The Other Side of Imani

By Lisa Springer

A story about finding your voice alongside your real self, The Other Side of Imani is a heartfelt, fresh, and powerful middle grade contemporary debut that’s perfect for fans of Front Desk, That Girl Lay Lay, and Just Right Jillian.

Ever since she could remember, thirteen-year-old Imani has wanted to be a fashion designer.

But fashion designers are bold, out-there, and in your face. And despite her unique sense of style, Imani has trouble fitting in, let alone standing out. Entering her new school’s design competition for a scholarship to the nearby arts high school seems like the perfect way to make new friends and get closer to her dream of being a designer.

Then Imani’s designs are stolen by one of her classmates, and Imani is forced to enter the competition anonymously, under a virtual persona of her own creation—“Estelle.” When Estelle then goes viral, Imani must figure out how to be her “real” self as she finds her true friends and her voice... all while hoping to win the competition.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Jul 29, 2025
• ISBN: 9780063288805

Lisa Springer

Lisa Springer is a writer from Barbados living in New York with her family. When she’s not writing, she’s probably reading, dreaming about the beach, or plotting her next twisty novel. Visit her online at lisaspringerbooks.com.

Book preview

1

The smells coming from Dad’s food truck pull a huge crowd. The line snakes through the mass of people gathered at the West Indian Day Parade, also known as Brooklyn’s biggest street party. It’s a celebration of Caribbean culture, and Dad’s food truck is parked at the end of the parade route in Grand Army Plaza. It stands out with its new orange and lime-green paint job, kind of like the colorful outfits everyone here’s dressed in for the occasion. The name Calypso Grill is drawn in large, easy-to-read letters, and the largest Barbados flag I’ve ever seen flies from the roof, representing Dad’s island home.

Working at Calypso Grill makes me wonder what it would’ve been like if our family had moved to Barbados instead of Brooklyn. Man, it’s like a hundred degrees inside the food truck. I’m mixing a batch of Dad’s special coleslaw dressing as fast as I can and trying not to make a mess. The shredded cabbage in the bowl reminds me of ruffled tulle fabric, which gives me an idea for new design. I set the dressing aside, grab a handful of cabbage, and arrange the thin slices into the shape of a skirt on a cutting board. Next, I position some shredded carrot into the shape of a top. I like the way the orange stands out against the cabbage’s pale green. I’m itching to capture this visual in my sketchbook that I take with me everywhere because you never know when inspiration will strike.

Imani, where’s the vinaigrette? Mom calls. Her eyes dart from me down to the mess of cabbage and carrot on the cutting board, and she makes that clicking noise with her tongue. She’s ready to lay into me, but there’s a customer in the way. He’s wearing an oversized headpiece of red feathers, waiting for his order of curry chicken tacos, and Mom is all about being professional in front of customers, so the lecture will have to wait. I give the salad dressing another quick whip and hand it off to her. She flashes the customer a reassuring smile before pouring it over the coleslaw.

Dad, there’s a red light on the credit card machine! my younger brother, Jesse, calls out in a panic.

Dad glances up from his position in front of the grill. His eyebrows push together into a thick wriggly line. Use the tablet, he says, not flustered.

Jesse can’t find it (because he doesn’t know how to look for anything), so I rush to help him while my older sister, Lyric, drops a fresh batch of chicken into the deep fryer. The line stretches even longer now, but if there’s one thing I’ve noticed since moving to New York from California, it’s that as impatient as New Yorkers are, they will line up for food.

Customers shuffle away with containers of freshly fried fish cakes, beef roti, cornmeal cou-cou with snapper, macaroni pie, and grilled chicken, and also with the smell of the Calypso Grill baked into their clothing. Cou-cou is the national dish of Barbados, and it’s made from cornmeal in a similar way to how Ghanaians prepare fufu, a delicacy of cassava and plantain that is served with meat or fish sauce.

The crowd is a sea of colorful costumes with magnificent headpieces crafted with bright feathers, satin, beads, and glitter. So. Much. Glitter. Last summer, on our family vacation to Barbados, Dad took me to one of the Kadooment band houses where the festival costumes are made. That’s where I learned that masquerading is a true art form, and how much goes into costume design and construction. High fashion, or what blogs call haute couture, is a lot like costume design, where the goal isn’t wearable fashion but movable art.

Dad uncovers a container of chopped onions, and my eyes immediately fill with tears. Bathroom break, I say, blinking fast.

