by Marilyn Kaye
And on the next page:
"Dear Diary, I went to swimming class today. We are learning how to dive. It's fun."
Tracey definitely sounded like an ordinary person in her diary, Amanda thought. This was all so normal--it was boring. She wasn't going to learn anything interesting here. She closed the notebook and tossed it onto the floor.
Of course, it didn't really matter. Amanda was completely confident that she'd be out of this dismal prison cell in the morning, so it wasn't as if she really
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needed to know the girl well. She paused in front of the mirror and forced herself to take another look at Tracey.
This mirror can't be very clean, she thought. The reflected image seemed blurry to her. Which was just as well, she supposed, taking into consideration how awful Tracey looked.
Suddenly an idea hit her, and she almost smiled for the first time that day. She'd thought of a way to occupy her time and actually do a good deed while she was here. (Not that good deeds were a habit with her, but she figured she might be rewarded for it by positive forces and get out of Tracey's body even sooner.)
There was something very significant that she could do for this poor girl--she could make Tracey look better! Now, this day, while she had control of Tracey's body, she could get the girl a decent haircut, some cool clothes, lip-gloss, and maybe some bronzer to brighten up her drab complexion. She'd be helping herself, too--if Tracey wasn't so pathetic, Amanda wouldn't have to worry about feeling sorry for her and finding herself in this situation again.
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She already knew that Tracey wasn't carrying any money, and she hadn't found any in her search of the room, but from the look of the house Amanda could see that the family wasn't poor. She headed off to find Tracey's mother.
She found her in a room that she hadn't seen earlier--a cozy den with a TV. Mrs. Devon was sitting on the sofa, talking on the phone as she leafed through what looked like a clothing catalog.
"Lila, these things are so cute!" she squealed. "My girls are going to look adorable this winter. I'm going to order the little pink matching hats and mittens
If this had been her own home, Amanda would have just interrupted, but here she waited for a pause in the conversation, tapping her foot impatiently, so she could break in. She had to decide how she was going to address the woman anyway. She had no idea what Tracey called her. Mom? Mommy? Mother?
"Go ahead and answer the door, Lila--I'll hold on," Mrs. Devon said, and Amanda took a chance.
"Mom?"
There was no response as the woman turned the
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page of the catalog.
"Mommy?" Amanda said. "Mother?"
The woman lifted her head and looked at Amanda blankly. "Did you say something?"
"I was just wondering--could we go shopping?"
"What? Go where?"
"Shopping. Like, we could go to the mall."
Mrs. Devon responded as if Amanda had suggested a trip to the moon. "The mall?"
"Yeah. Not the big one on the highway--the other one, across from Meadowbrook ..." Amanda's voice trailed off as Mrs. Devon's expression went from puzzlement to disbelief to something very close to anger.
"Are you insane? Have you lost your mind? Don't be ridiculous! I don't have time to go shopping. I have seven children upstairs!"
It was on the tip of Amanda's tongue to say, "You have eight children," but Mrs. Devon's friend had returned to the phone.
"Yes, Lila, I'm here. I just have to run to the drugstore to pick up the girls' vitamins. Of course we could have coffee. I've got the mother's helper
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here and the girls are napping. Okay, see you in ten minutes."
Amanda was stunned. As Mrs. Devon hung up the phone, she glared at the woman. "You've got time to meet your friend, but you can't take me shopping?"
But Mrs. Devon walked right past her like she wasn't even there.
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Chapter Six
JENNA DIDN'T PARTICULARLY LIKE any I day of the week, but she really hated I Wednesdays. Every Wednesday, after her last class, she had to visit the school counselor.
This was a requirement that the judge had imposed when Jenna had been released after a month in reform school. If she skipped the meetings, the counselor would report her to the judge and the judge could send her back to that place, where many of the kids were even tougher than she was.
She rapped on Mr. Gonzalez's door and waited for his cheerful, booming voice to call, "Come in!" As usual, he was sitting on his desk instead of behind it.
