Switched

by Jessica Wollman

  And what sort of parents packed up an entire house for summer vacation but left their daughter behind?

  “Sweetie, are you okay?”

  Laura looked up. Her mother was leaning toward her, a concerned look on her face. Emory was gone.

  “Would you mind changing jobs with me?” Laura blurted. “I don’t think Emory will care as long as it gets done. I’ll take all of the other bedrooms if you’ll take the Willa job? Please?”

  “Oh, come on, sweetie. I work faster,” her mother said. “If I switch with you it’ll be harder for us to get out on time.”

  Laura shrugged. “I don’t mind staying late. Really.”

  “Well, the thing is, I’m going to the movies with a friend I met at bingo. Dr. Pool—you must have seen his van around town? He’s picking me up after work.”

  Laura stared at her mother, frowning slightly.

  A movie? With that pool repair guy? Was this a date? Laura scanned her memory, trying to remember if her mother had ever mentioned Dr. Pool before, but she came up empty.

  Her mother grinned as if everything was normal. “So really, let me take the heavier load, why don’t you? Besides, Willa’s your age. I can see you two really hitting it off.”

  “Listen, Mom. Um, I never told you about this thing that happened yesterday when I met Willa—”

  “I know exactly what you’re going to say.”

  Laura looked at her. “You do?”

  “Uh-huh. I met Willa yesterday too. It’s amazing how much you girls look alike. I just couldn’t get over it.” Her mother paused. “But I got the feeling she isn’t very happy.”

  Laura shook her head in disbelief. Her mother actually felt bad for that brat?

  “Right,” she said, recovering. Her mouth tingled with sourness. “I’m sure she’s miserable. I’ll bet she cries herself to sleep every night in that huge, amazing room. Or maybe she hops from room to room? She could, you know—a different room every night of the year.”

  Placing a hand on her arm, her mother squeezed gently. They stood that way for just a few seconds. Laura could feel the warmth from the work-worn skin as it fanned over her, wrapping around her body like a knit blanket (to launder: always use Caldrea Delicate Wash, gentle cycle, then line dry).

  “Time to go to work,” her mother said.

  Laura trudged up the stairs, lugging her cleaning caddy toward the blue bedroom.

  What a nightmare. The summer hadn’t even officially started and she could already mark it down as the worst of her entire life.

  But why am I still here? Laura wondered again. Why didn’t Willa tell on me?

  Maybe the girl was planning on blackmailing her. Laura smirked as she pushed open Willa’s bedroom door. That was too ridiculous, though. She sighed. Maybe her mom was right. Maybe she’d misjudged the girl. Maybe Willa Pogue was human after all.

  Something snapped against her kneecap.

  She looked down and realized that she was standing in the middle of a hair accessory minefield. They were everywhere: clips, bands, barrettes and brushes. There were hundreds of them.

  The empty room reminded Laura of a movie scene: Character returns home to find that everything has been destroyed by mobsters or Secret Service agents in search of something important.

  In less than twenty-four hours, Willa Pogue had taken a relatively neat bedroom and transformed it into a hard hat—and knee pad—area. Every single drawer had been pulled from the dresser and dumped onto the floor. Sheets and pillows were also on the floor, as was a very expensive-looking laptop. The television was blasting at a volume even the local nursing home would find offensive.

  Laura clicked off the TV. Did Willa do this to get back at me? It doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t she just get me fired and be done with it?

  Forget it, she told herself. You don’t know her. She might be a real sweetheart.

  Laura repeated the same line when she opened Willa’s closet and was pelted with a month’s supply of dirty socks.

  And again—but with much less enthusiasm—when she unlocked Willa’s second trunk to discover that the heiress had packed her shampoo and conditioner without their caps.

  Who does something like this? she wondered as she wiped her soapy hand against a rag.

  And then there was a pounding in the hallway, just outside the door.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I think I have my answer,” she muttered as Willa Pogue herself barged into the room.

