The Hot Fudge Sunday Affair

by Cynthia Blair

  “I know. But I keep thinking of something Mom said. She said, ‘There can be only one queen.’“

  “Well, she’s right.”

  “And then what Daddy just said. About both of us looking as if we’re ‘worthy of the honor.’ And that he’d be hard-pressed to choose one of us over the other.”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid I still don’t follow.”

  “Sooz, remember when you and I traded lives for two weeks? When we pretended to be each other so we could see what each other’s lives were like?”

  “Of course. You mean the Banana Split Affair.”

  That had been the twins’ code name for their scheme of switching identities to see what it was like to be the other. They had chosen that name because Susan had bet Chris that it wouldn’t work—and the stakes were a banana split at the end of the two weeks.

  But it had worked. They managed to convince everyone that Chris was Susan and Susan was Chris. Even their parents couldn’t tell them apart.

  Susan glanced over at her sister. “Why do I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re cooking up something similar?”

  “Listen. Last time you and I pretended we were each other, right? And we were great at it! This time how about if you and I pretend to be the same person?”

  “The same person?”

  “Right. We can both take turns being Christine Pratt!”

  “I don’t know, Chris. . . .”

  “But the mayor doesn’t know me! Most of the people that the queen of Centennial Week will be meeting don’t know me, either! And they certainly won’t know that I have a twin sister!”

  “So you’re saying that one day you’d be queen and the next day I’d show up, pretending to be you, and I’d get to be queen.”

  “Exactly. That way we’d both get to go to some of the dinners and some of the parties and some of the parades.... We’d share the fun!”

  “Just like we shared the work that got you this chance in the first place.” Susan was beginning to come around. “You know, I think you’re right. Maybe it could work.”

  “Of course it could! Let’s do it! Please! Otherwise it won’t be any fun for me. Not when I know you’re home or watching from the sidelines.”

  Slowly a grin crept over Susan’s face. “Well, I’ve got nothing to lose. Yes, I’m game!”

  “Terrific!” Chris reached over and gave her sister a big hug.

  “Hey, I just realized something, you little sneak.” Susan’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been planning this all along, haven’t you? That’s why you insisted that I get my hair cut at the same time you did. And that’s why you made me try on that pink dress. I wouldn’t be surprised if the reason you bought that dress is that I liked it so much!”

  “Guilty, I’m afraid.”

  “You little devil! And you never let on!”

  “Well,” Chris said with a shrug, “you can’t blame me for waiting for just the right time, can you?”

  Suddenly she grew more serious. “Hey, Sooz, there’s only one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Last time around, we told Mom and Dad about our plan, remember?”

  “Yes ...”

  “This time let’s not tell anybody.”

  Susan was doubtful. “Are you sure? What about ... ? What if … ?”

  “Look. In the first place, they’d never let us do it, even though the whole thing is perfectly harmless. I think Mom and Dad would be afraid we’d get caught—which of course we both know will never happen. And in the second place, well, I just think it’ll be a lot more fun this way!”

  “Well ... okay,” Susan agreed reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right. But I know something else we should do differently this time around.”

  “What?”

  “Instead of betting on whether or not we can actually carry this off, let’s just agree to have a big celebration after it’s all over. Just you and me!”

  “Okay. Banana splits again? I hear Fozzy’s makes a great one.”

  “No ... How about hot fudge sundaes this time? After all, variety is the spice of life.”

  “You’ve got a deal! We’ll treat each other to hot fudge sundaes, right after the dedication of the monument. That’s the very last event, isn’t it? On Sunday afternoon.”

  “You realize what we’ve just done, don’t you?” Susan was smiling impishly.

  Chris just stared at her, puzzled. “No, Sooz. What have we just done?”

  Her twin threw back her head and laughed. “We’ve just christened this little caper of ours. We’ll call it ‘The Hot Fudge Sunday Affair’!”

  Chapter Three

  The clear July sky, just deepening to a rich shade of cobalt blue, had become alive with fiery bursts of color. With great fanfare they exploded, one after another, red and green and blue and gold. They jubilantly cascaded through the air, then faded, only to be replaced by even more streaming colors.

  It was the night before Centennial Week, and the long-awaited celebration was being kicked off with an impressive display of fireworks the likes of which the residents of Whittington had never seen before. It appeared that the whole town had come out to see them. They stood everywhere, on back porches and front lawns, on rooftops and fence posts, in the park, the school yards, and the sidewalks. Their necks were craned toward the sky. Everyone seemed to be enjoying them.

  Everyone, that is, except for Felicia Harris, In fact, she had refused to budge from her bedroom that entire evening. Her father, the mayor of Whittington, had insisted, growing so angry at her contrariness that his face and neck turned the same bright shade of red as his scarlet necktie, donned especially for the occasion. Her mother, elegant in her pink linen suit, had pleaded with her, saying it wouldn’t look good if the mayor’s family showed up for the occasion minus their youngest daughter. Even her sisters had gotten into the act. Heather had offered to lend her her white angora sweater if she’d agree to come. Jessica just shrugged and told her she was acting like a baby. But Felicia was a stubborn seventeen-year-old. She’d insisted she’d have no part in it, and she had absolutely no intention of changing her mind.

