Switched

by Jessica Wollman

  Willa looked around. She was working herself into a semipanic. And where was Emory anyway? It was weird that the kitchen was so empty when her parents were entertaining.

  She glanced down at the ice cream again. The damp, smiling faces of Ben and Jerry peered up at her—so blithe, so carefree. They wanted her to enjoy their product, didn’t they? She could have just a few, delicious spoonfuls in the privacy of her own room, right? What was so wrong with that? A girl her age could be doing so much worse. Why didn’t her mother understand that?

  Willa sighed. Ever since she was little her mother had bothered her about her weight. It had started subtly, with comments like “I wonder when Willa’s going to get rid of her baby belly? She’s the only one in kindergarten who still has one.” By the time she was eight, all junk food and sugar were cut from her diet. Permanently.

  Even then, Willa had known it was a ridiculous move. Impossible, even. The restriction was successful only in that it increased her appetite for all food—especially junk food. So she’d simply started smuggling the forbidden snacks up to her room. Since her parents barely spent any time with her—she couldn’t remember the last time they’d even been to her wing of the house—the system had proven pretty much foolproof.

  Willa’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten a thing all day.

  I have the worst eating habits, she thought. She knew she tended to eat more—especially more of the high calorie stuff—when she was upset or stressed.

  Like now, for instance.

  Whatever. She was definitely going to eat the entire pint of ice cream upstairs in her room, alone. A depressing scenario, but at least it would taste good.

  Just get upstairs, she thought. You’ll calm down; check in at MySpace. You’ll feel better. You have the whole day to change around your site.

  At the thought, Willa felt her body relax. She’d discovered MySpace at boarding school. A few girls in her dorm had enjoyed discussing their friends—and thanking each other for adds—at an incredibly loud volume. They’d never encouraged Willa to sign up, but she’d visited the site anyway.

  Six months later she had over fifty “friends” of all ages, from all over the world. Sure, Willa suspected that some of her “friends” were slightly less than honest in their profiles. For instance, three were leaving to tour with the All-American Rejects and five swore they were the illegitimate offspring of Axl Rose. Willa had done a little research and thought the latter claims might actually be possible—the guy had certainly lived—but it was hard to know for sure since none of her “friends’ ” declared ages were less than a hundred and five.

  Whatever. Everyone was allowed to color reality a little, right? That was the beauty of MySpace. And even if they were lying, Willa’s “friends” certainly beat her parents’ lame fix-ups. Every day, she looked forward to reading about Roger’s jerk of a football coach or Allie’s new kitten.

  Even Willa’s profile was a little misleading. She went by a pseudonym—boardgirl—and didn’t include a picture of herself. She kept her page purposefully simple: a few quotes (“Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.”—Mark Twain), a song from her favorite band, Lubé Special, and her list of friends.

  What Willa loved most about MySpace was her lack of identity. She felt free online. Once she typed in her password, her towering family tree crumbled into a tiny pile of kindling. Boardgirl wasn’t a Pogue. She didn’t even know Willa. In the world of MySpace, Willa was as nameless and shapeless as an empty laundry bag.

  And she loved it.

  Reaching behind her back, she grabbed a spoon off the counter and turned to go, colliding with a woman—one of the maids. The ice cream slid through her hands and landed between them with a loud, damning thud. She bent over to pick it up.

  “I’m so sorry!” the woman cried.

  Willa was totally busted. Hiding her face behind a thick sheet of yellow hair, she stole a glance at the uniformed figure above her. The woman’s light brown hair was streaked with gray; her round body looked solid. Willa didn’t recognize her. Hadn’t her mother mentioned that Emory had hired some additional staff?

  Okay, Willa thought, her pulse calming. Maybe this really wasn’t such a disaster. The new employees probably hadn’t been briefed about her diet yet.

  “No problem,” she said, straightening. She tried to sound as smooth as possible. She held her ice cream as if she had nothing to hide. “I’m really the one who—”

  “Oh my!”

  The woman stared at her, a look of complete horror on her face. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were rounder than the Oreos Willa hid at the back of her bedroom closet.

