Willa stared down at her hands. The only photographs her parents hung in their houses were of her mother, back in her debutante days. The few baby pictures they had of Willa had been professionally taken and they all looked the same: she wore stiff, overly starched dresses and looked completely miserable.
Enough. She wasn’t a Pogue—not for the next few months, anyway. This was her living room now. These were her photos—her happy memories.
They were on loan. That was the deal.
Willa strode down the hall toward her bedroom, mentally recording the number of doorways, light fixtures and closets along the way. She stepped inside and looked around.
Her mouth fell open as her toes curled in delight. “Adorable,” she said. It was tiny, sure, but it was cozy. A bookshelf was built into one wall and the floor was covered with a pretty aquamarine and coral area rug. The walls were painted sky-blue and the quilt on Laura’s daybed picked up all the colors.
The room was so great. It was so Laura.
But what was that smell?
Wincing, she sniffed at the air again. Was that garbage? It couldn’t be—Laura was such a neat freak. Willa looked around the room for the source of the smell.
“Ahhh,” she said as her eyes landed on the rolled-up zebra skin rug, which lay slumped in one corner of the room. So this was Angie’s attempt at interior design.
Willa approached the rug and nudged it with her toe. It unrolled about a foot. She pinched her nose shut and leaned down for a closer look.
It stank, sure. And the stains looked pretty bad. But Willa could kind of see where Angie was coming from. The rug—at one point—had probably been really expensive. Willa was pretty sure her parents had something like it in their New York town house.
Wait. Hadn’t Laura passed along some sort of cleaning recommendation for carpet stains and odors?
Still holding her nose, Willa scooped up the malodorous rug and carried it toward the kitchen, where she spread it out on the linoleum floor. As she unfolded the last corner, a CD skidded across the room. Willa walked over and picked it up.
“The Professor’s Got Yellow Fever.” She laughed.
Some background music would be nice while she cleaned. Besides, Angie was definitely going to mention this mix, so Willa figured she ought to listen.
She walked over to the counter and popped the CD into a Discman that was hooked up to some tiny speakers.
Everything in this place is so cute, she thought.
Static crackled through the room. “Mellow Yellow” burst through the speakers.
“This had better work,” Willa muttered as she assembled the supplies and dipped a scrub brush into a bucket filled with warm water, ammonia, white vinegar and laundry detergent. She’d initially forgotten the rubber gloves and her skin was red and throbbing from the ammonia.
Her hands moved over the rug in smooth, gentle strokes. The song was vaguely familiar. Then Willa’s hand froze. What the—?
A new voice had joined the mix. It was large and booming, yet undeniably female.
Angie was now with the band.
It was no Lubé Special, but the mix was fun in a goofy sort of way. Willa went back to work. She worked through Angie’s karaoke versions of “Yellow Submarine” and “Big Yellow Taxi.” She even found herself humming along.
Somewhere near the end of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree,” the white stripes on the zebra skin rug had become purer than a debutante cotillion.
Willa stripped off her rubber gloves, her nostrils flaring slightly as she sucked down the new scent of clean. Staring down at the slick fur, her eyes traced the bold black and white stripes, mesmerized by the sharp contrast.
I did that, she thought as her chest rose with pride. Her first cleaning job had been a success. It felt strange. Strange but good.
“I just need to keep this up,” she said, running her fingers over the rug’s smooth, sponged surface. “I hope Angie likes it.”
Every single roommate Willa had ever had—and there had been many—hated her. It didn’t matter who they were—artists, jocks, satan worshippers, prom queens—the one thing they all shared was an instantaneous dislike of Willa. In her most paranoid moments, she even suspected they’d formed some sort of anti-Willa secret society, complete with a special handshake and logo—her head with a slash through it or something.
“Maybe this was a really bad idea,” Willa muttered. The ammonia burned her eyes; anxiety had her heart thumping. “It was my bad idea. Laura’s not despised everywhere she goes. I am. That’ll probably tip Angie off just a little.”
She reached into her back pocket and grabbed her phone.
boardgirl: having panic attack. help!
lubespecial: when i’m stressed i play guitar.
boardgirl: but i don’t play guitar.
lubespecial: is that why ur stressed?
Willa snapped her phone shut. Her stomach issued a long, low wail.
She walked over to the counter and grabbed a can of Pringles. She had to call Fenwick immediately and tell Laura to get out of there. It was that simple. This was an emergency. They could switch back tonight and maybe nobody would notice.
With a shaking hand, Willa flipped her cell open again. Suddenly a human tidal wave crashed through the apartment. Willa, her Pringles and a chair were lifted off the linoleum floor in one movement. The phone shot out of her hand and spiraled through the air like a model airplane.
“Hi, Angie,” she croaked, struggling for breath.
Angie tossed her to the floor in what had to be a WWE regulation body drop. Standing beside Angie was a pale, thin boy. Willa remembered Laura’s mentioning something about Angie having a boyfriend.
“Hi, Laura,” he said, extending his hand. His voice was mild and Willa couldn’t help noticing how tiny his hand was compared to Angie’s. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.” He glanced admiringly in Angie’s direction. “Angie’s so excited about living with you.”