  So she stayed home, alone. While the rest of her family was off enjoying the fireworks display, she planned to spend the evening pouting. Still, she couldn’t resist a little peak. If she stood at the south window of her bedroom on the third floor of the Harrises’ Victorian home and leaned out just a bit, she could get a glimpse of it. She had to admit that the display was breathtaking. But instead of cheering her up, it only made her feel worse.

  Angrily she looked around her bedroom. The first thing that caught her eye was her teddy bear, lying across her bed, just as it had ever since she was two years old. Without a moment’s hesitation, she picked it up and hurled it across the room. But even her temper tantrum failed. The stuffed bear simply landed in the wicker chair. It looked as comfortable there as it had on the bed. In fact, it looked as if it even preferred it there.

  It was an exquisite bedroom. Or at least she had thought so until lately. The summer before, Felicia had announced to her family that her favorite color was yellow. Immediately her bedroom had been redone in yellow. The wallpaper was the color of daffodils. The bedspread, curtains, and cushions on the wicker chair were all made of fabric printed with sprigs of yellow flowers against a white background. Even the lampshades and throw rugs were yellow. She had adored this room. But tonight nothing seemed right.

  And all because that other girl, that ... that Christine Pratt or whatever her name was, had been chosen to be queen of Centennial Week. Instead of her. Instead of Felicia Harris, the mayor’s daughter.

  Felicia was, in her own eyes, the obvious choice. She was a natural. And she had been expecting to be picked ever since she had first heard rumors of the Centennial Committee choosing a local queen and king to reign over the festivities. And then, just a few weeks before, she heard the news. Not only did it make no sense. It simply wasn’t fair.

  Resolutely, Felicia strode over to the
mirror hung above, her dresser, encased in a yellow wicker frame. The girl looking back at her was confident, poised, sophisticated. Pretty, too, with her waist-length blond hair, gray-blue eyes, and fragile features. Exactly the right kind of girl to represent the town of Whittington. Its citizens. Its young people. To be the queen of Centennial Week.

  The fact that Felicia spent very little time in Whittington didn’t matter to her very much. Ever since she was twelve, she had chosen to go to a boarding school a hundred miles away. After all, where else, could she learn horseback riding—in fact, have it included as part of her normal school day, just like math and English? Certainly not here! Not in a place like Whittington!

  But having few ties to the town and not a single real friend there didn’t seem very important. All Felicia knew was that there was something she’d wanted—and she hadn’t gotten it.

  For the hundredth time in the past three weeks, she opened up the old copy of the Whittington Herald dated June 30. On the front page, in the bottom-right corner, were two small grainy photographs. One was of a boy, posing with Whittington High’s football coach. The other was a girl, about her age, smiling winningly at the camera. It looked like a candid shot, taken at a game or after school. For the school yearbook, perhaps. Above was the caption “King and Queen Chosen for Centennial Week.”

  The article below was short, really just a paragraph. And it said very little besides the names of the boy and girl selected and the reasons they’d been chosen. Jeffrey Miller, the newspaper said, had scored more touchdowns the autumn before than any other student in the school’s history. And Christine Pratt had written an extensive research paper on the history of Whittington. There wasn’t much information other than that.

  But it was enough for Felicia.

  “I’ll get you, Christine Pratt,” she muttered, folding up the newspaper and putting it back into her dresser drawer. “Starting tomorrow, I’m going to make a point of spoiling things for you. No one gets away with something like this!”

  Chapter Four

  Chris stood outside the entrance of City Hall, trying to convince herself that there was no reason in the world to be nervous. It was Monday, the first day of Centennial Week. She knew she looked perfect in her light blue flowered sundress with its matching scarf draped around her neck and shoulders in the flattering way her twin had devised.

  And she certainly felt comfortable enough in this building. Just a few months earlier she had spent countless hours there as she researched her report after school and on Saturday mornings, poking around the vast collection of deeds, birth certificates, and other records that were stored in the basement.

  As for the town over which she was about to reign, she’d lived in Whittington ever since she was born. Every street, house, and building was familiar to her. Over and over she reminded herself that today was going to be fun. But try as she did, she couldn’t manage to get the butterflies in her stomach to stop the frantic beating of their wings.

  Finally she took a deep breath and strode inside the building, muttering “Here goes!” under her breath. As she’d been instructed by the letter she received back in June, she went upstairs to report to the mayor’s office.

  She’d never actually been in Mayor Harris’s office before. The reception area was impressive, with its soft brown leather furniture, thick carpeting, and a huge desk, behind which sat an attractive young woman with long dark hair and round eyeglasses with red frames.

  Sitting on the edge of the leather couch was a boy about her age, dressed in a navy-blue blazer, white shirt, and red-white-and-blue-striped tie. His blond hair was still wet from his morning shower, but a small cowlick at the crown of his head popped up defiantly.

  She immediately recognized him as Jeff Miller, her “king.” She had never really talked to him at school; after all, he was a year ahead of her. But Chris knew who he was. Who didn’t, with his incredible football record? She was relieved to see that he looked as nervous as she felt.

