Change Places with Me

by Lois Metzger

  “I’m counting down,” she said, too quickly.

  “To what?”

  The girl hesitated. Kim was her friend, her old friend, her new friend, the friend who’d put makeup on her, and why, exactly, had Clara agreed to do that? It had led only to trouble. “Nothing.”

  “Counting down to nothing? You realize you’re not making sense.”

  “I just have to get through the next few days. Okay? Why is everybody on me about it?”

  “Rose, you could tell me, you know. When we were kids, we called each other cross-my-heart friends.”

  The girl took a breath. Kim wasn’t making this easy. “Just . . . give me until next week. We’ll do a puzzle. We’ll have lots of fun.”

  “Next week?” Kim sounded hurt. “You don’t want to hang out in the meantime?”

  “Please. It’s better that way.”

  Kim had taken another cookie out of the pack, but she put it back.

  CHAPTER 27

  In bio lab the girl saw Nick Winter, diagonally in front of her, two tables over. Clara had barely noticed him; Rose had thought he was the most gorgeous thing ever. Now she gave him a steady, intense look that he must’ve felt, because he turned to glance at her. His expression was a complete blank.

  He didn’t remember anything at all, she realized—dancing with her, kissing her. Did he even remember the party, or much about his life? If you had no memory, you couldn’t get it enhanced; there’d be nothing to work on. He was still really good-looking, though, even without a memory.

  During class Mr. Slocum announced, “Miss Hartel, please report to Ms. Pratt.”

  What was that all about? She hadn’t done anything.

  “You’d better not be in trouble,” Selena whispered fiercely. “Your mother might punish you and cancel the party. I’ve already invited everybody.”

  When the girl got to Ms. Pratt’s office, the door was open. Ms. Pratt, in a beige pantsuit and with her hair in a bun on top of her head, was facing the other way.

  “I don’t understand,” the girl said.

  Ms. Pratt turned around. She held a baby in her arms. “My wife had to drop him off, and I remembered you wanted to see him.”

  Out of nowhere, another impossible decision. She wanted to hold him; she wanted to get away as fast as she could.

  “Want a better look?”

  “I can see him from here.”

  “Come on! Do I need to pull you along?” Ms. Pratt laughed as the girl took a few steps forward. “Now, put your hand under his head and hold his body with your other arm. Good!”

  The baby was much heavier than he looked. He had a lot of eyelashes that were thick and distinct; she could see each separate one. He smelled soft and powdery. He was like a warm bundle of possibility.

  “Ethan likes you,” Ms. Pratt said.

  “Babies like everybody.”

  “You’d be surprised. Whenever he sees my mother, he bursts into tears. But then, so do I.” She laughed again. “He’s so relaxed with you. No fear at all.”

  The girl kept hold of Ethan, sure that he would sense the turmoil within and burst into tears, too. But he just gazed at her with big brown eyes.

  The girl had to go back to bio lab and pick up her stuff. There was Mr. Slocum at his computer. Something stirred in her, quick as lightning, an all-over kind of ache. She wasn’t sure what it was. If she was doing a crossword puzzle, lots of long words might fit. Isolation. Alienation. Loneliness.

  This was what Clara had felt and not felt.

  She was about to leave when she heard herself say, “Excuse me.”

  Mr. Slocum looked up.

  She could feel the seconds tick away—which was good, because each moment gone brought Saturday, two p.m., closer. But you simply did not waste Mr. Slocum’s time, even so. “Last week, I asked you a bunch of questions. You said I was full of myself. Wow, you have no idea. But it went wrong that time. There was no weather, I saw a red light, though that’s gone and I hope for good, too. So I owe you an apology. For prying into, you know, your life.”

  Outside, trees rustled in a strong breeze. Mr. Slocum gave her a curt nod. “Something went wrong?”

  “I had Memory Enhancement.” Oh, she could kick herself! No one was supposed to know.

  “Memory Enhancement—should I have heard of that? Is that one of those newfangled memory replacement things?”

  “No, it’s not a replacement, but—well, there was this girl in a jean jacket. She wanted to be just like her.”