Willa tried to sound relaxed. “Thanks. It’s gonna be great.”
“Great?” Angie boomed. “Professor! This is amazing!” She turned to Glenn. “Sorry about that. I’m so bad with introductions. I always forget.”
Glenn laughed. “It’s okay. I managed.”
Angie pumped her head up and down as she turned to Willa. “I can’t believe how long it’s been, right? Me and all my emergencies. I’m just about ready to throw my beeper off a high dive!” She laughed good-naturedly. “But I’m so psyched about moving in. I mean, I’ll miss our parents and everything, but it’s just so cool we’ve got the place to ourselves. . . . Wait a minute! ”
Willa’s cheeks flamed as the floor slipped slowly out from underneath her feet. She dug her toes into her shoes and tried to steady herself but couldn’t seem to find the proper balance.
I knew this wasn’t going to work, she thought miserably. She waited for the blow that would bring pain and darkness.
Suddenly, a huge smile spread over Angie’s thick features. “You look great, Professor!” she shrieked.
Willa’s jaw fell slack. “What?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Angie thundered on. “You were pretty that first time I met you. But just a little scrawny, you know? But now, step back! You’re beautiful!” She turned to Glenn. “Now don’t you get any funny ideas, okay?”
Glenn held up his hands. “Promise.”
Willa was still reeling from the surprise compliment when Angie caught sight of the zebra skin rug. Her face lit up.
“Did you do that, Professor?” she asked, not waiting for a response. “ ’Cause it looks great! I shoulda known you’d know what to do with it. Do you care where we put it, ’cause . . .”
But Willa was totally zoned out. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had complimented her looks. Willa had, in the past, received plenty of negative feedback, of course. Over the years her mother had called her chunky and tubby and—when she cared to be tactful—big. But nobody, not her mother o
r father or anyone else, had ever told her she was beautiful. They hadn’t even said she was average.
Willa watched as her new roommate leaned over the rug and ran her hands along the pelt.
This is going to be okay, she thought.
19
Great new look! Great new formula!!
—Zout Stain Remover
It’s really a good thing that Caleb has a girlfriend, Laura told herself for the millionth time.
She stared down at the brown plasticine substance on her plate—Salisbury steak, according to the Fenwick dining hall—and frowned.
No wonder Willa was so obsessed with food, if she’d been subjected to this stuff every night.
Laura’s eyes traveled across the room to Caleb and Courtney’s oh-so-cozy table in a quiet corner of the cafeteria. Caleb had invited her to join them, but Laura had declined, insisting that she had some last-minute summer reading to finish. Everyone had known it was a lie, but he hadn’t pushed. The murderous look on Courtney’s face, combined with her death-lock grip, had probably weighed heavily in his decision.
So now Laura was alone. None of the happy, chattering voices bouncing around the dining hall were meant for her.
The current of mingled conversations pulled her away from her tray and Laura found her gaze drifting back to Caleb. He was talking, his face animated and expressive, his hair tousled.
Laura ducked her head. Why was she torturing herself?
This is the way it was supposed to be, she thought, staring at the empty seat next to her. I’m not here to become homecoming queen.
And Caleb Blake wasn’t part of the plan either.
Laura stood and lifted her tray, her back straight and stiff. Just pull the Band-Aid off quickly, she thought.
As she walked toward the dorm, she forced herself to digest every magnificent building, walkway and blade of grass that comprised the quad.
When I’m by myself I don’t have any distractions, she thought as she leaned over to read a plaque outside the infirmary. I can really get to know the campus history.
“Willa Pogue?”
She started. A middle-aged woman in a blue terry-cloth jogging suit was standing next to her, perhaps a bit too close, scrutinizing her through intense brown eyes.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“That’s okay.”
How does this woman know Willa? Laura wondered. Tiny dots of perspiration decorated her forehead.
“I’m Mrs. Flemming,” the woman said, extending her hand.
“Willa Pogue.”
“I thought so. I manage the infirmary and since everyone usually comes to see me at some point during the year I try to introduce myself—even before you really need me,” Mrs. Flemming explained. She was practically glowing at the thought of Laura’s future illness.
“Uh, that’s nice.” Laura felt like her head was about to explode. Mrs. Flemming knew Willa?
Laura excused herself as quickly as possible. She was annoyed at Willa for not doing her research. This was so typical. All Willa had to do was look at the faculty listings and Laura could’ve been better prepared.
There were two girls sitting on the porch of Hubbard House drinking bottled water. One had curly black hair that she wore tied back in a ponytail. The other had straight, light brown hair. Their tennis racquets were in cases, leaning off to the side.
Laura climbed the steps, unsure of what do with her eyes. Should she look down at her feet or should she try to say hello, maybe introduce herself, instead? She wasn’t supposed to make friends, but she didn’t want people to think she was rude, either.
She was still mid-debate when ponytail girl waved. “Hey,” she said, looking up. “Are you Willa?”
Oh no, thought Laura. Not again.
“Uh, yeah.” She forced her voice to sound normal. “I am.”
“Hi. I’m Alice.”
The girl sitting next to her smiled. “I’m Brewer. Nice to meet you.”