  “You! Why are you always here?”

  Laura sighed and turned to face her very spoiled employer.

  Let the good times roll, she thought.

  8

  The dress of the young debutante must be simple and tasteful.

  —Youth’s Educator for Home and Society

  lubespecial: u there?

  boardgirl: yep. but am boredgirl from now on, ok?

  lubespecial: y?

  boardgirl: shopping with my mom.

  lubespecial: thought girls liked that?

  boardgirl: NO. NOT THIS 1. HATE IT.

  lubespecial: ez there. am w/u. been wearing same jeans since i wuz 12.

  boardgirl: TMI. sounds like i shld p/u new pants 4 u. size?

  lubespecial: wait. pants cum in sizes?

  boardgirl: no clu, wanna talk 2 my mom?

  “Willa, put your phone away. It’s just so coarse, typing like that.”

  “Coarse” was Sibby Pogue’s favorite word. It was the adjective she used to define people and behaviors she considered low class: anyone who did not play golf and tennis, short men, women who drank beer, wearing diamonds before noon, mothers who breast-fed their children any place other than a nursery, children who did not attend dancing school . . . The list was endless and frighteningly specific. Willa was certain that, over the years, her mother had labeled every single human being—and some animals—as coarse; Sibby Pogue being the one exception, of course.

  Stuffing the phone into her pocket, Willa sent a telepathic apology to Lubé for cutting out so abruptly. She’d write later and explain.

  Lubé was Willa’s one MySpace friendship that had actually evolved past the confines of the site. They’d met when he’d invited her—and about eighty other random people—to be his “friend” in an attempt to spread the word about his band, Lubé Special. Out of boredom, she’d added him to her list and streamed one of his songs, “Tune Out.” After only an hour, she’d learned every word, beat and chord by heart. She even caught herself air-guitaring a few bars of the solo.

  The entire experience had caught Willa by surprise. She was not, by nature, a music person. Not by a long shot. She didn’t frequent iTunes, didn’t watch MTV. She rarely listened to the radio. But overnight, all that had changed. She’d become a regular Lubéhead (not an official band term. Later on, Willa did mention it to Lubé but he was horrified and strictly forbade its use).

  Despite her miniobsession, Willa had been hesitant to contact Lubé. For the first time ever, she actually felt intimidated by someone on MySpace. Not only was Lubé enormously talented, but he just seemed different than her other “friends.” Even his site was different, since it was on MySpace Music. He didn’t post pictures of his pets or list his favorite TV shows. Lubé’s profile was even sparser than Willa’s: no picture, he went to public school in San Francisco, and he was the singer and lead guitarist in Lubé Special. He did list a few musical influences, but that was as personal as he got.

  Willa knew right from the start that Lubé’s interest in MySpace was strategic rather than social: He’d opened an account to promote his band. His three hundred and twenty “friends” weren’t really friends at all; they were fans. He never changed their ranking or commented about them. Except for posting new songs and band news, Lubé’s page never changed.

  The truth was, Lubé didn’t need MySpace, not like Willa. He wasn’t lonely. And that fact intimidated her way more than his music ever could.

  So rather than risk rejection, Willa had settled for memorizing Lub
é’s profile. Sure it was thin, but it was her only connection to the guy with the haunting voice. Besides, boiling him down to a few concrete facts, folding him up into a nice neat carryall, was oh-so-appealing. Appealing and safe.

  But midway through her research, Willa’s plan hit a snag. Lubé claimed to love a band called the “Sins,” but when she searched for them, she kept winding up at the Vatican’s Web site. It happened so many times that her frustration eventually eclipsed her anxiety. One night, late, Willa e-mailed Lubé. She figured he’d never respond, but by then she didn’t care. She was pissed at the guy for sending her on such a wild-goose chase.

  Lubé responded immediately. He apologized for the typo; the band was called the Shins, and he was ecstatic that Willa was open to listening to them (“My friends wouldn’t let me play them one song,” he’d complained). He also had no idea that the Vatican had its own Web site. How creepy is that? he’d written.

