Switched

by Jessica Wollman

  Caleb watched his angry girlfriend flounce across the quad, then walked over to where Laura was standing.

  “Ready? I’ve been studying for a calculus exam all week so I might be kind of behind.”

  “Yeah,” Laura said, shaking her head more out of confusion than anything else. “I don’t want to pry, but Courtney looked pretty mad. Is everything okay?”

  They walked into the library.

  “No, but it’ll blow over. Forget it.”

  In other words, butt out. “Okay.”

  Caleb was a little bit farther behind than she was; he’d been right. But he caught up to her in no time. Laura was amazed by how sharp he was, how quickly his mind could sift through information and zero in on what was important.

  “Okay, so I think we should definitely go over the sinking of the battleship—the Maine,” Caleb suggested, his head bent low over his notebook. “You know one of the essay questions will be about the motives for war.”

  “Definitely,” Laura agreed. “And there’s also going to be something about the Platt Amendment, so we should probably reread the section about long-term effects.”

  “You’re right.” Caleb flipped ahead a few pages in their history text and then looked up at her. “You know,” he said slowly, “Courtney’s jealous of you.”

  Laura’s head jerked up so quickly, she pulled a muscle in her neck. “Ow. What?”

  Caleb shrugged. “She’s always been kind of jealous in general, but now that you’re here she’s kind of gone off the deep end.” He smiled warily. “It took me forever to convince her that I didn’t need a personal escort to and from Stade’s class.”

  “I don’t get it,” Laura said. “I mean, that’s kind of paranoid. We just have class together.” She twirled her pen nervously. “Well, I guess there is the family connection. Is that why she’s jealous? Because our parents are friends?”

  “She thinks we have some sort of thing going on.”

  “It’s called U.S. history! Besides that I barely see you.”

  “Why is that?” he asked.

  Wait, was he flirting with her? Was he leaning toward her? It was hard to tell; she felt dizzy all of a sudden.

  Laura cleared her throat. “I’ve been, you know, busy, I guess,” she said. She didn’t recognize her own voice. “I have so much work and I’m new and I’m, uh, trying not to screw up anymore.”

  Caleb’s laugh broke the tension. “Too bad we’re not studying the Civil War. Honest Abe would be proud of you.”

  Perfect, Laura thought. She was exactly where she wanted to be. The room no longer had wings. Everything had fallen neatly back into place.

  Everything, of course, except her heart. The tiny, aching muscle felt like a cushion in her chest, each of Caleb’s friendly smiles a pin.

  The tricky part of it was: She couldn’t remove them.

  Even if she died of internal bleeding.

  28

  You have no business buying a Ferrari of any sort or, really, any other Flashy Sports Car. And there is no excuse whatsoever for driving a car that has any Essential Parts either missing or affixed to the car avec Duct Tape.

  —More Things You Need to Be Told

  Lesley Carlin, Honore McDonough Ervin, Etiquette Grrls

  boardgirl: if u cld hav 1 dream come tru – wut wld it b?

  lubespecial: tuf 1. 4 yrs wanted 2 go bak in time and hav 80s Van Halen beg me 2 share spotlight w/ David Lee Roth but hav just about given up on time travel. And VH. Nu stuf suks so bad, even 80s are tainted.

  boardgirl: so, wut’s nu dream come tru scenario?

  lubespecial: 2 meet u.

  boardgirl: am serious Lube

  lubespecial: so am i.

  lubespecial: r u there?

  Willa had never been big on daydreams. Sure, she spaced out a lot. But spacing out and daydreaming were worlds apart. Spacing out required absolutely no thought or energy whatsoever. Daydreams involved a personal fantasy element. And Willa’s fantasy life had always landed in one of two categories: food fantasies triggered by a stressful situation or event, and the more common “escape” dreams, in which Willa, playing a sort of selfish version of Harriet Tubman, set out to emancipate only herself from a variety of terrible oppressors—parents, teachers, faculty advisors.

