But in Melo’s body I know I’m perfect—curvy and narrow in all the right places. Tan, too. Even though her mom nags her about getting wrinkles, Melo is always so tan.
I stand there for a moment and admire my new body, which is clad in a navy blue one-piece. If I’m Melody tomorrow, I’m totally wearing a bikini.
I’m thinking this and staring down at my new boobs when I feel someone’s eyes on me.
I look up. The lifeguard seems to be staring at me. I can’t confirm this because he’s wearing dark sunglasses and a big straw hat, but when he notices me noticing him he turns away, fast.
It feels strange, bordering on creepy, because the lifeguard, while cute, is way too old. But maybe I’m imagining things.
Melody is next to me and she’s carefully inching her way out of my cutoffs. It’s funny seeing my old self from this perspective.
Funny and disappointing.
She’s wearing my brand-new red bikini. The triangle top is completely flat against her chest. It’s cute, but not hot, which is disappointing because when I bought it back in May, I was going for hot. Sure, it looked only okay in the store but I figured at the beach with the sun shining down and the contrast of the bleached white sand and the blue water, it would really pop. And when I say pop, I mean, “make me look like a pop star.” Except the suit does not pop. It makes her look much younger than twelve, especially with the heart-shaped glasses and fake diamond studs from Target. She looks like a little girl trying to dress like a teenager.
She could easily pass for an eight-year-old and I ache with embarrassment for my old self.
I also notice she’s getting a little red in the face. “You should put on some sunscreen,” I say, handing over the tube.
“If this is a dream, why do you care?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.
I laugh. “Good question. I’m not really sure, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. And you’ll thank me when you’re old. No one loves a prune face.”
Melody looks at me funny and then glances at my bag. “You read the note from my mom?” she asks, quietly.
“Yes,” I say. “You’re lucky she’s so thoughtful.”
Melody smirks and says, “That’s one way to put it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Melody doesn’t answer right away. Instead she lies down faceup and throws her arm over her eyes to protect them from the sun. “You’ll see,” she says finally.
* * *
When we ride through the tunnel at the end of our day, I make sure to keep my eyes wide open, to not wish for anything out loud or in my head. I like being Melody. I’d like to stay her for as long as possible. I don’t want to wake up from this dream or have this wish canceled out on the return trip and I’m not taking any chances.
Kevin is not on the bus with us. We didn’t see him at the beach again, either, so obviously he left while we were on our walk or at the snack bar.
Melody sits next to me and she’s wearing the red-and-white-striped romper I bought on sale back in May. It seemed so cute and perfect for summer back when I tried it on. Yet seeing it from the outside, I realize I look like a candy cane, and not in a good way. My jean shorts have disappeared. I saw Melody forget to pack them and could’ve said something but decided I was doing her—and myself—a favor by letting them stay lost. Similarly, I shoved Melody’s baggy cardigan into the bottom of her tote bag and am wearing the pink-and-white sundress without it.
My new motto is “If you’ve got it, flaunt it” and Melody has definitely got it. The sundress clings in all the right places without being clingy, necessarily.
As the beach bus pulls into the high school parking lot Melody says, “I’m hungry. Let’s stop at the Golden Spoon on the way home.” She’s in a cheerful mood and she’s not sunburned. I’m so proud of myself for pushing the sunscreen. I am an amazing friend.
“I’m always up for frozen yogurt,” I say.
As soon as we get to the Golden Spoon, Melody marches forward and announces, “I’ll have a half chocolate and half salted caramel with pretzel pieces and mochi, but please put the mochi on the bottom and the pretzels on top.”
“Hey, that’s my order!” I say.
“Duh, I know,” says Melody, winking at me. “I’m you now.”
Melody gets her yogurt from Vicki, the red-haired, high-ponytail-wearing lady who’s always working behind the counter. After she pays she sits down at our usual table, right by the front door—in the sun, farthest from the bathrooms and closest to the outside without actually being outside because that’s like eating in the parking lot.