"Hiya, Jenna!" he said with a smile.
It was very difficult for her not to smile back. She actually kind of sort of liked Mr. Gonzalez, but she couldn't let him know that. So she just muttered
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something that sounded like an unenthusiastic greeting and took her usual seat.
"How are you doing?" Mr. Gonzalez asked.
"Okay," Jenna mumbled.
"Just okay? Come on, give me something more interesting than that. Fabulous, excited, miserable, angry--anything's better than just okay."
"I'm a little tired," she admitted.
"Why is that? Are you having trouble sleeping?"
It was the perfect opportunity to go into her pose. "Nah, I was out late last night. Hanging with my crew." She liked that word, crew. She'd picked it up from a TV show, and it sounded so much cooler than gang.
Mr. Gonzalez frowned slightly. "Jenna, you know you have a curfew. You're supposed to be back at home by ten o'clock at night."
She'd forgotten that, and it was another requirement handed down by the judge. Hastily, she amended her statement. "Well, I wasn't exactly out. The crew was at my place."
"Did your mother approve of that?"
"Um, she didn't know. She was out."
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"I see," Mr. Gonzalez said. He picked up a pen and jotted something down in the notebook that was open on his desk. Jenna stiffened.
"She wasn't out all night or anything like that," she said. "She was home before eleven."
"And she let your friends stay?"
Jenna thought quickly. "Uh, she didn't know they were there. They were in my room and the door was closed."
Was he buying it? She searched his mind and saw that it was cloudy with doubts. She had to move the conversation along, so she improvised. "Um, one of the guys in my crew, he, uh, offered me some drugs, but I said no. And I made him leave," she added.
"That's good," he said. "Were you tempted to take the drugs?"
"Oh, no," Jenna assured him. "I never touch drugs anymore." Actually, she'd never even tried drugs, but it was one of the reasons she'd been arrested six months ago--she'd been with people who were high. She didn't mind people thinking that she'd been into drugs at one time. It was good for her bad reputation.
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To her relief, the topic of conversation shifted to classes and grades--much safer subjects for Jenna. Not that she was doing brilliantly, but she'd managed to keep her performance at slightly below average, doing just well enough to keep her from getting reported to anyone official. She didn't want to do any better than that--it wouldn't be good for her image.
Thank goodness Mr. Gonzalez couldn't read her mind. While she pretended to listen as he talked about how bright she was and how she could do so much better and maybe get a scholarship to a university someday, her thoughts hovered around the real events of the night before.
She hadn't been with her "crew." She really didn't have a crew, unless she counted the sad bunch she sometimes lingered with around the train station, when anything was better than being in her own house.
She'd actually been at home the evening before, with plans to watch a couple of things on TV and then go to bed. But her mother had arrived home with friends, they'd put on some music and started dancing, and there was no way Jenna could have slept
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through that in a tiny apartment. They must have been drinking,
too, because her mother had gotten sick and Jenna had had to clean it up.
So it really hadn't been her fault that she hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, but she couldn't tell Mr. Gonzalez the real story. If the judge knew how her mother was behaving, that just might be another reason to send Jenna away.
It was funny, in a way. She thought the others in her so-called gifted class had crummy lives--lives completely unlike hers. Only every now and then, she had to admit that her life sucked, too.
But there was no way she'd ever let anyone else know that.
Amanda had nothing to do. She'd finished Tracey's homework and she'd even made Tracey's bed (which was something she rarely did with her own bed at home). She wondered if there were chores that Tracey was supposed to do, like set the table for dinner. She supposed she could ask Lizzie, the mother's helper. On the other hand, she didn't particularly feel like talking to the teenager, who was
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always scolding her for eating something that belonged to the septuplets.
Amanda picked up Tracey's diary from the floor. This time she opened it to the middle. From the date, she could see that it was two years after the last entry she'd read. Tracey would have been ten. There was only one line on the page.
"Dear Diary, Sometimes I hate them."