  “She?”

  “What I wanted, I mean. Not sure I completely understand it. I should understand it, shouldn’t I? Maybe if I saw that girl in the jean jacket again—” Actually, she realized, this could help her connect to Clara, close up some of that distance between them. “I’ve taken up way too much of your time, Mr. Slocum.”

  “It’s fine, Miss Hartel. I would tell you if you were bothering me. You said something about not understanding?”

  “Thanks so much, Mr. Slocum. Bye.” She rushed out the door.

  The girl sat on a backless bench at the Q22/24 bus stop, opposite a Food-A-Rama, and unlike everyone else purposely faced the sidewalk, not the street, where the buses, sooner or later, would appear. But she had a great view of the people walking by. She scanned the midafternoon crowds for a girl in a jean jacket with a rose embroidered on the back.

  Though with this chill in the air, she might be wearing a heavier coat, or already have on a Halloween costume, on her way to a party. Maybe her dog was home. It was simpler just to look for someone with very dark hair, chin-length, with one side tucked behind one ear. Then she could go up to her and say, “Can I talk to you?” Even if the dark-haired girl were in a hurry, she’d stop awhile, because that was the kind of person she was. The girl would ask the things Clara had wanted to know: “Please, tell me about your family, your friends, your day-to-day life.”

  And, “What’s your name?”

  The sky turned deep violet-blue with glowing silver clouds. The girl breathed in cold air and saw her breath come out in sharp puffs. Nobody spoke to her except for a lady who told her to turn around, dear, because the bus had just arrived. “That’s okay,” the girl said. “I’ll wait for the next one.” She put in her earbuds and listened to “Changes.” By the time she decided to head for home, she was 116 hours away from Saturday, two p.m. She hadn’t seen the dark-haired girl yet, but she would come back tomorrow, and the day after, if she had to, and the day after that.

  CHAPTER 28

  “Miss Hartel, see me after class,” Mr. Slocum said on Tuesday.

  This made no sense. What had she done this time? Besides, she had to go back to the bus stop right away. She’d kept close vigil all through lunch; she still hadn’t seen the girl in the jean jacket.

  When bio class ended, she swallowed hard and went to Mr. Slocum’s desk.

  “Miss Hartel, you owe me some time for school service.”

  What was he talking about? At least, she noticed, his head wasn’t turning purple, the way it usually did when he was angry. “I did the six hours,” she said quietly.

  “How about all that time you talked my ear off? I deducted it.” He got up and dragged over one of the student chairs. “Have a seat.”

  She placed herself on the edge of the chair.

  “You asked me about myself.” Mr. Slocum went back to his desk, sat, and opened a drawer. “I brought a photo album.” It was an old-fashioned leather loose-leaf binder, just color pictures in clear plastic sleeves. He pointed to a brownstone. “This is where I was born, in Red Hook, Brooklyn. That tall boy next to me is my brother, Eugene. He teaches chemistry.” There was Mr. Slocum in high school, a basketball player with long straight hair down to his shoulders, and in college, and getting married. He was widowed now. He was displaying his life for her, only the broadest strokes, of course, but he must know she could tell everybody about this and get a good laugh.

  When he was finished, he drew himself up. “You have now fulfill
ed your school service, Clara.”

  Not Miss Hartel. Clara.

  “I did a little reading on Memory Enhancement. You don’t lose your memories, but you feel altogether differently about them, have I got that right?”

  She nodded, impressed. He understood ME very well.

  “Sometimes people change their name, I hear. It is still Clara, isn’t it?”

  “Close enough,” she said, the simplest answer. Of all the teachers she’d ever had, how come horrible Mr. Slocum had been the only one to notice something off about her? He’d called it la-la land—which was also close enough, since he had no way of knowing about a glass coffin. He’d been a jerk about it, too. Well, until today.

  “Really, thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t! Wait, you mean—okay, right.”

  She grabbed her things. She’d thought she would rush to the bus stop but found herself walking slowly for no reason she could think of. It was as if she wasn’t sure how to get there and didn’t want to take a wrong turn and get lost.