  Willa and Lubé had been in contact ever since. They kept things light, never getting too personal. For instance, Lubé had no idea that Willa was switching schools and she had no idea if he had a girlfriend. But their conversations were frequent—almost daily—and Willa found herself looking forward to them.

  She also found herself wondering what Lubé looked like. She liked to picture a younger version of Gael García Bernal, but she knew that was just wishful thinking. Once she searched online, but she came up with nothing. It was stupid, she realized afterward, since she doubted Lubé was even his real name.

  It was just as well anyway. Public school and in a band. As far as Sibby Pogue was concerned, Lubé was sandpaper.

  “Here we are.”

  Willa looked up and flinched. A Perfect Paradise. Her mother hadn’t mentioned she was taking her here, but where else would they go? If you were Sibby Pogue, clothing was purchased here, in this store, behind this hot-pink lacquered door. The Gap and Old Navy did not exist.

  Willa was trapped in Paradise. With her mother.

  According to the store’s owners, paradise was neon pink; the national tree, the palm. Willa stepped onto the thick green carpet and swiped at her eyes. It was just so bright in here.

  A pretty blond saleswoman approached. Actually, her perfume approached first. “Mrs. Pogue! It’s so nice to see you. And you’ve brought your daughter. Looking for something special today?”

  When her mother spoke her voice contained not a drop of warmth. “Yes, thank you. My daughter needs some more-appropriate things than what she seems to be favoring at the moment. Pants—no jeans. Cashmere sweaters, if they’re in yet. No black, please.” She glanced at her watch. “I’d like to be done here in a half hour, if that’s possible. My husband and I leave tomorrow for the entire summer and I have quite a few errands. . . .”

  It suddenly occurred to Willa that the saleswoman had learned of her parents’ plans at about the same time she had. Willa’s mother had only broken the news to Willa earlier that morning, when they were leaving Pogue Hall.

  She’d also made it perfectly clear that Willa wasn’t invited.

  “There are too many distractions in Newport,” her mother had explained. “Your father and I feel that you need to focus on next year, concentrate on your summer reading; really prioritize. We’ll be back and forth to check in, of course. Plus, we’ll have staff around so you’ll hardly be alone.”

  Willa had said nothing. She knew better than to argue with her mother. Besides, she hated the snooty country club scene at Newport—it was like a boarding school convention up there. If she went, the summer would be nightmarish.

  But it was always nice to be asked.

  “Excuse me? Miss?”

  Willa looked up and realized that the saleswoman was staring at her, an expectant look on her face.

  “I’m sorry,” Willa said. “What was that?”

  “What size do you wear? It’s easier that way. I’ll just bring the clothes to you.”

  “She’s a size thirty-eight.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “At least.”

  Willa felt the color rush to her cheeks. She wanted to correct the statement, but she could never keep the European sizes straight. Was a thirty-eight an eight? Or was it more like a six? And why couldn’t they just go to Abercrombie & Fitch?

  “Um, sure. We’ve got some great things in for fall. Let me just get some outfits together. . . .” As the saleswoman turned away, her eyes met Willa’s. In the silent exchange, Willa detected an undertone of sympathy.

  Is my mother any worse than the usual? Willa wanted to ask. Do you see this all the time?

  On the other hand, maybe it was best not to know.

  Ten minutes later, Willa looked like an Easter egg. At least from the waist up. From the waist down, it was Martha Stewart Living all the way. She was on color overload and it was giving her a headache.

  Standing in the tiny, Pepto-Bismol-colored dressing room, Willa studied her outfit: a bright pink and yellow cashmere sweater paired with navy slacks.

  It was no use; she might as well tell her mother now. She could wear Pogue-friendly clothing dyed all the colors of the rainbow, but what would it matter? It wouldn’t whittle her shoulders or narrow her hips. Her heavy blond hair wouldn’t magically turn sleek and black. She’d still have the same thick, arched eyebrows; the same wide green eyes.

