Switched at Birthday

by Natalie Standiford

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Looks like cat brains to me.”

  Mrs. Mortenson looked startled, then laughed. She thought I was kidding. I wasn’t.

  “It does look like some kind of organ meat, doesn’t it?” she said. “Could be pâté. Is your mother getting trendy on us? How offal!”

  I had no idea what she was talking about, so I shrugged, which tilted the tray. Several canapes slid to the floor, detouring to brush against my white dress and leave three little brown splotches.

  Steve and Mr. Mortenson laughed. “Good one, dear,” Mr. Mortenson said. “Offal, o-f-f-a-l. Get it, Scarlet?”

  I didn’t. But I smiled like my “mom” had told me to and pretended it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard.

  When he was done laughing, Steve saw the brown stains on my dress and shook his head in disgust, just slightly. He didn’t think I noticed, but I did.

  Ben laughed his head off and slapped his knee — so much that I wondered if he’d really understood the joke, or if he was just faking. Probably faking. He was sitting on the couch next to Mr. Mortenson, drinking a ginger ale, stuffing his face with chips, and trying to sound intelligent while talking to the adults, which meant no talking about video games, or sci-fi movies, or anything else that actually interested him. Steve watched him out of the corner of his eye, and Ben glanced nervously in Steve’s direction every once in a while, as if checking to make sure he was doing okay. I didn’t envy him, but still: Why didn’t he have to serve the guests too?

  “I can’t eat garlic powder,” Mrs. Mortenson said. “Will you ask Leigh if there’s any garlic powder in this?”

  “Who’s Leigh?” I asked.

  Mrs. Mortenson got that startled look again, which segued into another laugh.

  “You don’t know your own mother’s name?”

  “Oh — Leigh,” I said. “Sorry. I just think of her as Mom.”

  Note to self: Scarlet’s mom’s name is Leigh.

  The tray slipped again, and I lost three more hors d’oeuvres. I bent down to pick them up. Steve watched me, annoyed.

  “Scarlet, what’s the matter with you tonight?” he said.

  “Let me help you, Scarlet,” Mrs. Mortenson said. She leaned over and picked up a few of the fallen cat brains. As she sat up again, her head bumped against the tray. Clang! The whole thing went splat against my chest.

  “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry!” she cried.

  “It’s not your fault, Sheila,” Steve said. “Scarlet must have left her mind upstairs in her room tonight.”

  Scarlet’s mom — Leigh — breezed in. “Dinner’s almost ready.” She saw me and grimaced. “Scarlet! What happened to your dress?”

  I looked down. It was splotched with brown goo.

  “Um —”

  “Go upstairs and change. We’re eating in five minutes.”

  While I trudged upstairs I heard her say to the Mortensons, “She’s been going through a phase lately. I just don’t get it. Where’s my sweet little ballerina gone?”

  “It happened to Emily too,” Mrs. Mortenson said. “They hit thirteen and suddenly you don’t recognize them anymore.”

  I shut the door to my room, pulled off my food-stained dress, and lay on the bed for a short rest.

  Being Scarlet was tiring.

  “Scarlet!” Her mom called my name in a voice I recognized — a voice you used when company was around. Nice silvery tone camouflaging severe annoyance.

  “Coming!” I yelled back. I felt like throwing on a pair of sweats but knew that would only get me sent back to change again. I picked out a black dress that was close in style to the white one. At least the black would hide stains better.

  But Scarlet’s mom frowned when I presented myself in the kitchen. “You know how I feel about young girls in black,” she whispered. “It’s too sophisticated. What are you trying to prove?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Put on the pink eyelet,” she told me.

  “Sure thing,” I said, even though I had no idea what the heck an eyelet was.

  Back in the bedroom, I found a pink dress with little holes punched in it. This had better be an eyelet, I thought. I put it on, went back downstairs, and this time got a grim nod of approval.