“Thanks. You too.”
Alice reached back and ran a hand through her ponytail. “So, are you unpacked and everything?”
“More or less. Are you?”
“So-so. Have you met Jenna?”
Laura nodded. “She seemed sort of interesting.”
The girls laughed.
“That’s one way to phrase it,” said Brewer. “Listen, whatever you do, don’t take her whole ‘I’m totally relaxed’ vibe seriously. It’s all an act.”
“It is?” Laura pictured Jenna in her head, with her overalls and bare feet.
“She’s super-uptight. She sees anything against the rules, she’ll tell,” Alice said. “Last year, she got eleven kids expelled for drinking on a school trip to see the Ballet Folklórico in Mexico City.”
Laura had already been planning to stay away from Jenna, so this wouldn’t change anything. “Thanks for the warning.”
“No problem.”
“We’re on three if you need anything,” Alice said. She took another swig of water. “Do you play?”
“What?”
Alice gestured toward the tennis racquets. “I was just wondering if you played,” she repeated.
“Alice and I play for Fenwick and we’re always trying to recruit people,” Brewer explained.
“Sorry,” Laura said, shaking her head. It was the most honest she’d been all day.
“Too bad. You look like you’re in great shape,” Brewer said absently, peeling a strip of paint off the porch floor.
Laura waved good-bye and headed back to her room. Everyone on campus seemed to know Willa already. How, though?
Laura unlocked her door and sat down at Willa’s Mac. Was this an emergency? It definitely felt like one.
willypoo2: help! freaking out. everyone knows u! this is bad bad bad.
boardgirl: u r freaking out cuz u r a freak. Nobody nose me.
willypoo2: they do.
boardgirl: consult websters for definition of emergency. got 2 go.
Angie and i r making fluffernutters.
Well, that was helpful. And what was a Fluffernutter?
Laura clicked off her computer and turned around. For the first time, she spotted a package on her bed, with a note attached. She hadn’t noticed it before, in her panicked state. She leaned down to read the curling, flowery cursive:
Willa—This arrived for you in today’s mail but I forgot to give it to you during our meet and greet. Sorry! Hope you don’t mind that I let myself in. Peace, J. P.
Jenna Palmer had a key to this room.
From head to toe, every part of Laura’s body snapped to attention as she scanned the room looking for clues—anything that might betray her. She knew she should be outraged by the obvious invasion of privacy but, oddly, she felt nothing. Her primary concern—actually her only concern—was jeopardizing the plan.
Laura’s eyes traveled over Willa’s shiny metallic laptop, the Pogues’ leather trunks, the expensive borrowed clothing. The shabby room looked ridiculous packed with all the overpriced luxury items.
It was, Laura realized with some surprise, your stereotypical boarding school room. She was willing to bet that her room looked like every other dorm room on campus.
I’m safe, Laura thought. For now.
The package was from Mrs. Pogue. Or rather, it had been sent by Emory as dictated by Mrs. Pogue. Laura recognized the firm, straight printing at once:
Willa—the following materials were sent to the Newport house accidentally. Please be sure to correct the error with the registrar. Additionally, enclosed are some items for your room.
Enjoy, Mother
Laura slid a thin book out of the box and turned it over. It was the Fenwick student directory.
“It’s not against the rules to find out Caleb’s campus address,” she reasoned as she attacked the book, her fingers flipping to the Bs.
“Wait a minute.” Laura was so surprised that she sat down on the stained mattress she’d sworn she wouldn�
�t touch until she’d scoured it with disinfectant.
There were pictures. The student directory had pictures. They were there, right beside each student’s name and home and school address.
Laura turned to the Ps and gasped. Willa stared up at her, a defiant glint in her eye. There was a star by her name, indicating that she was a new student.
The picture had been taken in front of Pogue Hall. Mrs. Pogue must have sent it when she mailed the deposit.
Like a key sliding into a lock, Laura’s whole day suddenly clicked into place.
She paced the short expanse of her room. Right now, every student at Fenwick was probably cracking open their directory, if they hadn’t already. Was this cause for worry?
No. The people around campus didn’t know Willa—they had no inside information. They’d just seen one picture of her, which was fine since she and Willa looked exactly alike.
She reached over and jostled the care package. Two hot pink throw pillows flopped onto the floor. One read: GET FIT, NOT FAT! and the second, a stuffed scale with an anxious look on its face, pleaded: PLEASE GO LIGHT ON ME.
How could anyone survive with a mother like that?
Laura felt a tiny corner of her heart break off and fly away.
Slowly, she packed up the pillows—and Mrs. Pogue’s note—and dumped them all into the garbage.
20
A young lady, on leaving school, is expected to take a more important place in her father’s house; she must go into society; she must perform her part for the poor, the sick and the afflicted; she must assist her mother in domestic affairs.
—The Young Lady’s Friend
John Farrar
At 7 AM Angie was already in the kitchen standing over the stove. The entire apartment smelled like IHOP.
“What are you doing?” Willa said, stumbling in and rubbing her eyes.
“Hey, Professor! C’mon in!” Angie boomed, waving her spatula by way of invitation. “I’m just finishing up.”
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