  And okay. Occasionally, a third fantasy—the “parent pleasers”—had cropped up. These involved the cliché straight-A report card or carload of “triple-p” (Pogue-approved, pretty and popular!) friends. In her most desperate moments, there might have even been some sort of dream about saving kittens from a burning building. Whatever.

  The point was she didn’t have a rich fantasy life. Even when she listened to Lubé Special, she never once envisioned herself actually playing the drums and running off with the band. She spent her time watching life from a distance, as a spectator. She never actually dreamed of accomplishing anything. Most of the time, she just went to sleep and slept. End of story. That was the way it had been for years.

  NASCAR had changed everything.

  It had been one week since the Super Dirt Series, with its squealing tires and bouncing mud flaps, and Willa had been doing nothing but racing. All day, every day. In her head.

  The car was a fire-engine-red Monte Carlo, modeled after driver Jeff Gordon’s. Her matching jumper stretched over her like icing on a sheet cake—and it looked twice as good, too. Her full name was written in cursive down her left arm. And the best part about this fantasy was: Willa never lost a race. Every time her brain screamed out: Gentlemen, start your engines, she was off, effortlessly peeling away from the pack. She was unstoppable. The Nextel Cup was hers for the taking!

  It was all pretty juvenile. It was the type of fantasy sequence more suited to a four-year-old boy who slept in one of those plastic beds shaped like a race car. But she couldn’t help it.

  She wanted to drive. No, scratch that. She wanted more. She wanted to drive, change the oil and realign the wheels (only when necessary, of course. So far Laura’s Chevy had been running smoothly, knock on wood).

  And that was why this bright Saturday afternoon found Willa and Angie huddled under the hood of Yellow Thunder, poking around the car’s somewhat sickly insides.

  “I can’t believe you wanted to do this, Professor.” Angie was staring at her, confused. “The last time we tried, you couldn’t get away fast enough.”

  “That was before NASCAR.” Willa stared down at the Trans Am, hypnotized by the maze of tubes and wires. She wanted it all to make sense. Now.

  Angie pounded her back. “I knew I should’ve taken you sooner!”

  Willa rubbed her permanently battered shoulder. “I’m a sponge. Teach away.”

  “Wanna have lunch first? We haven’t had anything since those eggs.”

  “After. I’m not hungry.”

  It was true, Willa suddenly realized. For the first time ever, she had no need for food.

  “Wow, you’re hard-core.” Angie laughed as she leaned over the hood and rested a large foot on the front bumper. Yellow Thunder creaked loudly under the strain. “See, the first thing you need to know about is the ignition system, right?” She ran her index finger along the mess of hardware like she was sifting through a bowl of Chex Mix. “That’s what produces the charge that gets carried by all these wires to the spark plugs. Here, you can actually see it when I turn the engine over. . . .”

  Willa watched as the Trans Am sputtered to life, after only a mild protest. She breathed in the thick, stinky air and felt a thrill rise in her throat.

  Angie cut the motor and climbed out of the car. “It doesn’t sound right,” she said, frowning. “Man, I just picked the car up from the shop. I’m so bummed.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure.” Angie looked almost weepy. “I know Yellow so well; I just kind of know when something’s not right. The thing is, I spent so much on her fuel system I’m kind of broke.”

  “Can’t you just do most of the work yourself?”


  Angie shook her head mournfully. “Just the little stuff. You know, the tweaks. The huge jobs, I got to take her in for that.” She sighed as she stroked Yellow Thunder’s hood affectionately. “I’m learning, but I guess I’m not learning fast enough.”

  As far as Willa was concerned, Yellow Thunder always sounded like it was one choke away from the scrapyard. But the last thing she wanted to do was hurt Angie’s feelings. “Listen,” she said, “start the car again. I’ll listen more closely this time.”

  As Angie turned the car over, Willa squeezed her eyes shut and listened for the engine’s low, hesitant grind.

  It sounded as bad as usual. At first. And then she heard it.

  Her eyes snapped open. “It’s like a wheeze, right?” she said. “Like the car’s got a cold?”

  Angie pumped her head up and down enthusiastically. “Professor! You’re a natural!”