  We ate in the dining room, which overlooked the big back yard. All the food was shiny and arranged — designed more than cooked. There were glazed miniature chickens — Mrs. Mortenson called them Cornish game hens — vegetables that looked like little iced cakes, and mounds of rice shaped into footballs. Fussy. But I was hungry, so I ate while the adults talked about whose house was for sale and how much the owners were asking.

  Once the real estate conversation was over, Mr. Mortenson asked, “How’s school this year, Ben?”

  Ben put down his fork and finished chewing his game hen. There was an awkward moment of silence while we waited for him to swallow. Steve cleared his throat.

  “Ben’s doing okay,” Steve said. “If he spent less time playing video games and more time studying, he’d be at the top of his class. Probably.”

  Ben looked down at his plate and tapped his fork on a chicken bone. Steve reached over and stopped his hand. Ben lifted his head, miserable, and I caught his eye.

  “How about you, Scarlet?” Mrs. Mortenson asked. “Having a good school year?”

  No, I thought, though by now I knew better than to say so. It hadn’t taken me long to get the hang of this family.

  “I’m doing fine,” I said.

  “What grade are you in?”

  “Eighth.”

  “She’s the star of the soccer team,” Scarlet’s mom said.

  Ben laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Steve asked.

  “You should have seen Scarlet play today,” Ben said. “Every time she got the ball, the other side scored!”

  I thought it was kind of funny, now that it was over with.

  But Steve didn’t find it funny at all. “Is that true?” he asked.

  “I was having an off day,” I explained.

  Scarlet’s mom stared at me. “But Scarlet, you told me …”

  “I told you what?” I said.

  “You told us you were the best player on the team,” Steve said.

  “And of course you’d take her word for it,” Ben said. “Never having been to one of her games yourself.”

  It hadn’t even occurred to me before to wonder why her parents hadn’t been there today. But now it seemed that wasn’t unusual at all. I couldn’t believe it.

  They’d never even seen her play soccer.

  I couldn’t help defending her. “I am the best player,” I said. “You can read it in the school newspaper. Ask my coach. I just had a bad day.”

  I didn’t know how long I’d be in Scarlet’s body. What if I had to spend the rest of my life with these people? The sooner they learned to stop hassling me, the happier we’d all be.

  “Look,” I went on, “if you don’t believe me, why don’t you try coming to one of my games and see for yourselves?”

  Scarlet’s mom dropped her jaw, then her fork. The Mortensons were openly staring at us now. Ben looked stunned, and maybe a little pleased. Steve stood up, his big blockhead face set to ANGRY.

  “Young lady, you don’t speak to your mother that way.”

  “I was talking to both of you,” I said. “I can’t believe you haven’t watched your own daughter play her favorite sport.”

  Scarlet’s mom’s eyes were all wet and quaky.

  Oh help, I thought. What have I done now?

  “We gave you that wonderful birthday dinner last night,” she said through choked-back sobs. “And all those presents. The ballet lessons, the piano lessons, soccer camp, the tutors … and that’s not enough for you?”

  “That’s all fine,” I said. “Great. Terrific. Look, if you’re too busy to come to my games, just say so.”

  “Go to your room!” Steve conveniently pointed the way for me. “Right now.”

 
I gobbled up a big forkful of rice before standing up to go. “Gladly.” A few grains of rice dribbled off my lip and onto my pink eyelet dress.

  I didn’t care, and wanted them to see I didn’t care.

  I had more important things on my mind.

  “More pancakes, Lav?”

  Lavender’s mother reloaded my plate before I could say no. Her father and sister sat stuffing their faces while her mother churned out more and more food.

  “You’re not eating your scrapple,” Mrs. Lavender said. “You usually love scrapple.”

  So that’s what scrapple was: a rectangular sausage-like substance. Scrapple. It looked as gross as it sounded.

  “Are you still feeling sick?” Lavender’s mother asked.

  I had told them I felt sick the night before, after seeing Mr. Brummel. Then I’d locked myself in my room with a bag of popcorn and searched the Internet for a way to get my body back. I didn’t find anything helpful. I’d once thought you could find out anything on the Internet, but it turned out to be an unreliable resource for magic spells.