Hate whom? The kids at school? So why didn't Tracey do anything about it? Frustrated, Amanda tossed the notebook back onto the floor.
Maybe there was something on TV. She went back downstairs to the little room where she'd spotted a television set. But the Devon Seven were up from their naps, and they were now gathered in that room with Lizzie, sitting on the rug and watching some dumb kiddie show.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, and one of the seven actually looked at her. "Hi, Tracey."
Amanda had a feeling it was the same one who had noticed her that morning, but she couldn't be sure. And what did it matter--they weren't her sisters. So she didn't even bother to respond to the kid.
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On the bookshelf, she saw something that looked like a photo album. She picked it up and sat down on the little sofa with it.
The first few pages contained very old photos, black and white, of people in old-fashioned clothes. She thought they might be Tracey's grandparents or great-grandparents. In any case, they weren't very interesting. She kept turning pages until she spotted someone she recognized--Mrs. Devon as a young teenager, maybe 13. At least, she assumed it was Mrs. Devon because she looked a little like Tracey. Or the way Tracey might look if she wasn't so awful.
The girl in the photo was thin, but Amanda would have described her as slender, not scrawny. And she was blond, but her hair was chin length, short, and bouncy, not hanging in flat, stringy clumps. She had pale blue eyes like Tracey's, but they were bright, not watery. There were freckles on her face, too, but they looked cute. And she had the same thin lips, but they were rosy pink and stretched into a smile. Amanda couldn't remember ever seeing Tracey's mile. Maybe at that eighth birthday party ...
Young Mrs. Devon was wearing some cute
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clothes, too. Even though the photo had to be, like, 30 years old, the miniskirt she wore would have even looked okay today, though Amanda wasn't so sure about the white boots.
She turned the page. There were more photos of Mrs. Devon, becoming more and more recognizable as she grew older. There was a copy of the same wedding picture Amanda had seen on the wall in the living room. And a couple of pages later, the same couple stood in a similar pose, but this time Mrs. Devon was holding a baby.
The baby must have been Tracey, Amanda realized. She examined the picture closely. Well, Tracey had obviously been born normal--she looked like any other baby, cute and plump, and her parents seemed very happy to have her.
There were more pictures of Tracey on the following pages--Tracey in adorable little-girl ruffled and smocked dresses, Tracey wearing a swimsuit and sitting in a wading pool, Tracey on her father's shoulders. In almost every photo, Tracey was smiling or laughing, her eyes crinkling. On the next page, Amanda saw a first-day-of-school photo--
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there was one almost exactly like it in the Beeson family album, and it seemed to Amanda that little Tracey was carrying the same pink Hello Kitty backpack that little Amanda carried in her picture.
Then she came to a photo that made her gasp. It was Tracey's eighth birthday party, with all the guests at the table and Tracey in the center. Amanda saw herself, and she recognized her friends Sophie and Nina, who had been in the same second-grade class with Tracey, too. That wasn't such a shock--at that age, all the girls in a class were invited to one another's birthday parties. What really blew her mind was the way she and Sophie had their arms around Tracey, as if they were actually friends! It seemed completely natural, too, since Tracey looked just as cute and happy as the rest of them.
Mrs. Devon also was in the picture, standing behind Tracey, and it was clear from the size of her that she was hugely pregnant. That was the year the Devon Seven were born, Amanda remembered.
On the next page, there were no pictures of Tracey at all.
Practically every picture in the rest of the album
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portrayed the septuplets--together, individually, sometimes with the parents. Occasionally there was a glimpse of Tracey, but her image was always half hidden or blurred.
From the kitchen came the sound of pots and pans clattering, and Amanda guessed that Mrs. Devon must have come home. A moment later, she heard the woman's voice.
"Lizzie! Could you help me with dinner?"
Lizzie left the room, and Amanda wondered if she should help, too. But Mrs. Devon hadn't called for her ... Tracey?
