Switched

by Jessica Wollman

  Maybe Angie’s not so bad after all, Laura thought charitably.

  “She can’t wait to be your stepsister. And roommate.”

  Suddenly, the room was spinning. The air had run cold.

  Her mother shot Benji a look and asked him for a moment alone with her daughter. He kissed her cheek and stepped out of the room.

  “Mom, what’s going on?”

  Her mother spoke softly. “Honey, I’m sorry. I know this is a lot and I wanted to explain it all myself—you know, just the two of us.” She sighed. “It’s true. Benji and Angie are going to move in and since there are only two bedrooms here you girls will have to share a room.”

  Laura dug deep, she really did. She tried to think up something—anything—positive to say about her new living situation. But she just couldn’t do it.

  Her mother’s voice was normal—cheerful and bright—but something in her expression told Laura there was something she wasn’t telling her.

  “Until Christmas, the house will be all girls—just you, Angie and me. Won’t that be fun?”

  “Why? Where’s Benji going?” Laura asked.

  “Well, Benji has a brother in Miami and they’d like to open a Dr. Pool down there this winter,” her mother explained. “He’s leaving Angie in charge of things up here and is planning to be back by December.”

  “Wait. I don’t understand,” Laura said. “You guys are engaged and now he’s just . . . leaving?”

  “Benji asked me to go with him, but I told him that you and I were a team and that I just couldn’t leave you. I didn’t think it was fair to you, what with the business and all.”

  Laura opened her mouth, then closed it. “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t know what to say.”

  Her mother reached for Laura’s hand, her engagement ring sparkling in the light. “It’s fine, honey. Really. We’ll talk every day and Benji’s going to teach me how to use the computer so I can . . .”

  Laura couldn’t listen to any more. She felt too guilty. Her mother loved Benji, and she wasn’t going to see him for four whole months because of her fully grown daughter? It didn’t seem fair.

  On the other hand, leaving Laura alone with a full cleaning roster and Angie hardly seemed fair either.

  “. . . Oh, and Benji wanted you to know,” her mother was saying, “just as soon as he gets this new business up and running, he’s going to really try and add money to your college account, Laura. He’s not sure he’ll be able to this year—for your freshman year—but he’s determined to, just as soon he can. Because you’re his daughter now too.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Laura said. “That’s really sweet of him.”

  “It is, isn’t it? He’s always surprising me.”

  A small giggle escaped her mother’s lips and her hand flew up to her mouth to stifle it. And it was then that Laura understood: her mother had purposely tried to check her excitement because she didn’t want that to sway Laura’s thinking.

  But the truth was her mother was dying to go to Florida. The giggle had said it all. It hung in the air, leaving a trail of tiny exclamation points around her mother’s head.

  Her mother loved Benji. Her place was with him now.

  Laura ran through the fall cleaning roster. She could handle the homes by herself for a few months. It would be tedious, but she could do it.

  But life with Angie? Laura had tried to picture it, but the best her stress-addled brain could conjure was an image of herself in traction.

  Okay, maybe Florida wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  And that was when she caught sight of her mother’s hand, resting in her own. That red, callused skin—a housecleaning casualty.

  My mother has never taken a vacation, Laura realized.

  Suddenly another vision shot through her mind: her mother, sitting in the sun, walking along the beach and buying Lotto cards at a seaside 7-Eleven.

  Leaning forward, she impulsively threw her arms around her mother’s neck and kissed her cheek. “I’m so happy for you,” she blurted out. Tears pearled in the corners of her eyes. “And you’ve got to promise to send me lots of postcards from Miami.”

  Her mom pulled back, confused. “But, honey—”

  “Mom. For once, don’t worry about Darien Full Service Home Maintenance. I can totally take care of things here, and you can be with Benji.”

  “Oh, Laura, I don’t think—”

  “Mom! It’s only four months, right?”

  “It’s just—we’ve never been apart, Laura,” her mom had said, biting her lip. “We’ve been a team, ever since you were born.”