  Even though she knew Angie was just being nice, Willa felt pleased. She’d never been called a natural at anything. Maybe she’d finally found her niche. Willa thought back to the Super Dirt Series, how the pit crews had seemed so together—such a team. Maybe she could do something like that—if she really was a natural.

  Willa stared down at the Trans Am’s greasy interior. The Pogue family crest rose out of the tangle of plugs and cylinders.

  It punched her squarely in the jaw.

  A NASCAR pit crew. Willa Tierney Pogue. Right. Who was she kidding? She came from a long line of congressmen, financiers and scientists. She couldn’t even imagine her mother saying NASCAR, let alone standing by while her only daughter pursued a career as a grease monkey. She doubted any Pogue had ever even filled a gas tank before. And what boarding school offered a class in popular mechanics? The whole idea was absurd.

  Still, the Trans Am’s hood was already popped. And Willa couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away.

  On the road of life there are passengers and there are drivers.

  “Listen,” Willa said, letting her head drop a little lower under the car’s hood. “Let’s find the source of the noise. Then maybe we can do some research and try to figure out how to fix the problem ourselves.”

  “Ya know, that’s not a bad idea, Professor,” Angie said, her face brightening. “It’d sure save me cash I don’t have. Hey, and we could even call those guys, you know, the ones on that show—Car Talk? For help.”

  Willa’s smile was wide and cocky. “Sure,” she said. “But who says we’ll need it?”

  29

  The only real replacement for the mop and bucket

  —Swiffer WetJet Power Mop

  “When was McKinley shot?”

  “Wait, President McKinley was shot? You’re joking.”

  “I can’t believe Stade is doing this. He knows this is like the worst week. I have three papers due. And I’m taking around a prospective.”

  “Duh. That’s why he’s doing it. The teachers all load us up—”

  “Wait. Did you say prospective? Is it a she? Is she hot?”

  “Shut up. I have to study.”

  “Gotcha. Not hot.”

  Pre-exam stress was the same, more or less, at every school. Laura listened, amused, to the various conversations as they flew around the room. Personally, she could never understand what all the fuss was about. Everyone always acted like exams were wild and unpredictable—on a par with natural disasters or something. But exams were so easy to control. All you had to do was read, study, go to class and show up for the test.

  Plus, exams had . . . concrete answers. Laura always found that part oddly reassuring. It was everything else about life that freaked her out.

  The voices escalated as the panic level rose. Laura had arrived a little early to squeeze some last-minute studying in, but it was impossible to concentrate with all the noise.

  She glanced toward the doorway. And she saw them.

  Caleb and Courtney were standing just outside the room.

  Laura didn’t wait to read the expressions on their faces or to have her insides twisted by their lovey-dovey looks. Courtney could direct her scowls elsewhere. And as for Caleb, well, Laura simply had no time for the perfect blue ocean of his eyes. She couldn’t go wading. She couldn’t even test the water.

  I have a history exam to take, she thought, flipping through her notes. I’m a serious student.

  She didn’t look up—not even when Mr. Stade entered the room and began to distribute the tests. And not when Caleb followed a few minutes later, muttering an apology. She kept her eyes glued to her exam packet and sailed through question after question. The classroom melted away; time froze. When she completed the final essay, she was surprised to find that she’d finished fifteen minutes early.

  She spent the rest of class reading over her test. Over and over again until the last bell rang. She followed a pack of students up to Mr. Stade’s desk and dropped her exam onto the pile. Please don’t ask me about college, she thought.

  Caleb tossed his test onto the pile and turned to Laura. “You walking out?” He waved at Mr. Stade. “Or did you want to stay for another round?”

  “Tempting, but no,” she said. “I’m leaving.”

  Mr. Stade laughed. “I may or may not remember your insults while I’m grading. It could go either way.”

  “What’d you think?” Caleb said as they walked through the quad. “Not bad, right?”

  “No surprises,” Laura agreed. Then she added honestly, “Our study session really helped.”