This time Amanda was almost sure that the septuplet who had just spoken was the same one who had spoken to her that morning. "What?"
"Can you read us a story?"
Now seven little faces were looking at her expectantly. Amanda had to admit that they were pretty cute. But before she could respond to the request, she heard the front door open, and a man's voice called out, "I'm home!"
The Devon Seven jumped up and ran out of the
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room. Cries of "Daddy! Daddy!" filled the air. Slowly, Amanda got up and went into the hallway, where she could see what was happening in the living room.
"Here are my girls!" Mr. Devon sang out as he made silly efforts to gather all the children in his arms. "Hello, Sandie, Mandie, Randie, Kandie, Brandie, Tandie, and Vandie!" The septuplets were giggling like crazy as, one at a time, he lifted the girls up into the air. He didn't seem to see Tracey in the hallway, and he didn't ask for her either.
That was when Amanda knew whom Tracey sometimes hated. Her little sisters. Once they were born, Tracey was pushed aside and nobody paid any attention to her.
"Dinner's ready," Mrs. Devon called. Her husband and the Devon Seven took off in that direction.
Amanda followed, but she wondered as she went if there'd even be a place set for Tracey.
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Chapter Seven
AMANDA WAS THE FIRST to arrive in the gifted class the next day, and she'd hurried there on purpose. This was probably the only
place at Meadowbrook where she would get any attention--positive attention, that is. In gym class, the girl with her face claimed to have seen a bug crawl out of Tracey's hair. Which hadn't been true, of course. But Amanda-Tracey hadn't been able to laugh or contradict her. It was strange--her other self was getting on her nerves! Why couldn't Amanda just ignore Tracey like everyone else?
But this was the least of her problems at the moment. She was still in the state of disbelief that she'd woken up to that morning. When she'd realized she was still Tracey Devon, a full 24 hours later, she'd been engulfed by panic. Was it possible that this was a permanent situation? She couldn't bear to even
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contemplate the notion. It just couldn't be---this couldn't happen to her. Somehow, she'd find a way out of this b
ody.
Madame greeted her with a smile--the first smile that had been aimed in her direction all day. "Tracey, you're here two days in a row! That's great!"
Again, Amanda was puzzled by the enthusiastic response to her appearance. Was Tracey out that much? She remembered homeroom the day before, when roll had been taken. That teacher had acted surprised to find her there. None of her other teachers made a big deal about it--but then, none of the other teachers took attendance. Those teachers probably didn't even notice if Tracey was there or not.
Maybe Tracey was in the habit of just cutting this class, the gifted one. But why would she cut the one class where she got treated decently? Or, at least, noticed. Anyway, Amanda didn't think Tracey was the type to break rules. And where would she go?
Ken walked into the classroom, and Amanda gazed at him in a whole new light. He was still cute, he was still cool, but if she'd understood what he'd said in class the
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day before, Ken heard the voices of dead people. Or at least, he said he did. Whether dead people really talked to him or Ken just imagined he heard them, either way it gave Amanda the creeps.
The next to walk in--well, roll in, actually--was Charles. Charles, who seemed to be able to make things move just by looking at them. That could be a useful talent, Amanda thought. Sitting at the dinner table, you wouldn't have to ask anyone to pass the salt. All you'd have to do was look at the shaker. She wondered if he had to use the remote when he watched TV or if he could change the channels with his mind.
On the other hand, his "gift" was sort of scary. Yesterday, one of those flying books could have hit her right in the face. And what if she'd been sitting under a hanging lamp? Charles could have made it drop right down on her head. She made a mental note to avoid attracting his attention. She didn't really think it would be a problem--Tracey seemed to be very skilled at avoiding attention. Maybe that was her gift.
Emily and Sarah were the next to enter the room. Amanda hadn't quite figured out what kind of special talents they had. All she'd really noticed the day before
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was that Emily said strange things and Sarah was totally unreadable. Martin was right behind her. All Amanda knew about him was that he could hurt people, but she didn't know how.
