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Beans--Sorry to be such a freak today. Nice dress, huh? My mom really wanted me to wear it. Will explain tomorrow.

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Fluffernutter was sprawled on the bed. I crept over slowly. His yellow eyes popped opened, but at least he didn't run away.

"Hey, Fluff." I stroked his white-and-orange fur until he rewarded me with a faint, rumbling purr.

My nose tickled, though not from sadness. Next, my eyes started to itch, and then they began to burn.

I stared at Fluffernutter with my swollen eyes. Larissa wasn't really allergic to bees--at least not as far as I knew--but her cat allergy was undeniable.

"Good thing I'm so hot-looking," I muttered. "Otherwise, this body would really piss me off."

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***

19

I saw Cameroon first , standing at the edge of the water in his orange swimsuit, shivering and hugging himself with his skinny pink arms.

"Come on in, Cam!" his father shouted. He was out in the waves with Prescott. When the water receded, the level came to Prescott's chin. A
kid who can't swim shouldn't be out that far,
I thought. His father held a rainbow-colored boogie board and looked out to sea, waiting for the perfect wave. Prescott faced the beach as a breaker snuck up behind him.

"Watch the wave!" I yelled--but it was too late. Prescott disappeared in a swirl of white, and then his head popped up, headed for the shore. He stood up, finally, the water now waist deep, and bent over, trying to cough the water from his lungs. A smaller swell rose from behind, knocking his feet out from under him. He washed up onto the beach.

"You okay, buddy?" Mr. Sealy called from the water. He had

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tried to catch the wave but had failed and was still pretty far out.

Prescott nodded and coughed some more. "That's my tough guy!" Mr. Sealy said.

Cameron, his face tight with fear, took a few steps backward onto drier sand.

Prescott got back on his feet, staggered up the beach, and grabbed a bright yellow donut-shaped floatie.

"That's just for pools," I said. "You shouldn't use it in the ocean."

Prescott stuck out his tongue. Good to see that he was back to his old self.

"Fine. Go drown," I muttered under my breath. He stepped into the ring, holding it at his sides as he ran into the sea.

On the beach, Cameron was still hugging himself. "Where's your mom?" I asked. He shrugged his narrow shoulders.

I felt a sudden, unexpected stab of sympathy. "You want to make a sand castle?"

He turned to face me, his eyes suddenly wide with relief. He nodded and smiled, just a teeny bit.

Getting out of the house was easier than I expected. Mrs. Sealy was in her bedroom with the door closed: a migraine, Consuela told me, with a look that said one or all of the following:
Not that it's any of your business; Mrs
.
Sealy is a head case; I'd lock myself in a bedroom too if I had to live with this family.

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My clothes were sweaty from the bike ride, so I ran down to my room for a quick change--which turned out to be a not-so-quick change. Can you blame me? I mean, this girl had some seriously cute clothes! And they all looked great on me! (I mean, of course, on her.) The question wasn't, what looks good? But rather,
in what way
do I want to look good? The blue pinstripe miniskirt was totally adorable, but I didn't want to look overdressed. The black halter top and denim miniskirt looked hot together, but the line between "steamy" and "trampy" was a little too thin for my comfort. Finally, I settled on a lacy peach camisole (innocent yet sexy), my favorite pair of Larissa's jeans, tight and faded (and unmistakably girl-cut), and the plaid Converse sneakers (an unexpected touch that screamed "spirited and fun-loving").

I didn't want to risk "borrowing" the bicycle again, so I walked to the high school. By the time I got there, Nate was the only one left in the pool. The air was thick and steamy and reeked of chlorine. I wanted to jump in a lane and start pounding the water so bad, my muscles actually twitched. Instead, I sat on a warm metal bleacher in the corner and watched Nate practice his freestyle. He looked like a dolphin. When he hit the end of the pool, he did a quick flip and shot back toward me, gliding underwater for a flash before shooting back to the surface. As he neared the end of the pool, the coach blew his whistle. Nate hauled himself up over the edge in one easy motion. He stood up and shook water out of his blond curls.