I hang back, wondering if I have my taste buds or Melody’s taste buds in this dream.
I decide to conduct an experiment. In my real life I can’t stand plain tart yogurt, but since it’s Melody’s favorite flavor I ask for a sample.
When Vicki hands it over I’m surprised by how delicious it tastes. Refreshing, too.
As I’m finishing it, an older man walks into the yogurt shop. He goes right to the counter but pauses when he sees me waiting to order.
“Go ahead,” I tell him, my mouth half-filled with yogurt. “I’m not sure what I want.”
“I’ll wait,” he says, giving me a friendly little wink. And he keeps staring even when I look away.
I wonder if I have yogurt somewhere on my face. I grab a napkin from the dispenser and wipe my chin, but when I look, I find it clean.
“Can I please try the salted caramel?” I ask. It’s my favorite flavor in real life, but Melody never orders it.
Vicki nods from behind the counter and gives me a sample. I’m expecting to find it delicious and refreshing, except now it tastes disgusting—too sweet and too salty.
Looks like I’m Melody through and through, I think as I toss the tiny sample cup into the trash.
“I’ll have a plain tart with marshmallows,” I tell her. And something surprising happens when I say the word marshmallow. My mouth begins to water in anticipation. Melo really is crazy for them.
Vicki serves me my yogurt and says, “That’ll be four dollars and ninety-five cents.”
“Great.” I pull out my wallet, open it, and panic. There’s no cash inside, only a credit card. I never knew Melody had a credit card and I’m not sure what to do. What if Melody uses her credit card strictly for emergencies? I don’t want to get her into trouble. I’m about to ask when I realize how silly this is. None of this is real. It’s only a dream. I could go on a humongous shopping spree and none of it would matter because eventually I’m going to wake up.
I hand over the plastic. “Sorry, ten-dollar minimum,” Vicki says with an apologetic smile.
It’s surprising that there are charge card minimums in my dream. I turn to Melody. I had no extra money on the real first day of summer but I ask anyway, because maybe the dream-life details will be different.
Except Melody checks her wallet and tells me it’s empty.
The man waiting sees what’s going on and jumps forward. “I’ll buy the yogurt for the young lady,” he says, placing his hand on my back, up in between my shoulder blades.
His hand is warm and shocking. The sudden contact from a stranger seems odd. Wrong. Any strange guy touching me would rate extremely high in ick-factor, but this dude is old, as in dad-in-khaki-shorts-and-a-polo-shirt old.
I pull away. “No,” I say. “You don’t have to. I’ll go without. It’s no biggie.”
“No, it would be my pleasure,” he says, taking his hand off my back.
I’m glad he’s not touching me anymore, but he’s still smiling like we share a secret, which we most certainly do not.
I am tense, nervous. This isn’t lifeguard attention, or Kevin attention. This is random-creepy-old-man attention and it’s making me sick. I do not want the yogurt anymore, but Vicki is already handing it to me. And those marshmallows do look delectable. Thinking about them, my mouth waters all over again.
“Here you go,” she says, brightly. She doesn’t care.
Or maybe she doesn’t even notice the creep factor. This dude has given her a big tip and paid for my yogurt. Her job is done.
I take it. The man winks at me again and says, “My pleasure. How could I watch a pretty girl like you get deprived of frozen yogurt on such a beautiful day? It wouldn’t be right.”
I smile and mumble, “Thank you.” My face is burning up, not just from embarrassment but from anger, too, because he shouldn’t be talking to me like this. He shouldn’t be watching me at all. It’s weird and wrong.
“Anytime, sweetheart. You have the most beautiful eyelashes,” he tells me, except he doesn’t seem to be looking at my eyelashes. Now I’m getting why Melody always wore the cardigan with this dress and I kind of wish I had it on.
I want to inform this man that I’m only twelve and he’s at least three times my age—probably more. He shouldn’t be looking at me the way he is, but I don’t say a word. Instead I go back to Melody.
“Are you okay?” she asks, giving me a knowing look.