  “I’m feeling better,” I reported. Except for my stomach, which was bursting with pancakes. “But I don’t want any scrapple. I need to be light on my feet today. I’ve got that audition this afternoon.”

  Lavender’s mother kissed me — again. She was always kissing and hugging and squeezing and cheek-rubbing and mm-mmm!-ing. I didn’t know how to respond to that. My mom’s tendency to do that kind of thing had left when my dad did. So it had been a while.

  “I’m so glad you decided to audition for that musical,” Lavender’s mother said. “You’ll make lots of new friends, like that nice girl Scarlet.”

  “You’ll get the part,” Lavender’s father said. “What’s the role? The librarian? Look at you! You’re a librarian if I ever saw one.”

  Uh, thanks? Considering what I was working with, I thought I looked pretty good. I couldn’t help it if Lavender had no taste in clothes. I’d only found one decent thing in Lavender’s room, and it was an accessory: a brand-new bag from Maroc, with a long strap and lots of buckles. So I had a cool bag and nothing to wear with it.

  “What are you going to do for your audition?” Rosemary asked. “Play your ukulele?”

  “What? No,” I snapped. “I’m not stupid.”

  “That’s a funny thing to say,” Lavender’s mother observed. “Not that I’m so crazy about it, but you love your uke.”

  “Sure, but other people think it’s dorky.” How could Lavender’s parents not see that? It was so obvious.

  “But you don’t,” Rosemary said, looking at me funny again.

  “Um, I mean, um …” How did the real Lavender talk to them? I hadn’t figured it out yet. “I’ve got to get to school.”

  I pushed away from the table and slung the Maroc bag over my shoulder.

  Lavender’s mother gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. You’d think I’d just said I was off to Mars and would be late for supper.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Lavender — the purse,” her mother said. “You’re wearing … the purse?”

  I checked to make sure it wasn’t leaking blood or something. “Yeah, why not?”

  “You told us you hated the purse, that’s why not,” Lavender’s father said.

  “I did? But it’s a great bag,” I said. What was wrong with Lavender? I wished I’d gotten a bag like this for my birthday … in addition to all the other awesome stuff I’d gotten.

  Lavender’s mother pressed her palm against my forehead. “I’m afraid you’re still under the weather.”

  “What have you done with my sister?” Rosemary asked.

  I brushed my mother’s hand away. “I’m fine. Can I please go to school now?”

  “Sure, honey. Of course. Good luck with your audition.”

  “Break a leg, baby doll,” Lavender’s father shouted as I hurried out the door.

  That morning was as bad as the morning before. It was hard to decide which part was the worst, but a strong contender was definitely the tripping. I tripped down the steps of Lavender’s house. I tripped over three cracks in the sidewalk. I tripped up the steps to school. Once inside I thought I’d be okay, since the school halls are fairly straight and even, but no. People seemed to stick their feet out wherever I went, just to watch me trip over them.

  I found Lavender at my locker before the first bell. We’d typed up our homework and now we swapped it — even though we were in different sections of most classes, the basic material was the same. However, she still had to go to French first period. And we were having a quiz. I’d been hoping to get an A in French, but if Lavender took my quizzes, I didn’t have a chance.

  “I meant to tutor you in conjugating verbs last night!” I whispered urgently. “I totally forgot.”

  The bell rang.

  “Too late now,” Lavender said.

  “No! Listen! Aller: vais, vas, va, allons, allez, vont …”

  “Give it up, Scarlet. There’s no hope. I’m going to flunk that quiz.”

  “No! I’ve got to pass. Maybe you can copy off of someone. Madame Geller is pretty out of it. Try to sit next to Masha.”

  Lavender looked shocked. “I’m not a cheater.”

  “Neither am I, but this is so not fair….”

  “What if I get caught?”

  “Don’t! Please don’t get caught! That would be worse than flunking.”