  Color flooded Willa’s cheeks.

  Great, she thought. So Emory had already laid down the law. What did he do, pass out flyers?

  “Fine,” she snapped, rolling her eyes. “I’ll put it back. I’m not having one of those gross vegetable sandwiches, though.”

  “No, no.” The woman spoke slowly as if in a trance. “It’s your face—you look . . .”

  Willa shrugged. “Look, it’s just ice cream. I think its chocolate that’s supposed to give you zits.” She smiled wryly. “Besides, we Pogues don’t even get zits. Or didn’t Emory tell you that?”

  The woman cleared her throat. “It’s just that you look like my—well, I suppose it’s not important. . . . Now, you poor thing, your ice cream is melting. Let’s get you a bowl for that, shall we?”

  Willa blinked. This sudden generosity really caught her off guard. The staff wasn’t usually very friendly. They seemed to follow her parents’ lead and treat her as if she were on some sort of permanent probation.

  “I’m Andrea Melon,” the woman continued as she scooped Willa’s ice cream into a large bowl. “But you can call me Andy. I just started working for your family today.”

  “It’s, uh, nice to meet you,” Willa said.

  She was about to ask Andy why she’d been so spooked, when she heard footsteps in the hall. Willa’s heart started to thump again. She’d better not push her luck. It might be Emory. She, Ben and Jerry had to get up to her room.

  “Listen, I know you’re busy—what with my mom’s guests and all,” she said, reaching across the table to grab her ice cream. “So I’ll just get out of your way, okay?”

  The older woman placed her hand on Willa’s arm for a split second. It felt warm and reassuring.

  “You’re not in my way at all, dear,” she said. “But you do what you like. It’s such a pretty day out. I’m sure you have lots of fun things planned.”

  There were voices attached to the footsteps now.

  Willa had to go. Immediately.

  She held up her free hand in a light wave. “See ya.”

  Andy turned and winked at her, the skin around her eyes wrinkling sweetly.

  Willa slipped up the back stairs, narrowly avoiding Emory. As she climbed the steps, she thought of Andy’s comment—I’m sure you have lots of fun things planned.

  Sure I do, Willa thought as she opened the door to her bedroom. The air felt thick and stale. What’s more fun than spending a little quality time at MySpace with Ben and Jerry?

  5

  So Clean You Can See Yourself

  —Formula 409 All-Purpose Cleaner

  1977 Ad Slogan

  Laura stepped inside the blue bedroom and stared at the wide plank floors. They were hand-painted; the tiny blue and yellow flowers matched the blue-trimmed walls. The sun streamed over the rich whitewashed furniture and, in the back of the room, a sky-blue window seat was piled high with plush cushions. Emory had mentioned something about the Pogues’ having a daughter. This must be her room.

  As far as assignments went, she could do worse. Her mother had gotten stuck with the rest of the staff serving the Pogues’ lunch guests, while she was here to unpack an obscenely large trunk. It was boring, but she was alone; she could work at her own pace.

  She scratched her neck. If only her uniform d
idn’t itch so much. She’d probably get a rash.

  At least she’d been wrong about one thing: The uniforms hadn’t smelled. They just felt as though they were made of straw.

  Laura allowed herself to imagine, for just a few seconds, what life would be like if this were her room. She pictured herself relaxing on the window seat, doing some light reading, or finishing a paper at the elegant six-drawer desk. If this were her room, she’d never have to think about money—not ever. And she could use any shower in the house without worrying about having to scrub it later on (Scrubbing Bubbles is the best on soap scum. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise).

  If this were her room, she’d be leaving for college in just a few weeks.

  “Whoever lives here has a perfect life,” Laura informed the empty room. Her voice caught a little in her throat.

  Her eyes drifted over to the bed. It was covered with throw pillows, each with a different motivational slogan embroidered on it—YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO RICH OR TOO THIN!, LOOKING GOOD IS FEELING GOOD! and YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT!

  “This Pogue kid must be a real—” Laura said, and then froze. There was a picture on the bedside table in a thick silver frame.