“That was so weird,” I whisper.
She nods, not surprised in the least bit.
Melody is always getting free stuff and lots of attention. It’s just that from the outside it looks so easy and glamorous and awesome. Yet the attention from the old dude? So not awesome!
After yogurt we head on home and before I know it we’re at the corner of Sycamore and Cherokee, where Melo and I always part ways. Normally she turns left and heads to the fancier part of town and I head right to the older, more run-down houses, the kind that don’t have servants’ quarters and wine cellars. But today everything is reversed.
“Good luck,” says Melody.
“You, too,” I say with a wave, and then head to Melody’s humongous house at 21 Lynwood Court. It’s behind large iron gates but I know the code, of course. It’s 105—her mom’s, Debbie’s, weight when she got married.
As soon as I punch in the numbers the gates part, swift and soundless. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited.
Debbie’s black Tesla is parked in the driveway. It’s the car Melo will probably get when she turns sixteen, as long as she keeps up her grades. I keep reminding her to study hard because it’s not like I’m going to be handed a fancy sports car, or any car, for that matter. So I’ll have to rely on her. Except Melody doesn’t listen to me. School stuff doesn’t come easy to her like it does to me, or to her older brother. Kyle got straight As in all honors classes in high school without even trying. He just finished his freshman year at Yale and is staying there for the summer to take extra classes for fun.
The exterior of the car is sleek and shiny, the inside buttery brown leather. I want to touch it but I refrain, because I know Debbie would notice my fingerprints. Two summers ago we decided to surprise Debbie and wash it, but she yelled at us for not drying it properly and leaving streaks.
Remembering that story makes me hope that Debbie isn’t home. Except when I walk inside I can see all the way to the wall of windows at the back of the house. Debbie is doing squat thrusts around their gorgeous, black-bottomed pool. She’s got a heavy-looking barbell on her shoulders.
Melo’s mom is beautiful and her body is perfect. You know, for a mom. She looks a lot younger than my mom because she’s already had a face-lift and she works out constantly and wears designer everything.
I am not sure what Melo does when she comes home on her own, like what their normal routine is, so I wander out to the pool and say hi. This seems like a good step, although my stomach flutters with nervousness because I’m worried Debbie will know something is up. Namely, that her daughter has disappeared and her best friend has taken over her body. It seems like the kind of thing a mother would notice.
“Hi, Mom,” I say with a wave.
“Want to do sit-ups with me, sweetheart?” Debbie asks from the other end of the pool, midsquat.
“Um, no thanks,” I say. “I’m tired.”
She stops what she’s doing, drops her barbell, and looks me up and down. “Oh, to be young again,” she says. “To have that body and not have to work for it.”
I’m not sure how to answer her, so I force a smile, give a little wave, and run upstairs.
I love Melody’s room because it looks like it belongs in a magazine. And in fact, her whole house was featured in Architectural Digest a few years back, but Melody hates it when I remind her of that.
When I flop down on her bed I sink into the softest duvet cover in the world. It’s light pink with turquoise stripes—Melody’s favorite colors. The entire room was custom designed by Pierre, a decorator so famous he doesn’t even need a last name. The bedspread matches the curtains, which match the wallpaper. Everything is color coordinated but with a mix of prints—stripes and polka dots and plaids—to make it more interesting. Melody has real oil paintings on her walls, mostly from the South of France. She and her family went on a big trip to Europe with the sole purpose of buying art for their house. She’s not allowed to hang up her own stuff because anything not picked out by Pierre would “ruin the aesthetic,” her mom told her. This drives Melody crazy, but I like how everything has a place and fits in perfectly and elegantly.
Anyone can hang up posters they find in the mall, but flying to another continent to shop for art is a big deal. Having your bedroom in a magazine is special. I’ve never understood why Melody doesn’t see things that way.
I could get used to this fancy bed in this fancy room. I stretch out and yawn, exhausted. Sleep sounds delicious, but I fight to keep my eyes open. Next time I wake up, I’ll probably be in my old body again, back to my own bland life, and a seventh grader, and I’m so not ready.