  Once at the bus stop, she did homework for the rest of the afternoon, looking up every few moments so she wouldn’t miss the dark-haired girl, and hearing the sighs of the hydro-buses as they came and went. She wasn’t getting much work done because she also kept checking the time—ninety-four hours to go, ninety-three, ninety-two.

  At one point her phone buzzed. Cooper had sent her a link, and a message:

  Hope to see you, where or when.

  She tapped on the link; it was that song “Where or When.” She popped in her earbuds. It was beautiful. But she just played it once.

  All afternoon she saw only one person she recognized: Ms. Brackman, who had Candy with her. Candy plopped down on the sidewalk not far from the bus stop and for several minutes absolutely would not budge from the spot.

  “Don’t be like that!” Ms. Brackman said, before opening her handbag and taking out a piece of chicken.

  Wednesday lunch and afternoon found her back at the bus stop. It was Halloween, and tons of kids were in costumes: superheroes, firefighters, Mr. and Ms. Potato Heads. Still, there was no girl in the jean jacket. It was as if the dark-haired girl was deliberately avoiding her.

  She was just hauling out some books when her phone buzzed. There was a message from Dr. Lola:

  Short-staffed today can u walk Rouge?

  This was so inconsiderate—she needed to sit here. Why couldn’t Dr. Lola just leave her alone? What was it about having a blissful, carefree childhood that made someone think she could snap her fingers and get what she wanted?

  The girl could still hear Dr. Star’s flat, generic voice: There’s no anger, it’s gone, like a banished king, never to return.

  But the anger, like a lake of lava seething inside her, lingered.

  From deep, deep down, this was Clara’s anger, erupting.

  On my way, she texted back. It occurred to the girl that, after all, Dr. Lola might be doing her a favor. The girl in the jean jacket might be at the dog run.

  Gr8!!! Dr. Lola answered. What’s with the ID pic?

  Well, it wasn’t something you could explain in a text.

  At the animal hospital, Stacey greeted her with a smile. “You’re a lifesaver! Dr. Lola’s in the back.”

  The girl walked down the hall and found Dr. Lola cleaning a dog’s teeth. Rose had seen this procedure. You had to sedate the dog. The dog lies on its back on a long, shiny table, eyes open but unseeing, here but not here.

  Like Clara in the glass coffin. But the psychic had said it to Rose, not Clara, that she was “here but not here.” Which had confused Rose and confused the girl now, too.

  “Rose, thank you so much!” Dr. Lola said, turning around and taking off her gloves. Rouge ran over to the girl and immediately tucked her chin down and pushed the top of her head into the girl’s side.

  “Where’d Rouge come from?” she asked.

  “She’s a rescue,” Dr. Lola said. “She wound up in a shelter for abused and abandoned animals.”

  Poor Rouge. What had she been through? No way to ever know, either; it wasn’t as though Rouge could pull a photo album out of a desk drawer.

  Out on the sidewalk the girl noticed something Rose hadn’t picked up on, that people hurried out of her way now that she had an enormous dog at her side. It made her feel powerful, but also uncomfortable, because people didn’t understand. She wanted to say, Don’t be afraid—she’s a pussycat!

  The dog run in Belle Heights Park was a dusty oval surrounded by a five-foot-high fence. The benches along the perimeter weren’t even half full. A sign on the gate at the entrance said No Dogs Without People; No People Without Dogs. It had the ring of authority. It could be the eleventh commandment.

  The girl watched Rouge run around with a couple of dachshunds, a golden retriever, a few poodles, and an Australian cattle dog, a kind of dog she’d first seen at the animal hospital. Dr. Lola had talked about how these dogs were a fairly new breed, a cross between collies and wild dogs—dingoes.

  But there was no small dog in a sweater, no girl in the jean jacket. Every few minutes, Rouge came back to her for a pat on the head. Luckily, the girl had a bottle of water in her backpack. She cupped some water in her hands and let Rouge have a drink.