  “It was great. Thanks for doing that.” Caleb paused for a second, then motioned toward the dining hall. “Listen, tests always make me hungry. Do you want to get something to eat?”

  “Won’t Courtney get mad?” Laura didn’t feel like dealing with any angry outbursts from paranoid girlfriends.

  Caleb shrugged. “We broke up,” he said without breaking his stride. His voice was maddeningly noncommittal. Even his walk—long, steady steps—was completely neutral.

  Laura waited for Caleb to explain. She waited for him to say something.

  He said nothing.

  Caleb Blake was single. He was unattached. He was a bachelor (well, he’d always been a bachelor in the technical sense, but whatever). And as much as that thrilled her, it was also highly dangerous—toxic, even. Dinner with Caleb was not part of “the plan.”

  Willa would kill her.

  On the other hand, they were entering the dining hall. What was Laura supposed to do? Wouldn’t abruptly running off jeopardize the plan even more?

  Laura saw Jenna Palmer waving out of the corner of her eye. That clinched it.

  They sat outside, at one of the dark cedar picnic tables. Laura brushed a few yellowing leaves off the surface and plopped her tray down.

  “We can move inside if you’re cold,” Caleb offered. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked before I led you out here.”

  “No. I like it. It’ll be too cold soon. It’s nice to be out here while we can.”

  Caleb yawned. “Sorry. It’s not you. I’ve had a killer of a week. That history exam, calculus. Plus, I hear from colleges soon so I’m kind of stressed.”

  “Where did you apply?” she asked.

  “Brown early decision,” Caleb said. He opened a bag of potato chips and held the bag out to Laura. “But if I don’t get in, I’ve got ten other schools to hear from. How about you? Junior year is when the whole mess starts up.”

  “Oh, I’m still putting together my list,” she said lightly. “Listen, I know it’s none of my business, but I saw you and Courtney talking right before history.”

  “I was wondering if you were going to ask about that.” There was a smile in his voice.

  “You can’t blame me for being curious.”

  “Nope. I can’t. Because you had a lot to do with why we broke up.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. Her voice pushed out in quick, choppy beats. “If Courtney’s jealous . . . I mean, I can explain that nothing happened. Let me explain, okay? It’s the least I can do. I feel ter
rible. We only studied together that one time.”

  And then, just like that, Laura wasn’t talking anymore. Caleb was leaning across the table, his hand pressed into the small of her back as his lips brushed gently against her own.

  The kiss was soft at first, a question. But as Caleb’s hand moved her body closer, the mood shifted. A current of excitement tripped through her, tickling as it rose from the soles of her feet to her throat. Laura stopped thinking. She was floating. She was gone.

  “I wanted to break up,” Caleb explained. “It’s just until I met you, I didn’t really know why. So, um, do me a favor. Don’t apologize, okay?”

  “Okay,” Laura said.

  Because if Willa saw what was happening right now, Laura would be apologizing for the next fifteen years.

  30

  People differ widely in their notions of veracity.

  —The Secret of a Happy Home

  Marion Harland

  lubespecial: ru there?

  lubespecial: ru there?

  lubespecial: hit me bak wen u get a chance, ok?

  The cleaning caddy sailed down the glossy marble hallway, teetering slightly as it gained speed. From a few feet away, Willa considered her newly discovered stock car with a mix of pride and regret.

  How had she lived in Pogue Hall all these years and not known how great the marble floor was for racing?

  In only a few short days, Willa’s car-obsessed mind had transformed all wheeled mechanisms into sleek racing machines. Vacuum cleaners, desk chairs and, of course, her very own cleaning caddy had all been tested, raced and rolled. Nothing was safe.

  The cart came to a rolling stop against a long green curtain. Willa caught up to it and gave it a shove in the opposite direction. The whole thing was totally immature. She’d be the first to admit it. But she was fine with that.

  She glanced down at her watch. Yikes. She had a schedule to keep. Plus, the gardeners were arriving in an hour and a half. They never came into the house or anything, but still. Best to be out of the house by the time they showed up, just in case.