I grab my sketch pad and pencil case from the top of a stack of boxes and hop out of the food truck. But instead of heading to one of the portable toilets that the parade has set up, I get comfortable on a nearby patch of grass and flip the pad open to a new page. Jesse finds me a few minutes later and gets comfy on the grass, leaning back and propping himself up with his elbows. He doesn’t bother me or say anything. I’m in the zone. And he’s here to just hang around. My pencil glides across the page in even strokes, forming the silhouette of a short flared dress. I’m capturing the movement and color on the page. I’m picturing rich purple and pink wax-printed fabric, with puffy sleeves and . . .

Imani! Mom calls. My hand jerks, causing me to make a nasty scrawl down the page. I need you and Jesse on the mango salad.

Jesse shoots up like a rocket, giving me the perfect cover to grab and pack away my coloring pencils. Mom adjusts her yellow-and-blue head wrap while giving us a look that’s sharper than any of Dad’s knives on the food truck.

I head back to the truck, excited about all my new ideas for designs inspired by the parade. Mom gives me a knowing look but doesn’t say anything about me and Jesse sneaking off. Instead, she just slides a tall stack of clear take-out bowls on the counter in front of me and I get to work, filling them with measured spoonfuls of yummy mango salad. We work in sync, with Jesse whistling along to a soca tune blasting from one of the large music trucks.

Lyric tosses a sample bottle of Dad’s special hot sauce, Chef’s Firestarter, into each food order before handing it to its eager customer. I silently wish them luck because the hot sauce is a mix of Scotch bonnet peppers and different kinds of chilies, hot enough to burn a hole in your tongue.

Dad’s food truck business, Calypso Grill, is the reason we’re all in New York City to begin with. After getting major exposure at a food truck festival in California, Dad moved the entire family from our home in South LA all the way across the country to New York to take up new opportunities for his business. We packed up our lives in cardboard boxes and a bunch of large checked woven plastic bags that Mom calls Ghana Must Go bags and moved across the country. Mom said that back in the eighties, her family, like the million other Ghanaians who’d immigrated to Nigeria, was forced to leave and return to Ghana. They packed their things into these big, sturdy bags and headed back to their homeland to start over. It’s kind of sad when you think about it, but it’s a reminder of how strong those people were and that we can make a new home here in Brooklyn too. Mom says Ghana Must Go bags aren’t just for carrying things; they’re for holding memories and heritage. She told us the story (the same one me, Jesse, and Lyric have heard a thousand times) about how when she moved to America from Ghana as a girl, one of those bags carried her most valuable things.

While Dad is pursuing his dream to bring Caribbean cuisine to New York City, I’m getting to live mine too, because New York is the fashion capital of the world and has some of the best fashion schools, and the most fashion swag. I’ve always dreamed about living in the Big Apple. Just not when I’m about to start eighth grade. In exactly two days, I’ll be going to a new school where I know absolutely no one. Am I freaking out? Totally.

Soca music pumps from nearby music trucks, and the crowd dances, waving flags and bandannas from all over the Caribbean. Jesse and I take in the large floats with steel pan bands and dancing masqueraders, but it’s the costumes I love most. I’m giddy from the blur of colors blending around me.

Mom bops along to the upbeat music. I know the bright colors and joy and celebration remind her of Ghana. Mom’s closet is a playground of tie-dyes, batiks, and prints. My designs are always vibrant, and I like to think that this love of bright colors comes from both my Caribbean and West African heritage.

There’s a story behind each costume, Dad says, putting the finishing touches on his popular chicken salad with mango dressing. Remember that time we went to Barbados for Crop Over?

I nod. We had a blast at the annual festival. Mom and Dad even joined a costume band and were in a section called Abracadabra and danced in the streets wearing purple-and-silver costumes with matching black magician hats and wands.

What about him? Jesse asks. He points at a man covered head to toe in glistening black paint, wearing goat horns and partying with a pitchfork.

Ahh, the Jab Jab, Dad says thoughtfully. In Grenada, the Jab Jab was the celebration of enslaved people in historic times. After slavery ended, it continued, but as a celebration of freedom, survival, and resilience.

Lyric raises her phone and snaps a few photos that I’m sure will end up in one of her social justice projects. A woman in the crowd nabs my attention. She’s wearing the prettiest costume I’ve ever seen. It’s a long, wide emerald-green skirt with frills cascading to the ground. Shells and bright jewels decorate her halter top. Her elaborate headpiece has long, extended feathers that swing from her head like tentacles as she dances. I’m not the only one fixated. Onlookers pause to admire the costume, paying compliments and asking for selfies.

