Switched (11 page)

21

Trust the Original

—Pine-Sol

Every once in a while, Laura’s mother won the Lotto. It was never big money—a few hundred dollars at most—but it was still pretty thrilling. She celebrated by purchasing name-brand groceries rather than the usual generic items. The next morning, she and Laura would sit in the kitchen and savor the taste of Tropicana fresh-squeezed orange juice and Cheerios and Thomas’ English muffins. The real thing always tasted better, no matter how hard the imitation tried.

Laura considered this rule as she walked across campus on her first day of classes.

It applied outside the grocery store, too.

Take Fenwick, for instance. Founded in the eighteenth century, the school was one of the oldest in the country. And after just one morning, Laura realized that her entire academic career had been a complete joke. Compared to Fenwick, her old high school reminded her of a brick sinking to the bottom of a pond.

This
was the way school was supposed to be.

Laura glanced down at her schedule card. She had U.S. history next. She hadn’t seen Mr. Stade since the luncheon, but of all her classes, his was the one she was most excited about.

As she cut across the quad, Laura scanned the passing faces. It was a habit she’d developed—a bad habit—but she couldn’t help it. She’d seen Caleb only once since that first day, tossing a Frisbee with a couple of guys.

Laura frowned as she yanked open the door to Regan Hall. This wasn’t a constructive interest. First of all, it was against the rules—Willa would kill her. Second of all, he had a girlfriend.

And third—this thought was accompanied by a dull ache somewhere between her stomach and chest—he hadn’t bothered to look her up again.

It was best to just forget about Caleb and all things social. Sometimes you had to just plow ahead and not dwell on things that were out of your control, like cute guys you couldn’t have. She was happy with her schedule, right? She loved Fenwick—that was huge. How many kids actually liked school?

Finish your UConn application, enjoy this place . . . and move on,
she thought as she reached the door.

The room was small, and the desks had been placed in a circle around the blackboard. As Laura slid into a chair near the window, she studied Mr. Stade’s desk. It was covered with huge towers of paper as well as a few empty Styrofoam cups, but it showed no immediate signs of life. He clearly hadn’t arrived yet.

Laura pictured Mr. Stade’s house—history texts everywhere and a sink overflowing with dirty dishes. The image didn’t gross her out at all. It appealed to her, actually. He was probably the quintessential absentminded professor.

“Hey, Willa, mind if I sit here?”

That
voice.
Laura had been looking for him all over campus, but he’d managed to slip into class without her even noticing. She’d been too busy thinking about Mr. Stade’s dirty dishes.

Stay calm,
she thought, her heart pounding.

“Sure,” she said, just as her hand slammed the tip of her notepad, sending it flying straight into Caleb’s face. It swatted him on the nose before flopping to the ground. A few stray papers drifted to the floor in its wake, like confetti thrown at a parade float.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Laura said. She had a flashback to her old self. This was definitely something the real Laura Melon would’ve done around a cute guy. Maybe she was back.

It wasn’t a cheerful thought.

“Whoa. I can sit somewhere else if you want.” Caleb laughed as he leaned forward to pick up the notepad. “Honesty is always the best policy, Willa.”

“You’re taking this class?” she asked, hoping her cheeks weren’t too red. “I mean, aren’t you a senior?”

Caleb pulled a laptop out of his bag. “Yeah, but I was in Italy for a semester junior year, remember? I never got to take Stade’s class.”

Why hadn’t he mentioned that, back on that first day? He hadn’t said anything about it, which was weird. Could he have switched his schedule around—maybe taken the class because he knew she was enrolled too?

Don’t flatter yourself,
she thought as Mr. Stade walked into the room.
He sat next to you, that’s all. He’s just being nice.

“Good morning,” Mr. Stade said, smiling. “Welcome back.” His eyes found Willa’s and his smile grew wider. “And for those of you new to Fenwick, welcome for the first time. This class is United States history, 1898 to 1945. If you’re supposed to be someplace else—say PE or studio art—now is the time to go find that place.”

He paused politely as a tall, red-faced kid muttered an apology about an SAT tutorial and stumbled out the door.

Caleb rolled his eyes. There were a few snickers.

“Now then,” continued Mr. Stade as he passed out the syllabus, “I am assuming all cell phones are off and all laptops are either plugged in or are running on full batteries.”

A few students leaned over and turned off their cells.

“Why are we in a circle?” said a tall brunette near the door.

“Ah, thank you for not raising your hand, Cricket,” replied Mr. Stade as everyone laughed, including the tall brunette. “I arranged the seats in a circle because this class is not your typical history class. It’s not a lecture. It’s more of a seminar. I encourage discussion and analysis—and debates, of course.”

Laura stared down at her syllabus. She wasn’t used to talking in class—class discussions were unheard of at her old high school. She couldn’t really see herself debating anyone.