  The second bell rang. “We’re going to be late,” Lavender said. “Oh — by the way, I — or, I mean, you — are giving a demonstration in science today on how insects are a good source of protein, and I promised Barbash I’d eat a cricket. You know those crickets he keeps to feed to the frogs? So get ready to eat a cricket this morning. Hey, why is your face so white?”

  I felt sick. “I’m not doing that,” I said.

  “Fine. Then I’m not cheating on your French quiz.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Girls, get to class.” Ms. Judson, the principal, was patrolling the halls for stragglers. “You’re late.”

  I hurried off to English class. Ms. Kantner was talking about the problem of mistaken identity in The Prince and the Pauper, a book I loved, but I hardly listened. I was too busy trying to think of a way to avoid eating a cricket next period. Stupid Lavender.

  I passed Lavender in the hall on the way to science. “How was the French quiz?” I asked.

  She gave me the thumbs-down. “Remember, with the cricket — don’t chew, just swallow it whole. Unless you like your bugs crunchy …”

  I wanted to cry.

  Mr. Barbash greeted me with a big grin when I walked into the Science Lab. “Lavender! Ready for your demonstration?”

  “Uh, Mr. Barbash, I’ve been thinking —”

  “Not going to back out, are you? That’s not the Lavender I know. Always up for anything!”

  “Never afraid to make a fool of herself,” I muttered.

  “That’s the spirit!”

  I was hit with inspiration at the last possible second. “Mr. Barbash, I really wanted to eat that cricket, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just found out I’m allergic to crickets. If I eat one, my throat will swell up. I could die.”

  I enjoyed watching the blood drain from his face. “That’s terrible! Then you absolutely shouldn’t do it. Are you allergic to flies too?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Well, you’ll just have to make your presentation without it.”

  Right. Something about insects and protein. Which I knew nothing about. I made something up, which seemed to satisfy Mr. Barbash. My classmates didn’t care what I said. They paid no attention except when Mr. Barbash’s back was turned and Zach Griffith slingshotted paper clips at me.

  I made it through the morning without having to eat a bug. But that wasn’t the end of my troubles.

  In gym we played dodgeball. I tried to dodge, I really did. But L
avender seemed to be everyone’s favorite target. After twenty minutes of that, I was black and blue.

  Then came lunch. At first I felt relief, because in my old life lunch was easy. But this was Lavender’s lunch, a different lunch period from mine, and lunch was definitely the worst part of Lavender’s day.

  “Lavender! Over here!” Zoe waved to me from her — our — table in the corner by the window. She patted the seat next to her, as if she wanted me to sit there.

  I started toward the table, forgetting for a second who I was. Then I remembered — I was Lavender. Zoe never invited Lavender to sit with her.

  What was she up to?

  I scanned the cafeteria for another free seat. The place was packed. The only spots open were at the jock-boy table — no way, I wasn’t asking for trouble — or with the Pimple Poppers. They were really called the Roswell Club in Defense of Alien Life. We — Zoe, Kelsey, and me — nicknamed them the Pimple Poppers because the one thing they all had in common, besides their belief in UFOs, was a bad complexion.

  “Lavender!” Zoe waved to me again, this time with Kelsey joining her.

  I couldn’t listen to conspiracy theories while I was eating. I took my chances with my best friends.

  I walked over to the table just in time to hear Kelsey say, “Did you see what Scarlet is wearing today?” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Guh,” Saylor said. “What’s with her lately? The girl is slipping.”

  “Hi, Lavender,” Zoe said in a too-nice voice.

  “Hi,” I said. I set my tray on the table and started to sit down.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Zoe asked.

  “Having lunch?” I answered. “You called me over.”

  Zoe, Kelsey, and Saylor laughed. “You thought you were going to have lunch with us?” Zoe said. “At our table?”

  She was right. I hadn’t been thinking clearly.

  “Why did you wave me over then?” I asked.

  They were still laughing. “I can’t believe you actually thought we would want to sit with you! Like I could choke down food if your face was within my line of sight!”

  Ha ha ha. Real funny. I wished Lavender were here to defend me. Although it’s not like I’d done anything to help Lavender before when Zoe insulted her.