Guys on the swim team wear blue, knee-length lycra suits that can look hot or gross depending on who's wearing them. I'd seen

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Nate in his suit countless times before, and there was no question that he fell into the "hot" category, but today my breath quickened. He was so beautiful, his tanned skin wet and shining under the buzzing fluorescent lights. His body had that triangle shape that male swimmers get, all shoulder and no hips. Unfortunately, female swimmers get that shape too. I pictured myself in my mother's black dress; thanks to Evelyn, I knew what
that
looked like. There is a reason I usually stick to jeans. I stretched out Larissa's long, long legs, loving them as if they were mine.

"Good turnout today," I heard the coach say to Nate. The coach was wearing what he always wears: a royal blue "Sandyland H. S. Athletics" polo shirt, khaki pants, and a whistle. Coach is a big guy, not fat, really, just--well, okay, he is kind of fat. But we all like him so much that no one would ever call him anything but "big." He's really dadlike--I mean, the way I always thought a father would be. He's got three daughters, one on the swim team and two in college.

"Should be a solid team this year," Nate said. He still hadn't seen me.

"What happened to Claire?" Coach asked. "I'm counting on her butterfly."

"I saw her after school," Nate said. My heart began to beat faster. I pictured Evelyn in her ridiculous outfit, a pack of cigarettes in her hand.

Coach scratched his head, his curly gray hair frizzing in the humidity. "I left a message for her last night. Never heard anything. I hope she's not flaking out on us."

Nate picked a towel off the floor and rubbed his hair. I leaned

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forward, holding my breath. "She said she was feeling kind of sick. But she'll be here tomorrow."

I exhaled and closed my eyes with relief. Nate had covered for me. He really
was
my friend. When I opened my eyes, he was grinning at me from across the room.

I smiled back.

"Hey, dude," I said.

He crossed the tiles toward me. "Hey, babe." His voice echoed through the high-ceilinged room. "I didn't see you."

"I saw
you,"
I said. "You looked awesome. In the water, I mean." I felt my face flush.

"You look awesome on land," he said, his smile growing even larger.

Coach looked from Nate to me and then back to Nate again. Then he laughed. "Don't stay out too late tonight, Jameson."

I waited outside while Nate showered and changed. The swim center was at one end of the school, set apart from the classrooms and the gymnasium.

The sun was low in the sky. It was getting chilly. I rubbed the goose bumps on my bare arms. In my old body, my real body, I didn't go anywhere without my red junior lifeguard sweatshirt, but today I'd been more concerned with looking good than with feeling good (but make no mistake: In the lacy peach camisole and skintight jeans, I looked
damn
good).

On the brick wall next to me, a glass-enclosed bulletin board advertised school clubs and activities. sign up for school chorus! swim team tryouts! student council elections coming up!

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What did Larissa do in her spare time? I wondered. What was she missing out on by being in Sandyland rather than her hometown? (I tried not to think about what she was missing out on by not having a body.)

From what I could tell, she wasn't missing much. Maybe floating around in the ether was better than dealing with her crazy parents, her jerky ex-boyfriend, and her two-faced best friend. Maybe she didn't miss her life--or her body--at all.

Four boys approached, talking and laughing. I'd seen them around before--they were juniors, I think--but I didn't know their names. When they saw me, they slowed down. "Hey," one said, stopping to face me. He was about my height but much sturdier, his body almost square. He wore a black sweatshirt and baggy jeans that puddled at his feet.

"Hi." I smiled politely and looked at the ground.

"You new?" He took a step closer. His eyes were deep set in a puffy face, his hair brown and shaggy. Behind him, his friends snickered.

I shrugged: It was too complicated to explain. "You a freshman?" he asked.

I clutched my arms more tightly and rubbed at my goose bumps. I'd give anything for my red sweatshirt. "I don't go here. I'm just visiting."