“If you check your syllabus,” Mr. Stade continued, “you’ll also note that in addition to chapter exams you’re responsible for two papers. You may hand in these papers at any time, on any topic of your choice, so long as both the topic and outline are preapproved by yours truly.” He looked around. “Are there any questions?”

There were some scattered nos, a bunch of head shakes and a few yawns.

“Great. Shall we get started?” Mr. Stade pushed off his desk and, with thick squeaky chalk, printed “1898” on the blackboard. “Okay, if you were living in the U.S. during this period, what was on your mind—other than the millennium countdown and early preparations for what I’m sure were a slew of absolutely fantastic New Year’s parties?” Mr. Stade turned back to face the class.

Patches of laughter and a few hoots broke out around the room. Laura jotted the words “Spanish-American War” in her notebook but kept her arm firmly planted by her side.

“That’d be McKinley’s Spanish-American War,” Caleb said, his own hand semiraised as he answered the question.

“Good. What else can you tell us about it? Anyone?”

Again there was a silence and again Caleb jumped in, rattling off facts and dates. A few other students commented here and there while Mr. Stade shaped the discussion, but, for the most part, Caleb had the floor.

Head lowered over her notebook, Laura took copious notes and tried to conceal her astonishment. She’d never—not for a second—assumed Caleb was an idiot.

But nothing had prepared her for
this.
It was shocking. Caleb
was
the History Channel.

Laura sat up a little straighter in her chair and squared her shoulders.

But so was she.

Any hesitation she might have felt about speaking in class suddenly evaporated. The new Laura Melon thrived on healthy competition.

“A lot of people compare the Spanish-American War to the war in Iraq,” Caleb was saying.

“Why do you think that is?” probed Mr. Stade.

“Well, it was the first U. S. intervention on foreign soil.”

Laura’s hand felt like it was buzzing. Slowly, deliberately, she raised it into the air.

“Yes, Willa?”

“But you’re not including attacks on the nations of the Apaches, the Seminole, the Cherokee—and a ton of others I’m forgetting.” She turned to Caleb. “No offense.”

“What’s she talking about?” a guy in a baseball cap asked.

“She’s talking about the Native American population,” Mr. Stade said, smiling. “So, Willa, why do you think people compare the wars? Or don’t you agree?”

“Oh, no, I see a comparison,” Laura said as she turned to Caleb apologetically. “Only, uh, sorry, but I do think it’s more complicated than just the occupation.”

Caleb spread out his palm. “No—please. Go for it.”

“Well, both invasions involved freeing an oppressed group of people—in Cuba it was liberation from Spanish rule, while in Iraq it was Saddam Hussein, of course. . . .”

Laura continued talking, her voice clear and steady. A few of the other kids asked her questions, challenging her, but she never flinched. It was amazing how good this felt.

“Great work,” Mr. Stade said as the bell rang, his eyes pausing momentarily on Laura before moving around the circle. “This bodes well for the rest of the semester. Keep it up. And keep those cell phones off, Brooks. I heard that, you know.”

Everyone laughed and started to pack up their bags.

“You really know your stuff,” Caleb said appreciatively, zipping his computer case. “How’d you get to be such a history geek?”

“How about you?” Laura teased, artfully dodging the question. “You’re like a walking encyclopedia. Do you have a photographic memory or something?”

“I wish. No, my dad was a history major. You should see our Nantucket house. The library is packed with history books. It’s a little weird.”

They walked out of class together and Laura replayed his comment in her head.
Our Nantucket house. The library.
The words were like pins, popping her euphoria and reminding her of the different planets she and Caleb inhabited. He’d said it all so casually, like having a beautiful summer home was as normal as having an arm or a leg.

Did he know how lucky he was? Laura wondered. She watched him pass through the door, his computer case slung low on his shoulder. She hoped so. More than anything, she hoped so.

Some things about this reality would never seem normal to her. It wasn’t hers, and no matter how hard she tried, there would always be something she just couldn’t understand. She was the imitation, and the imitation always failed to measure up in some way or another. Always.

22

The tone of a household is determined by the people who run it.

—The Amy Vanderbilt Complete Book of Etiquette

Cigarettes. Smokes. Butts. Fags.

Willa had found them by the boatload. Or, to be precise, she’d found a porcelain mallard stuffed to the beak with Lucky Strikes. Unfiltered.

“Yuck,” she said. She twisted one of the thin sticks around in her fingers before letting it fall back inside the bird.

It had been an innocent enough discovery. She’d been dusting the Mortimers’ living room when she noticed that the bird’s head was loose and wobbling. Her attempt to fix it had resulted in an accidental decapitation.

As she glanced around the tartan living room, Willa’s eyes sought out the Mortimer family picture. Hays and Muffin Mortimer and their three flaxen-haired children smiled at her from the top of a snowcapped mountain. All five wore the same Christmas sweater.