This could be my last moment as Melody, so I should take full advantage, do something bold. Maybe take the Tesla for a spin, or knock on Kevin’s door and declare my love and infatuation. Or maybe just walk up to him and kiss him on the mouth without saying a word. I bring my fingertips to my lips, wondering how he’d react and what kissing actually feels like …
And right as those thoughts are forming in my head I hear Melo’s phone chime with a new text:
Have fun at the beach?
The number on her screen is unfamiliar. I don’t even recognize the area code. There’s no name attached, only the letter K. I figure the message must be from Melo’s brother, Kyle.
Yup! How’s school? I type back.
Huh? K replies.
That’s weird. I type: Kyle?
The reply comes back: NOPE
Who is this? I ask.
You’re funny, K writes back.
Totally confused. Are you trying to reach Melody or is this a wrong number? I ask.
The response doesn’t come right away. And once it does it leaves me even more confused.
How hard did you hit your head during that fall?
I think back to my flying attempt. Is that the fall Kyle is referring to? It has to be. But how could he know, unless he’s not Kyle? But who could he be?
Who is this? I ask again.
Instead of a name I see a bunch of happy face emoticons:
Well, Kyle is a genius but he always was a little odd. This must be the part of my dream where things stop making sense. Like, maybe next thing I know a bird will fly in the window and start singing opera. I toss the phone aside and rub my eyes, unable to muster the energy to get off the bed, or to fight sleep any longer. It’s been fun being Melody but this dream is getting trippy and anyway, I can’t keep my eyes open. Goodbye perfect life, I think as I drift off to sleep.
Except the next thing I know I’m being shaken awake.
“I believe you’ve gotten enough beauty sleep,” Melody’s mom says.
I open my eyes and see Debbie up close. Her hair has been styled into a sleek blond bob and she’s wearing huge glittery diamond hoops. Her fancy silver ball gown rustles as she balances on the highest, most painful-looking stilettos I’ve ever seen.
“Debbie!” I say, as I scramble to sit up in bed.
I don’t know why I�
�m here, where Melody is, or what is going on.
Melody’s mom looks at me like I’m crazy. “Since when do you call me Debbie?”
Um, since we met when I was in kindergarten and you told me you were too young to go by Mrs. Marshall, is what I’m thinking, but I don’t say it yet. I’m too flustered. Instead I blink and rub my eyes and—wait a minute. Why am I wearing pink polka-dotted nail polish? Oh yeah, I’m still in the dream, still Melody. “Sorry, Mom,” I say. “I’m hardly awake.”
Luckily, Debbie doesn’t dwell on my mistake because she has another agenda. “Please don’t wear your smelly flip-flops in bed. This duvet cost a small fortune and now I’ve got to get it dry-cleaned.”
“Sorry,” I say, kicking off my sandals.
“I unpacked for you,” she says, holding a little pink pouch in my face, “and I noticed you didn’t eat your snack.”
“Melody and I got nachos,” I say, rubbing my eyes, still trying to figure things out.
Then, when Debbie continues to stare at me, I say, “I mean Katie and me. Katie and me got nachos. Katie and I, that is.”
For some reason she still looks horrified. “You ate nachos?” she asks. Except nachos comes out like it’s a dirty word.
I nod, cautiously, thinking maybe opera-singing birds would be less bizarre than this conversation.
Debbie shakes her head. “You’ve really got to be more careful. You think you can eat whatever you want, but the older you get, the harder it’s going to be.”
“The harder what’s going to be?” I ask, curious.
“Stop being difficult,” snaps Debbie as she heads for the door. “I’m going out tonight. I left you a salad in the fridge. Be careful with the dressing. It’s nonfat, but there’s still sugar in it so don’t use too much. Especially after your splurge at the beach.”
“Okay,” I reply meekly, wondering when Melody’s mom got so crazy, and feeling grateful that she’s at least going out tonight.
If I Were You Page 3