  “We still will be. But it’s like you said. You know when you’ve won the Lotto.” Laura had squeezed her mom’s callused hand. “And you have, Mom. For once in your life, just have fun. Eat key lime pie, wear bright clothes, rent a convertible—do whatever it is middle-aged people in Florida do. And I’ll be totally okay.” She’d taken a big breath. “Angie and I will be fine.”

  By the look on her mother’s face, Laura knew she’d done the right thing. She and her mom and Benji had spent the rest of the night laughing and talking. And at the time, Laura had meant every word.

  Now, however, standing in the entryway, breathing foul, possibly toxic fumes, Laura wondered if perhaps she’d overstated things.

  For instance, there was obviously a broken sewage pipe somewhere in the building. That was something she really, really didn’t feel up to dealing with.

  But what choice did she have? Her mother was over at Benji’s planning the Florida trip.

  “Great,” she muttered, clamping a hand over her nose.

  Her life really did stink.

  She dreaded calling the super—a total jerk—but she knew that her bitterness really stemmed from that Fenwick lunch and the knowledge that her fate was now sealed. Having turned down Willa’s offer, Laura would never see Fenwick Academy in its fully realized, three-dimensional glory.

  “What did you expect?” she asked herself. “That someone was going to show up and magically offer you a scholarship? You don’t belong there. You already graduated from high school. And now you’re talking to yourself.”

  The super’s number was in the kitchen, taped to the refrigerator. Laura trudged down the hall, feeling increasingly sorry for herself with every step. Her apartment was broken and disgusting. She was going to have to beg the super to make an after-hours house call. He’d probably expect a tip or—

  Ooph.

  Laura’s foot slid into something hard, sending her flying.

  A purple footlocker. It had Angie written all over it. Literally. It was clearly a homemade job: manic bubble letters, strangely malformed block letters, plain, bold print and even a few failed attempts at calligraphy.

  “No,” Laura said. Her mouth seemed unable to form any other words. “No.”

  The phone rang.

  Laura didn’t want to answer. She wanted to run away and live in a ditch. Or under a bridge. Or even hurl herself from one.

  Still holding her nose, she reached for the phone. “Hello?”

  Loud static shot through her ear, so piercing that Laura almost dropped the receiver. She frowned and rubbed her head.

  “Ow, I mean, hello?” she repeated.

  “Professor! How are you?”

  “Hi, Angie,” she said weakly. “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Great! I keep trying to swing by but summers are crazy for Dad and me. People freak out if they can’t go swimming, you know?”

  “I’ll bet.” Laura checked her watch. She really hoped Angie wouldn’t talk for long. She had to get a handle on the plumbing situation.

  “Anyway,” Angie said, “I was just calling about the rug. Isn’t it great?”

  “Rug?” Laura asked.

  “Aw, did I ruin the surprise? I know we’re not, like, official roomies for another month but I saw it and thought it’d be perfect so I was like, hey, why not start decorating now? I put it in your room. . . .”

  Laura’s mouth
fell open.

  “No,” she whispered. “No.”

  “I meant to move my trunk too, but then I got beeped. . . .”

  Laura leaned against the wall and pinched the bridge of her nose. She’d never had a migraine before, but she was sure a massive one was about to hit and she wanted to be prepared.

  “And I burned you a CD—kind of like a belated birthday gift. It’s in your room, too.”

  “Thanks, Angie. That’s, um, really sweet.”

  “I’m just sorry it’s late. But I’ll make it up to you. We’ll have lots more birthdays together, right? Listen, I’m driving into a tunnel so I better—”

  She was gone, in a blaze of crackling feedback.

  Laura hung up the phone and walked to her room. When she reached her doorway, she nudged the door open with her foot and winced as the smell of decaying trash hit her full force.

  There it was.

  Stretched out across the floor was the rattiest rug Laura had ever seen. It was supposed to be zebra skin but was so filthy that the white stripes were almost as dark as the black. In many spots the fur had been completely rubbed off. And, of course, the odor was unbearable.