“I don’t smoke!”
the cherubic faces seemed to sing as Willa studied their blond innocence.

“Please,” she admonished. “That duck didn’t swim in here by himself.”

A tall, thin woman rushed into the room. Her velvet headband looked like it had been surgically attached to her wheat-blond head.

Enter Muffin Mortimer.

Willa opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. She’d promised Laura to speak only when spoken to, right? Grabbing her Swiffer, she tried to look busy. She’d wait for Mrs. Mortimer to say hello first.

But the woman didn’t seem to be in a talking mood. Breezing past Willa, she headed straight for the duck, snapped off its head and placed it noiselessly on the floor beside the mallard’s glazed tail feathers. As one hand slid into the bird, her other hand worked its way through her light green Kelly bag and emerged with a sterling silver lighter. Smokes and fire in hand, Muffin glanced around the room, confirming that the coast was indeed clear. She allowed herself a small, congratulatory giggle before heading out onto the grand wooden deck for her afternoon smoke.

The mystery of the mallard was solved.

Unbelievable,
Willa thought as the door slammed behind her employer.
It was like I wasn’t even in the room. At all. It’s almost like I was—

“Invisible.” Willa said the word out loud—and loudly—as if to prove just the opposite.

Laura had warned her about this, she realized as she trudged up the stairs toward the bedrooms.

Well, why didn’t she elaborate?
Willa wondered.
And she definitely knew about that duck. How annoying.

Then Willa straightened, remembering Laura’s words.
It’s not something you can explain,
she’d said. She had a point. Besides, Willa had always been on the Mortimer side of the issue. How many times had she marched by a staff member—a cook or cleaning person—at Pogue Hall without saying hello? Laura and her mother were really the first employees she’d ever gotten to know. She’d always assumed that people disapproved of her, but maybe she was reading too much into things. Maybe they were simply waiting for her to be friendly. And since she never was, they weren’t in return.

What a strange world she’d entered. All her life, Willa had been taught that success was standing out; her consistent failure to do so had repeatedly plagued her. But in her new role, blending in was more than acceptable—it was valued. And essential.

As early as this morning, Willa had seen nothing wrong with that philosophy. After all, this was what she’d always wanted: freedom from her family—from the Pogue name. And now, if these people couldn’t see her, well, it was impossible to disappoint them, right?

But the scene in the living room had hardly been liberating. Mrs. Mortimer had treated her like less than nothing. The experience had been a lot more bruising than one of her parents’ stupid lectures. She’d never really thought about it before, but now she knew: falling short of your potential was definitely not as bad as having no potential at all. And that was what these people thought of people like Laura and her mom.

Fresh guilt twisted Willa’s stomach as she padded down the hallway.

Instinctively, she reached for her phone. A quick rally with Lubé would definitely bolster her spirits.

Willa froze midstep. What was she thinking? IM was off-limits during the day, no exceptions. Wow. One bad experience with a grown woman named Muffin and her carcinogenic duck, and she was quivering like Jell-O.
How insecure can I get?
she thought.

She was going to stick to the game plan. Regardless of the experience downstairs, this had to be better than Fenwick.

She really had to develop some thicker skin if she was going to do this job. Actually, forget the job. Thicker skin was a good idea in general. The world—especially hers—was filled with Muffins. And ducks. She just had to learn to ignore them.

“Whatever,”
Willa muttered, grudgingly. “She still could’ve said hi. A little wave would’ve been nice.”

The first door off the long, wide hallway wore a huge, handmade
DO NOT ENTER
sign just above the knob. Written in bright pink and purple bubble letters, the words looked warm and inviting, so Willa hastily brushed it aside.

The room belonged to Phoebe Mortimer, the youngest member of the family and a sophomore at Greenwich Academy, the local prep school. Phoebe’s bedroom was huge—almost as large as Willa’s room at Pogue Hall—and made American Girl Place seem butch by comparison. Decorated entirely in hot pink and lavender, the place was coated in lace and ruffles (Laura was so right, ruffles were just the
worst
to clean—you had to shake and shake, and they never really did get completely clean, did they?). After only ten minutes, Willa sank down on the end of the bed for a little rest.

“Excuse me?”

It was hard to say what scared Willa more—the voice or that telltale smell of cigarette smoke. Willa jumped up and spun around. Mrs. Mortimer’s head poked into the bedroom. She didn’t look mad exactly, but she wasn’t smiling, either.

“Um, I—I’m sorry,” Willa stammered. What rotten timing! If she got Laura into trouble she’d kill herself. “I was cleaning and felt a little faint so I sat for, like, just a second, you know? Then I was—”

“I wanted to remind you that my daughter’s scent is lavender.”

“Her scent?”