  It was a picture of her.

  Well, it wasn’t exactly her—but it was close. The complexion was the same: blond hair, green eyes and skin unusually dark for someone with such fair hair—people were always asking Laura if she used a spray-on tanner. The soft, round nose was identical too—even down to the light splash of freckles across the bridge. She wore her bright blond hair down, while Laura’s was pulled into a ponytail. The similarity was amazing.

  Laura thought back to her run-in with the pink lady—Mrs. Havendale. She’d just assumed that the woman was a little strange—her outfit certainly was—but now her reaction made sense. She’d mistaken Laura for the Pogues’ daughter. She’d called her . . . what was it?

  “Willa,” Laura said to the picture, her memory suddenly returning full force.

  She scanned the room, then frowned, disappointed. There weren’t any other pictures hanging up. How tall was Willa Pogue? What shoe size did she wear?

  Laura walked over to the bookshelf. It was stuffed with yearbooks, pennants and pins from Shipley Academy. She pulled a book off the shelf and started to flip through. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this excited.

  “Willa Pogue . . . Willa . . . where are you?” she muttered. She noticed that the girl’s yearbook pages were just as empty and unsigned as her own.

  So that’s another thing we have in common, Laura thought. Neither of us are exactly A-listers.

  “What are you doing?”

  The voice that pierced Laura’s thoughts matched her own down to the very last cadence, tone and intonation. It was as if there were a recording of her playing somewhere in the room. She was so startled that she dropped the yearbook and spun around.

  Willa Pogue looked exactly like her, Laura noted with some satisfaction. It really was amazing. They were like socks from a matched pair. Looks were looks. She and Willa shared the exact same height and features. They had the same coloring, too.

  Except for now, of course.

  Willa was purple with fury.

  And Laura was red with embarrassment.

  “I—I’m so sorry,” she stammered. She stared hard at Willa, waiting for her to realize that they were basically identical in every way. She figured that would help smooth things over.

  “Emory sent me up here to unpack your trunk,” she explained, but as she said the words she realized the excuse sounded painfully lame.

  “Oh, and you thought the key would be in one of my yearbooks?” Willa said, her voice thick with sarcasm.

  Laura shook her head and tried again. “Look, I’m sorry. I was just interested. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Oh, forget it, just shut up,” Willa snapped, her eyes flashing. “Go ahead—you already started. Look at everything, okay? I don’t even care anymore.”

  Then she stomped off.

  Laura sighed as she bent over to collect the fallen yearbook.

  “Well,” she said, softly, “at least I learned more about Willa Pogue.”

  6

  In speaking to a servant, either a lady or a gentleman will ever be patient, courteous, kind, not presuming on his or her power.

  —Manners and Social Usages

  Mrs. John M.E.W. Sherwood

  As Willa stormed out of her bedroom and down the hall, several thoughts ran through her head:

  (1) Now the maid knew she was a total loser.

  (2) The new maid was a thinner, prettier version of herself.

  (3) Her ice cream was all melted.

  Although number three was upsetting, one and two were far more disturbing.

  She dropped down on the top of the steps and gave the ice cream a small shove, not bothering to hide it. She was way too miserable to care if Emory caught her.

  How much did that maid see?Willa thought, burying her head in her hands. Why hadn’t she put those stupid yearbooks away? Or better yet, just tossed them out? They made her feel like such a loser—and she felt like one on a pretty regular basis anyway. Besides, she was barely in them. She wouldn’t have even ordered them, but they were included in the price of school tuition. Every year they’d simply been shipped home automatically, so she’d stuck them on her shelf.

  Why did I leave that stupid twig alone in my room? Willa thought, her eyes fierce. It’s my room! And why do I even care what she thinks?

  Willa raced back to her bedroom. The girl was standing over the open footlocker folding a shirt. When she saw Willa her mouth fell open but no sound came out.

  “Get out!” Willa snapped. “Now!”

  Had she ever yelled like this? It felt strange to hear her voice this fierce, this angry. Even she knew she sounded insane, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Just looking at the girl, so neat and trim, made her feel like punching the wall.