She’s a Carnival Queen, I say, more to myself than anyone. On a fashion runway, the dress could easily be couture, a hybrid of theater and dance. Joy and light. The result of imagination and art. This is what I love about fashion: You can become someone else, even if only for a short time.

I can’t wait to play mas, Lyric says wistfully. She rinses out the containers used to store the chopped tomato and red onions. I can definitely see Lyric playing in a masquerade band and being the center of attention, but I’d rather be behind the scenes helping out with the costumes.

The lady disappears into the thick crowd, her green tentacles swirling through the air waving goodbye. I’m struck with an idea, and I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.

Lyric, I say with sudden urgency. The plastic container slips out of her hand and hits the sudsy water with a splash before disappearing at the bottom of the sink. Lyric groans.

I’ve got the perfect outfit for the first day of school, I gush.

Octopus arms on your head? Jesse asks. He’s positioned himself by the pastries, and I’ve lost count of the number of slices of coconut bread he’s already eaten.

Lyric rolls her eyes. "Okay, so is this the fourth or fifth perfect outfit?"

I’m feeling inspired, I say, waving her off. If I want to be taken seriously as a fashion designer, I need to look the part. Bedazzled jeans, I announce.

Okaay, sounds . . . colorful, Lyric says, nodding. She’s always supportive, even if she doesn’t get where I’m coming from.

I’m going for a pop of color without standing out too much, I say.

Jesse snorts. You’ll be the New Girl. You’re gonna stand out.

This would be so much better if I had time to make my own outfit, I say.

My old sewing machine has been acting up lately. I’ve been saving all my chores money for the Runway 9000, a computerized sewing machine that is everything I’ve ever wanted.

I refocus my attention on my sketchbook, not wanting to think about starting at a new school in two days. I should be thinking about the logo Dad asked me to design for his Chef Firestarter hot sauce. So far, I have a page of doodles but nothing worth sharing yet. Normally I don’t mind helping out on the food truck, but I’ve got an entire fashion line idea inspired by the parade that I can’t wait to dump onto the page.

School is gonna be great, Imani, Lyric says. Even though she’ll be the new girl at her high school, Lyric isn’t bothered in the least.

I don’t need a reminder that I’ll be the odd one out. The one with no friends because everyone is already part of a clique. As if sensing my silent distress, Mom hugs me to her.

You’ll make new friends, she says.

A knot tightens in my chest. It’s been two months since we moved to New York and I haven’t made a single friend. Jesse made friends with Andrew, a kid who lives across the street, the same day we moved into the apartment. Lyric doesn’t even have to try to make friends—people naturally want to talk to her. The only kids I’ve met (more like mumbled hello to) are the ones who stopped by the Calypso Grill with their parents and were so head down in their phones that they barely noticed me.

Just be yourself, Imani, Dad says, grinning, and you’ll find your people.

Or they’ll find you, Mom adds.

The pressure in my chest releases as I take a deep breath. I really hope they’re right.

2

Every face in the schoolyard swings my way when Dad pulls up to the school gate in the Calypso Grill to drop us off. Dad wasn’t entertaining any discussion about us walking the four short blocks to school. So much for not wanting to stand out too much when I’m getting out of an orange-and-neon-green food truck. The morning sunlight bounces off the truck’s freshly polished chrome bumpers and dances across the pavement.

A weight drops in my stomach and my earlier confidence in my outfit disappears. Covering a pair of my favorite jeans with rhinestone hearts and butterflies seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I’m not so sure. I worked for hours on the design, sketching out the patterns on the legs and front pockets. I used my hot-glue gun with surgical precision, positioning each jewel in the perfect place for a bedazzled finish. I toned down the look with a simple white crop top with white and silver sequins, but now I feel officially overglitzed.

Do I smell like curry and onions? I whisper to Jesse. Under no condition will I sniff myself in front of everyone, but the Calypso Grill has a way of leaving its scent on you.

Jesse crinkles his nose. Nope.

Have a good day, Dad says. He hugs me, and I close my eyes and suck in a breath. I’m going to need all the luck today.

I’ll see you later, Mom says, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. Jesse ducks away before Mom can reach him, and she laughs.

See you at lunch, I say. I’m still not sure how I feel about Mom’s new job as the school’s lunch lady. If she starts cooing over my food in front of everyone, I’ll die of embarrassment.

Mom and Dad walk back to the Calypso Grill, and I wait until it drives away and clears the intersection. I wouldn’t put it past Dad to pull over to the side of the road in front of the school and serve up