He stepped closer. "Maybe you can visit with me sometime." His friends burst into laughter. One of them whistled.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped. It was Nate, wearing a navy blue "Sandyland Swimming" hoodie. His blond curls were still damp. "Sorry--didn't mean to scare you."

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"You didn't. Just surprised me, is all." I turned away from the group of guys, knowing they wouldn't mess with me now. Nate smelled like shampoo mixed with chlorine. He put his arms around me, and we kissed for several seconds. I'd never kissed anyone but my mother in public before, and she didn't count. But then, until last night, I'd never kissed anyone at all.

Nate looked up; the guys were watching us. In a weird way, I was glad they were still there so I could show off, let them see what they were missing out on.

Nate nodded at them. "Hey." It wasn't a friendly greeting-- more like a challenge.

The square-shaped guy put his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. '"Sup." He looked at the ground, and then he and his friends moved away.

I held Nate tightly and thought about how safe he made me feel--although until now I never needed anyone to make me feel safe.

"You feel cold," he murmured into my ear.

"I should have brought a sweatshirt."

"We can get one at my house. It's not far from here."

Nate's house was just a few blocks away--a tidy, mocha-colored Victorian surrounded by roses and hydrangeas. Over the summer, I'd ridden past it on my bike at least ten times, always hoping he'd be out front pulling weeds or something and I could say, "Hey, Nate! Do you live here?"

From there, I'd figured, we'd get to talking about swimming and high school and living in Sandyland, at which point it would

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be just a short leap to the moment when he'd realize he was madly in love with me. As if.

He was never outside then, but now here I was as he fished a key out of his backpack and stuck it in the front door.

"Anyone home?" I hoped he'd say no. Nate lived with his mother. His parents were divorced, and his sister had just left for college. But since he hadn't told Larissa that, (officially) I didn't know.

"Doubt it," he said. "My mom usually manages to schedule a meeting around dinnertime." Nate's mother was running for a position on the school board, plus she volunteered with the recreation department, the Protect our Shoreline Foundation, and the Preserve Historic Downtown Sandyland committee. But again, I wasn't supposed to know this, even as Claire. Only a complete stalker would know that much about Nate's mother.

The living room was a disaster, with piles of papers on every surface, shoes on the floor, tote bags tucked in corners. There were brochures and posters for Mrs. Jameson's school board campaign, all with her slogan, "Putting Children First." Apparently, those children didn't include her own.

Nate dropped his backpack and sports duffel in the middle of the floor. "Be right back with the sweatshirt."

Bookshelves crammed with women's magazines, gardening books, swim trophies, and family photos flanked the fireplace. While Nate ran upstairs, I checked out the pictures. There was Nate smiling in his sophomore picture. I'd looked at this shot so many times in my yearbook, it automatically opened to that

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page. There was his sister in a graduation gown and hat. She was just normal-looking, not superhuman-gorgeous like her brother. There was Nate at the beach as a child (he bore a slight but nevertheless disturbing resemblance to Prescott) and Nate on a surfboard. I've never stolen anything in my life, but I had a sudden, overwhelming desire to sneak this photo out of the house.

Footsteps sounded overhead, and then Nate clomped down the squeaky stairs holding something red: the junior lifeguard sweatshirt. I gasped and then laughed.

"Is it okay?"

"It's perfect." I wanted to tell him that I had a sweatshirt just like it at home. Instead, I pulled it over Larissa's tiny camisole and immediately felt comfortable, not just in the shirt, but in Larissa's skin.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Starving."

"How about some of my mother's famous home cooking, then?" He took my hand and led me into the kitchen, which was at least as messy as the living room, plus a little smelly. Time to take out the garbage?

He opened the freezer and pulled out a plastic-encased pizza. "Just like Mom used to make."

"My mom doesn't cook either."

"Sucks, doesn't it?" Nate wrinkled his nose--noticing the garbage smell, probably.

"Kind of. But now that I've learned to cook, we eat pretty well." I had a sudden urge to make him a meal.