, his eyes crinkling. “You can go.”

  I snatched my knapsack off the auditorium floor and lunged for the door.

  “Holly.”

  “Yes?” I whipped around.

  “Help me carry this stuff, will you?”

  I trudged back down the aisle, grabbing a stack of books off a chair. Ballanoff took the other stack and together we walked out the theater doors, toward his office.

  “How’s your dad?” he asked, balancing his papers and books between his hands and chin.

  “Fine. The same.”

  Ballanoff knew my mom in high school. They once sang a duet together from Brigadoon.

  “How’s Nancy?” I asked. Ballanoff’s wife.

  “Good, thanks.” He unlocked his office door, kicked an empty cardboard box halfway across the room, then dumped the pile of books onto his cluttered desk.

  I set my stack down on the floor next to the door. All four corners of his office were crammed with crooked piles of books, plays, and wrinkled papers. A tiny, blue recycling bin shoved against the wall was filled to its brim with empty diet Snapple bottles.

  Ballanoff sighed, walked over to the mini fridge, and took out an iced tea. “I expect more from you.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “It wouldn’t kill you to get a little angry, or to feel something real for a change.” He paused for a bit, then said, “How are you, anyways?”

  “Dreamy.”

  “That good, huh?” He collapsed into his black pleather desk chair, swiveling from side to side.

  “Oh, yeah. Pep rallies and bonfires galore. Senior year really lives up to the fantasy.”

&
nbsp; He laughed, which made me happy, momentarily. “What about you?” I asked.

  “What about me?”

  “You know. How’s life in the teachers’ lounge?”

  “Oh, hey.” He took a long pull off his diet iced tea. “Same old shit, year after year.”

  I flashed my teeth. “I love it when you swear.”

  “I should watch it, right? Before Harper finds out and fires me for teaching curse words alongside Othello.” Harper. Our principal.

  “It’s true. Look out. You’re a danger, Mr. B.”

  “I should hope so.” He slid two fingers over the lip of his wood desk. “Thanks for your help, Holly.”