  “Why is this happening to me?” Laura wailed.

  The CD was on top of the rug. The cover featured a picture of Angie sitting in Yellow Thunder, wearing yellow shades and flashing the peace sign. She’d named the mix The Professor’s Got Yellow Fever.

  Was it possible that Angie had actually never heard of the yellow fever virus?

  Actually, the name is weirdly fitting, Laura thought. At this very moment, I’m probably contracting some entirely new, disgusting disease that’s passed only through low-quality animal prints.

  Laura was a practical girl. She was thoughtful and disciplined. She never grabbed more than one napkin from a dispenser and only shopped during sales. She reused Ziploc bags and wrapping paper. In kitchens, her favorite cabinet was the silverware drawer, with its neat lines and subdivisions. Order ruled her life. Common sense guided her every move.

  And it was sheer common sense that was speaking to her now—shouting, in fact—telling her that life with Angie was a practical impossibility.

  I can’t do it, she thought, staring at the rug. Angie’s not even here yet and I can’t take it. And there’s no real, honest way out, either. If I tell my mom or Benji the truth they’ll be crushed. But if I tell Angie the truth, well, she’ll be crushed too, I guess. Or she’ll crush me. She’ll crush me even if I don’t hurt her feelings.

  Laura sighed. Willa was right. It was risky, but it just might work.

  Slowly, with her usual care and attention, she dressed herself in Willa’s clothing—the clothing she’d been too furious to return after the luncheon.

  Ten minutes later Laura was gliding into Willa’s room.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Willa Pogue.”

  Willa was sitting on her bed. She shoved the rest of a Pop-Tart into her mouth, stretched her arms high over her head and smiled.

  “You rich kids sure do like to make an entrance.”

  16

  The ball may only last for one night but being a debutante is most certainly a forever thing.

  —Rules for Debutantes

  Lacey Chandler

  Willa opened her eyes and stared at her alarm clock.

  One minute. She only had to be herself for one more minute.

  “Why wait?” she asked the darkness of her room, leaning over to click off the alarm. She hopped out of bed and dressed quickly. She felt like she was floating and gave her head a hard shake—a reminder that she wasn’t dreaming.

  It was August twenty-sixth: move-in day at Fenwick Academy. For all boarding school students, move-in symbolized the death of summer. Sure, classes wouldn’t start up for another few days—there was always the prerequisite stream of boring assemblies and picnics—but vacation was essentially over. It was back to bondage, a return to the monotony of schedules and the pack mentality. . . .

  Except this year, Willa’s move-in day meant something else entirely: no more tests; no more snooty kids; no more disappointed teachers. Not for the next few months at least.

  She was free.

  Willa grabbed her bags and padded down the dark hallway. When she reached the top of the staircase, she leaned forward slightly and considered the grand floor beneath her. The oversized chandeliers flickered in the morning sun, but somehow—even in the light—the polished marble still looked onyx.

  She’d be cleaning those floors tomorrow, Willa realized, a strange excitement spreading over her.

  She pressed her full weight against the banister and lifted her feet off the ground.

  She’d left the mansion a million times, but today felt different. Today her stomach wasn’t lined with dread.

  And, of course, she’d be back tomorrow.

  But tomorrow she’d be Laura Melon.

  Lowering herself onto the carpet, Willa scanned the luxurious expanse of her childhood home. “You won’t tell, right?” she whispered conspiratorially.

  When the station wagon rolled into the driveway at six-fifteen, Willa was waiting by the kitchen door. She tossed her bags into the backseat, then silently followed Laura into the mudroom, where the trunks and suitcases were packed and waiting for Laura’s Fenwick sojourn. They loaded them into the back of the car, then slid into the front seat.

  “Did anyone see you upstairs?” Laura probed.

  Willa tried to send her a withering look, but it was dark and Laura’s head was lowered over her seat belt. “It’s six in the morning. Who would’ve seen me?”