  The maid dropped the shirt and rubbed her hands together, as if they’d been burnt.

  “I can’t,” she said, her cheeks turning pink. “I have work to do in here and if I leave I’ll—”

  “I don’t care!” Willa shouted. “This isn’t your room, you know. I live here!”

  The girl’s face suddenly lit with anger. “Look, do you think I want to be here?”

  Willa instinctively took a step backward. “What?” She couldn’t tell what had surprised her more—the girl’s rage or the fact that her wide-set eyes matched her own so perfectly.

  “You heard me. It’s not like I chose to be here, you know,” the girl said. She raised her arms in a grand, sweeping gesture. “Do you think this is fun for me? Well, here’s some news: unpacking your disgusting trunk isn’t a thrill. But I need to work so that I can pay for college. Not like you’d ever understand that.”

  Willa watched, stunned, as the girl picked up the dropped shirt, refolded it and placed it neatly on the bed. The movements were practiced and fluid.

  Standing in the doorway, Willa was suddenly unsure of what to do or say. She was—for the second time—a guest in her own bedroom. After a few minutes, she silently turned and walked down the hall. When she reached the stairs, she sat back down on the top step, next to her now-liquefied bowl of Ben & Jerry’s.

  And then Willa curled her body into a tiny ball and burst into tears.

  7

  “You’re soaking in it.”

  —Madge the Manicurist,

  Palmolive Commercial, 1966–92

  We’re definitely getting fired.

  Ever since Laura’s showdown with Willa Pogue, the thought had become her mantra.

  She’d totally blown it yesterday. What was she thinking, telling off a member of the family? Laura had never done anything like that on a job. Of course she was going to be dismissed. She was surprised it hadn’t happened last night.

  Laura looked at her mother, and a bubble instantly formed in her throat. She’d wanted to prepare her, but her
mother had been in such a great mood when they’d gotten off work. She’d run off to bingo at the community center and then cooked a late dinner in celebration of their new job—and what she was certain were her winning Lotto tickets. She’d lost, of course, but even that hadn’t dampened her spirits. And Laura had wanted her to go to bed happy.

  But now, standing beside her mother in the Pogues’ massive kitchen, Laura knew she’d made a mistake.

  I should have apologized, she thought. This is my fault. All my fault.

  Emory cleared his throat.

  Laura held her breath.

  “We’re leaving for Newport tomorrow—Mr. and Mrs. Pogue and the regular staff. We’re packing up the Pogues’ travel car now. It’ll take the rest of the afternoon.” The butler looked around the spotless kitchen. “There’s so much to be done. I’ll give you your assignments for the summer and then I’m off. . . .”

  Why wasn’t he yelling at her? He was acting as if he had no idea that she’d had a huge, screaming fight with Willa Pogue. But that was impossible—wasn’t it?

  “. . . her room needs to be cleaned, her closets combed through because they’re in a state and her dressers relined.”

  Laura tuned back in to the conversation to find that Emory was now staring directly at her, rattling on about something—or someone.

  “Her other trunks arrived from school late last night, so once you’re finished with the first, you can get started on those,” the butler continued.

  Laura’s body tensed as she began to understand the “what,” and “whom,” Emory was talking about.

  “Listen, I’m not sure—”

  “Everything needs to be repacked for school in the fall, of course,” Emory pushed on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “And you’ll have to work around her since it has been decided”—at this, Emory slid his gaze just over Laura’s head—“that Willa will not accompany her parents to Newport.” He cleared his throat. “But that’s fine. Winter clothes are on the third floor. Cashmere is kept separately. . . .”

  This is worse than getting fired, Laura thought, her head swimming. Willa Pogue totally hated her, and now she was stuck in the girl’s room all summer? What kind of terrible karmic retribution was this? So, she’d snooped through the kid’s yearbook because they were look-alikes. Some cleaning people stole things! She’d even met one woman who tried on her employer’s clothing—right down to her underwear. Laura would never do anything like that.