  At one point the Australian cattle dog jumped up on the bench next to her. It was compact and muscular, with a short silvery coat, upright ears, and black patches on its face. It stared right at her with golden eyes. Clara would’ve been terrified. Rose had loving trust in animals. But the girl felt something else—a kinship with this dog who was still part wild and probably had a lot of conflicting stuff going on. If she were to get a dog, this was the kind of dog she would get.

  Somebody threw a Frisbee. The dog leaped off the bench and caught it in midair.

  The sky went from bright sunshine to pearly gray-blue to deep blue. Several planes whooshed by, and in the distance she heard fire trucks wailing—how many, three, four? What an amazing thing to do with your life, she thought, rescue people trapped in burning buildings.

  “What do you think, Rouge?” she asked as they walked back on curvy streets. “Should I become a firefighter?” Of course that would put her in a uniform, not a costume.

  Rouge grew fixated on a squirrel clinging motionless upside down on the trunk of an oak tree. It seemed to be giving Rouge the evil eye, knowing it was safely out of reach.

  “So,” Dr. Lola said, when they got back, “see you Saturday?”

  “Saturday—I’m sorry, I can’t,” the girl said. “I have to have a medical procedure.”

  Dr. Lola took a step closer. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “Oh, no, totally routine. But I’ll make up the time. I’ll work both days the weekend after.”

  “Don’t worry; we’ll figure something out.”

  There were sixty-eight hours to go. Or was it sixty-seven? She’d lost count, temporarily.

  When she got home, there was a painting about two feet square she’d never seen before, leaning against the wall in the living room. A Post-it said: Mrs. Moore wanted you to have this. She had it in her closet and doesn’t have enough wall space to hang it up.

  The girl knew that wasn’t true. She’d been up there; Mrs. Moore had plenty of wall space. If she accepted the painting, she’d have to talk to Mrs. Moore and listen to all her little stories—she had no time for that now. She went upstairs to return the painting, and knocked.

  The dogs were there, scuffling and huffing behind the door, but Mrs. Moore wasn’t home. The girl couldn’t very well leave the painting in the landing or leaning on the front door, so she brought it back downstairs, to her room.

  And looked at it.

  Rose had found these paintings just a smear of colors. But the girl could see how they made sense. The browns and grays here, the big rectangles and little squares, were so clearly the apartment houses and the five-story building across the way, the view from Clara’s childhood,
the block as it had been before Belle Heights Tower. It looked as though Mr. Moore had painted it while looking out at the world through a thick pane of glass, as if he’d painted this for her alone.

  At her desk, the girl sat at her computer and typed a letter. She didn’t even know what she’d written until she read it over:

  Thank you for the painting. I put it in my room, where I can see it every night last thing and every morning first thing. If you ever want to look at it again, please come downstairs anytime. I’m sorry I never got the chance to meet your husband.

  Yours truly, your neighbor

  She printed it out, folded it in half, went upstairs, and slid it under Mrs. Moore’s door. She heard the dogs again and told them sternly, “Don’t rip that up! It’s not for you.”

  That night the moon cast pale-gray light over Belle Heights Tower. The girl was again hunched over her phone, watching ads, as Clara used to do. Liquid Lenses—to replace unwieldy glasses and messy contact lenses. She swiped it away. A mattress with a built-in alarm that gently nudged you awake. Swipe. Movable tattoos. Swipe. Towels that absorbed water and stayed dry to the touch. Swipe. Memory Enhancement . . . there was the woman in the red car, calling herself “a prisoner of fear.”

  Clara had always felt as though she was the only person in the world watching these things in the middle of the night. But of course Clara wasn’t the only one, far from it; there were millions of ads playing around the clock for millions of people—all of whom, like her, had been specifically targeted. What were all these other people like, she wondered now, what were they hoping to find? Maybe they were people who knew life wasn’t fair and were trying to change the odds.

  No wonder it was such a huge business.

  By the time she went to sleep, she realized there were only about sixty hours to go. Saturday, two p.m. was getting much, much closer. So why did it feel like it was moving further away?