  “Hi,” she said to both Jeff and the woman behind the desk. She was thinking that that was hardly a fitting greeting for a queen who was meeting her king for the very first time. But for the moment she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Hi,” Jeff returned with a bashful smile.

  “Oh, you must be Christine. I’m Ann Benson, Mayor Harris’s secretary.” She came over and shook her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. And congratulations!”

  “Thank you.” Chris was starting to feel a bit better.

  “I read that research project of yours. It was great. You must have spent a lot of time going through all those ancient town records in that musty old basement of ours! How did you ever know where to begin? I don’t think anyone else has dared to venture down there for years!”

  Before Chris could answer, a much deeper voice interrupted. “Well, well, well. You must be Christine and Jeffrey. I’m Mayor Harris. Welcome and congratulations!” With great formality, he shook both their hands. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us. We’re going to ... hmmm.” His forehead furrowed, and he looked pleadingly at Ann. “What exactly do we have on for today, Ms. Benson?”

  “I’ve typed up your exact itinerary.” She handed him a sheet of paper with the day’s schedule clearly laid out for him. Chris could barely suppress a giggle.

  “Fine. But first we have to wait until my daughter gets here. I’m afraid she’s invited herself along on our expedition this morning.” Almost to himself, he mused, “Funny, ask any of the city council members, and they’ll tell you what a hard-nose I am. But when it comes to Felicia, she always seems to get around me somehow.”

  Felicia sauntered in then. She looked as if being concerned about the possibility of keeping the others waiting was the last thing on her mind. Chris loved her own flowered sundress. But Felicia’s white linen dress looked like something out of Vogue magazine, and Chris suddenly felt frumpy: Or at least as if she were dressed like a little girl instead of a sophisticated young woman.

  But she tried to be friendly. “Hello, Felicia,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m Christine Pratt. And this is ...”

  “Yes, I know who you are.” Felicia’s steely blue eyes appraised her coldly. Chris was afraid she disapproved of the way she was dressed or the way she looked. She had no way of knowing that the older girl was having exactly the opposite reaction.

  The mayor’s daughter was much nicer to Jeff. She flashed him a huge smile and cocked her head flirtatiously. “And I certainly know who you are,” she cooed. “Why, who doesn’t? You’re a positive celebrity in this town. And I happen to be a real football fan.”

  Jeff was turning a bright shade of red. Chris actually felt sorry for him.

  “You know, I’ve been following your football career for ages. It seems that every time I look in the newspaper, there’s your picture, along with some glowing report on how you just won another game for Whittington High.”

  Felicia suddenly turned to her father. “Well, Daddy,” she said with great impatience, “what on earth are we waiting for? If we don’t get moving, we’re going to be late!”

  As the foursome went out the front entrance, their schedule for the day tucked away safely in Mayor Harris’s pocket, Chris was overcome with excitement. She was about to begin her first day as queen of Centennial Week! Even Felicia, chattering away beside her, couldn’t put a damper on her enthusiasm. And when a sleek black limousine pulled up in front and a uniformed chauffeur jumped out to open the car door, she thought she was going to burst.

  Wait until I tell Susan! was all she could think.

  As their chauffeur for the week, Thomas, helped her inside the blue velour-covered backseat, Chris really did feel like royalty. This was turning out even better than her wildest dreams.

  Their first stop was the new town library, an important-looking red brick building right across the street from the high school. Chris knew that Susan had been anticipating its opening with glee, and she wished it were her turn today so th
at she could be at the dedication. But as soon as she went inside, she became so engrossed in what was going on that she forgot all about her twin.

  Everything in the library was brand-new. It even smelled new, Chris noted, inhaling deeply. Moss-green carpeting, big tables and comfortable chairs, rows of wooden shelves that seemed to go on forever. And, of course, books everywhere. There was even a special children’s section. It had tiny tables and chairs, painted bright colors like red and yellow and blue, and the walls were painted with balloons and giant animals. It was such a pleasant place that Chris found herself actually looking forward to spending time here, reading and studying.

  The main reading room was filled with people. What seemed like hundreds of men and women were standing around and chatting, drinking coffee and eating donuts served from a table in the back near the magazine section. While Chris was still debating whether or not it was appropriate for a queen to gorge herself on donuts, Felicia and her father disappeared. Even Jeff got lost in the crowd. So she wandered around by herself, looking for someone to talk to.

  As she studied the faces around her more carefully, she began to recognize some of the people there. She had seen some of them in the local newspaper. Some had even been on television. She realized that these were some of the town’s most prominent citizens. And so she was surprised and flattered when they all seemed anxious to meet her.

  “So you’re Christine,” said Katherine Marshall, a member of the council known for the strides she had made in improving the Whittington school system. Years earlier, Ms. Marshall had insisted that computers were the wave of the future. Despite a great deal of resistance from both the school board and a band of skeptical parents, she had managed to acquire computers for each school. “I haven’t had a chance to read your research paper yet, but everyone says it’s just wonderful. Tell me: How did you decide to study local history? So few young people today seem to be interested in the local scene. Certainly, they’re anxious to change the world, but they tend to think in terms of state, or even federal government....”