  Everything in this store always looked strange on her. If anything, the clothes seemed to emphasize her un-Pogueishness.

  Plus they itched. Willa glanced down at her outfit. From head to toe the ensemble was one hundred percent cashmere, but wow was it uncomfortable.

  I will never ever wear this, she thought.

  The door swung open—her mother never bothered to knock first—and Willa shifted her weight from leg to leg as her mother’s eyes locked onto her.

  “We’ll take this one,” her mother said. “We’ll buy the sweaters in different color combinations too. Light colors.”

  Tell her. Tell her that you hate this place and all the lavender twinsets you’ve bought here. Tell her that you like black. Tell her that you want to shop someplace else. Vintage sounds cool. . . .

  Willa’s mother clicked her tongue impatiently. “Honestly, Willa, don’t just stand there like a lump. I’ve got a million things to do today. Give me the clothing and let’s get out of here.”

  There was steel in her mother’s voice.

  On the other hand, there was something to be said for not making waves. She could always go home and bury the clothes in the back of her closet and then take a nice, long nap. That might erase this whole pastel catastrophe.

  She was shrinking into herself. This always happened.

  Why are you such a wimp around your parents? You were strong the other day, fighting with that girl. Okay, maybe you crossed into psycho territory, but you definitely got your point across.

  “Did you hear me? Hand me that clothing so I can pay. I’m meeting Tinsley at the club and I need to take you home first. Willa!”

  Looking down at her feet, Willa felt her arm unfold, extending itself.

  She wasn’t strong. Not when it mattered.

  Willa handed the rest of the clothes to her mother. Even though it was eighty degrees outside, Willa wore the cashmere sweater and pants home. She was too tired to change. Ordinarily such a move would have provoked her mother, who considered dressing out of season an extreme act of terrorism, but Sibby was in such a rush that she didn’t seem to notice. When she dropped Willa off at Pogue Hall, she barely even stopped the car.

  Willa ambled up the steps on tired legs. Wet clumps of wool clung to her body and hot pink packages banged against her legs.

  She was melting. Definitely melting. Not changing had been a mistake. Willa yawned loudly. She couldn’t wait to get to her room, strip off her clothes and sleep.

  She could practically feel the weight of the sheets on her aching body.

  And then, just like that, she couldn’t.

  Because as Willa pushed into her room (it was still her room, wasn�
�t it?), there she was, standing right in the middle as if she owned the place. The Twig. She was back, of course.

  9

  Don’t get mad. Get Glad.

  —Glad Trash Bags Slogan

  What sort of psycho wears wool in this heat?

  As Willa Pogue charged across her bedroom, a bright pink and yellow blur laden with shopping bags from a store Laura only dreamed of shopping at—minimum price for a T-shirt was around seventy dollars—Laura knew she should be mounting some sort of counteroffensive. But the girl’s outfit was so bizarre, Laura suffered a momentary brain freeze.

  Willa Pogue was wearing a cable-knit sweater and long wool pants. In the summer. Not to mention the fact that she looked weird. Not just hot, but strange. The clothing stretched across her body but then seemed to hover, refusing to settle in. It was almost as if the wool didn’t like her. Or maybe Willa was the one who was doing the rejecting.

  Either way, just looking at Willa made Laura feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and sweaty.

  She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  Unfortunately, Willa was experiencing no such difficulties.

  “Why are you in here?” she spat. “What is it with you and my room?”

  For the first time, Laura wondered if the girl really was insane. It would explain a lot: the weird throw pillows, her wild outbursts and why she was dressed for the tundra in June. It would also explain why Laura hadn’t been fired.

  No matter. After her explosion yesterday, Laura had sworn never to fight with an employer again. It simply wasn’t worth the stress. Tearing her eyes away from Willa’s pants (were they lined? If so, the girl must be melting), she forced her voice into a neutral tone.