“Lavender,” Mrs. Mortimer repeated impatiently. “When you launder my daughter’s sheets, please use the lavender water in the iron. My husband and I use the rosewater, while the boys get Crabtree and Evelyn’s Spring Rain. I thought I should remind you, since it’s been a few months.”

“Uh, thanks,” Willa said, but Mrs. Mortimer and her Lucky Strikes were already moving down the hall.

“Also, Phoebe’s dirty field hockey uniforms are in her laundry basket,” Mrs. Mortimer shouted over her shoulder. “It’s the season now and she’s the star center, so please don’t let them sit.”

“I won’t,” Willa replied, even though she knew nobody could hear her.

She walked over to the purple wicker hamper and flipped open the lid. It was stuffed with dirty clothes, but there was no field hockey uniform.

Great,
she thought. She rolled up her sleeves and started looking.

Fifteen minutes later Willa was still looking. She’d collected the entire Mortimer family’s dirty laundry, including their sheets and towels, but Phoebe’s hockey uniform was still missing.

She was on the verge of giving up—she still had another house to clean—when she found a red gym bag with a hockey stick stitched on the front buried under a pile of stuffed animals in the closet. Inside were a pair of stiff new cleats, two roundtrip ticket stubs to Grand Central Station and a pamphlet: “How to Care for Your New Tattoo.”

“Looks like Muffin isn’t the only Mortimer with a secret,” Willa said, shaking the bag to see if she’d missed some hidden treasure. A paper flopped out onto the rug. It was riddled with angry-looking red slashes that Willa recognized immediately. A test. A
failed
test.

Phoebe Mortimer was failing geometry, according to her teacher. It said so at the top of the paper, along with a bright red “See me.”

Willa felt a pang of sympathy. She’d taken geometry twice herself and had found the class impossible. It had somehow managed to get even more confusing the second time, with more shapes floating around in her brain.

On the back of the test, Phoebe had scribbled a note to someone:

Unbelievable
, Willa thought.
Muffin’s out on the porch chain-smoking while her daughter’s in Manhattan with her boyfriend, getting tattooed like a member of Hells Angels.
What were the brothers doing? Boiling bodies down in the basement? Was the father polygamous?

Sufficiently creeped out, Willa finished up and beat a hasty retreat over to the Watsons’.

Unfortunately, the Watson residence was hardly an improvement. Willa had only just started cleaning the kitchen when a tiny woman laden with Bergdorf’s bags exploded into the room.

“Come on,” she snapped. “Quickly now.”

Frozen with surprise, Willa stared at the woman. She was pretty but way too thin, and that thinness gave her face a hard, mean quality. And she was definitely wearing her weight in perfume. Willa could smell it from six feet away.

“Come on,” the woman repeated.

Come on what?
Willa thought.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you waiting for a written invitation?” Mrs. Watson held out a garment bag, shaking it for emphasis.

“Oh,” Willa said, relieved that she finally understood.

“Take everything upstairs to my dressing room and remove the clothing, then place the bags and boxes in the fireplace and burn them,” instructed Mrs. Watson rapidly. “All receipts should go in the way, way back of my nightstand. Fast! My husband comes home early every Wednesday before golf. It is essential that he not see these items. Is that clear? Do you speak English?”

Her face on fire, heart pounding, Willa grabbed the shopping bags and ran.

At least Mrs. Watson had acknowledged her presence immediately, right?

As she dumped the clothes onto an overstuffed love seat in the master bedroom, Willa absorbed her surroundings. Never in her life—neither in Phoebe Mortimer’s bedroom nor at Christmas—had she seen anything more overdecorated. Flowers in bright yellows, greens, purples and violets warred with shells, horses and three different kinds of plaid. Ornate balloon shades, blinds
and
curtains dressed each of the eight windows. The massive room was the emotionally disturbed offspring of Ralph Lauren and Laura Ashley.

The layout was confusing, too. Five different doors led from the room. Willa tried a few of them before she found Mrs. Watson’s dressing room.

Willa’s fingers moved quickly over tags and hangers, pulling and tearing until everything was hung up. She looked down at the mess of receipts in her hands and turned toward the two nightstands. She yanked one open.

It was filled with copies of
Playboy.

Definitely Mr. Watson’s side of the bed.

She walked over to the other side of the bed and shoved the receipts as far back into that nightstand’s drawer as they would go.

I could switch the two hiding places,
she thought, imagining the look on Mr. Watson’s face when he reached for a
Playboy
and pulled out a fistful of clothing bills.

But then Mrs. Watson would fire her. Correction: Mrs. Watson would fire Laura Melon. And Willa had promised Laura she’d behave herself.

Not that the Watsons don’t deserve it,
she thought, shaking her head. These families were awful.

Willa froze as she realized that her family was no better.

After all, didn’t her parents think their daughter was safely ensconced up at Fenwick Academy?

“Just clean,” she muttered as she gathered the shopping bags and boxes. “Just clean.”