  “I don’t know. Someone. It only takes one witness, you know.”

  “Calm down,” Willa said. Her yawn stretched into a grin. “It’s not like I was walking through the house with a sawed-off shotgun. I was carrying a duffel bag on the morning before school. Even if someone did see me—which they didn’t—why would they be suspicious?”

  Laura drove the car down the long circular driveway toward the street. “I don’t know. They wouldn’t, I guess. Sorry, I’m just nervous.”

  “Why? Everything’s gone smoothly so far.”

  It was true. Laura had finished her summer reading, filled out her housing application and packed without a hitch. Nobody at Fenwick had even blinked.

  Laura checked the rearview mirror. Her voice was still tense. “I think maybe that’s why. It just seems too easy.”

  “If you’re really gonna be me until Christmas you’ve gotta try and relax,” Willa said, shaking her head. She looked out her window, at the shadowy trees and black houses. “Let’s go over the rules again. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “Good idea,” Laura said, visibly perking up at the thought of doing something constructive. “Okay. We can’t contact one another at all, unless it’s an emergency.”

  “Right.” Laura didn’t own a cell phone, and e-mail and IMs were way too risky. Willa had heard stories about boarding school administrations routinely invading student accounts in search of honor code violations.

  “And you’ll take a breather from MySpace and will text Lubé in private.” Laura shot a stern look down the length of the dashboard. “And you won’t tell him about the plan.”

  “Right. No problem. He’ll be starting school again anyway so his days’ll be pretty full.”

  Laura’s mouth twitched. “Are you sure you can cut down on your Lubé habit?” she teased.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Willa snapped, sounding more defensive than she’d intended.

  Laura laughed. “Wow! Okay, forget I said anything.” She stuck her hand out the window to signal for a turn. “It’s just, you two seem pretty hooked on each other, that’s all.”

  Willa wrapped the seat belt around her wrist and pulled a sour face. “Hooked? Who says hooked?” She studied her feet. “I don’t even know the guy’s real name, Laura.”

  “All right. Fine. Just make sure you hide your phone and follow the rule about, you know—”

/>   “I will, I will.” Willa turned back to Laura, eager to change the subject. “So, how about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You can’t make friends. Even if you meet someone you like, it’s just not worth it. You might let your guard down or something.”

  “I keep telling you that one won’t be a problem,” Laura countered. “I’m really not the ‘it’ girl type. It’s my dishpan hands, I think.”

  “You won’t even be tempted, believe me.” Willa’s voice was heavy and bitter. “Boarding school kids are total jerks.”

  Laura’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And when Caleb Blake shows up I’ll say hello, apologize for not returning his calls, and you really think that’ll be the end of it?”

  Willa leaned her head against the seat and scowled. Caleb Blake had left another message yesterday afternoon. Whatever his college plans were, they should seriously include a major in stalking—or some intensive therapy. “Definitely. I guarantee he’ll be horrible. Everyone my parents know is. He’ll want to ditch you as fast as possible, so no worries there.”

  “Fine.” Laura stopped the car at a light and smoothed her hair with her hand. “All right, here’s another one: What do you do when my mom calls the apartment?”

  “Talk as little as possible. You’ll be calling her from Fenwick every four days.”

  “Right.” Laura hesitated. “Listen, are you sure your parents aren’t going to try to call or visit or something?”

  Willa shook her head firmly. “I told you. They only call when I’ve done something wrong. Keep your grades up and all you’ll get are a few lame care packages. Next question.”

  “Okay, okay. How about cleaning—what’s the best way to get water stains off bathroom fixtures?”

  “Baking soda and vinegar, ma’am,” Willa recited. She tossed in a little salute for good measure.

  “Great.” Laura lowered her voice a peg. “And what’s the most important rule to remember when you’re cleaning?”

  Willa cleared her throat and screwed her eyes shut. “Um, let’s see . . . that Bounty’s the quicker picker-upper?”