Switched (15 page)

30

People differ widely in their notions of veracity.
—The Secret of a Happy Home

Marion Harland

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.

Thwack.
The caddy crashed into the wall, sending various cleaning supplies flying.

I’m such an idiot,
she thought, rushing over.
Of course that was going to happen.

She deserved it, too. She’d been playing around instead of working. Just the sort of thing she’d promised Laura she
wouldn’t
do. It was the sort of thing that could get them both caught. And Laura fired.

No, no it wasn’t her fault, Willa decided firmly. Because this type of thing never would have happened over at the Youngs’ house. She behaved herself at the Youngs’.

Pogue Hall, on the other hand, had no imprint whatsoever. Not even one thumb. The place had absolutely nothing to offer her during her brief respites from cleaning. There was no mac and cheese waiting in the fridge, no LEGO forts or dollhouses to marvel over, no signs of life at all. The closest thing to a human touch in the entire estate was her mother’s thirty-year-old newspaper clippings, the yellowing pictures of a plastic debutante. And those were hardly the cornerstone of domestic bliss.

So
no
. Willa would
not
accept the blame here. Pogue Hall—this empty crypt of a place—had driven her to destruction.

Even so, guilt sliced through her. She couldn’t stop it.

Okay, so she was building a weak defense. She was the one who’d crashed the cart, not the stupid house.
Fine.

Willa slid her hand into her pocket and ran her fingers along Mrs. Young’s most recent note. She kept all the Youngs’ notes. She needed them. They helped her get through other, harder parts of her week.

Surveying the scene of the accident, Willa realized that the only casualty was a bottle of Murphy Oil Soap (Laura was right. It really
was
the best thing to use on wood paneling). Lucky break. She cleaned up the mess and ran down to the cellar for another jug.

“Hmm, Lemon Pledge, Clorox, Tide, Cascade,” she muttered as she walked the aisles of the huge storage room, scanning the rows and rows of supplies. “Where’s the stupid Murphy Oil? Please don’t tell me we’re out. This
so
figures.”

And there it was. Shoved in a box behind the bottles of Clorox and Downy.

Bingo,
Willa thought as she pulled down the dusty cardboard box.
I just saved myself a trip to the store.

But the box housed no cleaning supplies whatsoever. Inside, coated in a thick film of grime, were a few old photos, a tightly rolled poster and, sealed in a plastic storage bag, a pair of pink ballet slippers.

Willa sifted through the pictures. They were all pretty much the same: black-and-whites featuring a beautiful young woman in a leotard standing at a barre, her long, lean body held in a fixed ballet pose.

My mother.

Slowly, she unrolled the poster. Her mother—dressed in a wide pink tutu and wearing entirely too much makeup—stared up at her. Scrolled across the bottom were the words: “Newport Ballet Academy presents
Coppélia,
starring Sibby Welles.”

Willa’s feet were firmly planted on the floor, she was sure of it. And yet, she was spinning. Or the room was. Something was making her dizzy—and not just a little nauseated. Willa extended her arm, using a box of Cascade as an anchor.

She turned her attention back to her mother.

Her mother was a dancer?

“How?” she asked the pictures. “You’re a lady who lunches. You play tennis just so you can criticize everyone else’s backhand. You’re not even a Welles anymore, you’re a Pogue.”

The pictures gave her the silent treatment.

Willa sighed and flipped them over. They were all taken in 1976.
Coppélia
was performed then, too.

Okay. At least she had a date. 1976. Her mother had been seventeen.

So
, Sibby Welles Pogue was more than a pretty face who “took the Newport deb scene by storm.” She was a ballerina.

Was she really amazing?
Willa wondered.
Maybe she quit when she got married, because she wanted a quieter life?

Still, Willa had an odd feeling that dancing must have meant something to her mother—at least at one point. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have saved any memorabilia. And then there was her silence on the subject. That said a lot too.

There was definitely a story there. The crypt finally had a story.

Carefully, Willa packed up the box and placed it back on the shelf, exactly where she had found it, amid the bleach and fabric softener.

Lifting her hands over her head, she turned and leapt out the door.

31

See your world in high definition

—Bounty Paper Towels

Laura’s new favorite word was “amend.” As in: “I’ve amended the plan. Boyfriends are permitted.”

Correction. The plan had amended itself.

It all felt so natural, as natural as that very first kiss.

That kiss.

The kiss had changed everything. It was like she’d been listening to the world through headphones, set at volume five. And then Caleb had come along and twisted the dial up to ten. Suddenly, Laura’s days were lined with sound. She was listening to life in stereo.

Laura walked around campus, ecstatic. She looked forward to little things, like eating lunch and studying in the library and doing her laundry. Because little things were all a part of life and, during those moments, she loved life. No, it was more than that. She looked
forward
to life. And a life with Caleb in it was so perfect—so amazing—that when they walked together, she actually felt taller. Sometimes she even checked her feet, to make sure they were still on the ground.

It was an entirely new sensation.

And then there were moments when doubt clouded everything. Like a storm cloud rolling in over an outdoor reception, it always reared its head at the most inopportune moments. One minute Laura and Caleb would be sitting in history class, mid-debate; the next she’d be frozen, chilled by the voice in her head as it hissed,
You’re a liar. Your whole relationship is built on a lie. He has no idea who you are.

The worst part of all was that Laura knew the voice was right.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be honest. She did. She was dying to, only she kept chickening out. During the day they never seemed to have a second alone—class and homework always interfered. And then of course, every other time of day, she had to deal with how cute Caleb was. It simply wasn’t a fair fight.

Still, she’d made a valiant effort. She’d even risked suspension by sneaking into his dorm room late one Saturday night. All the way over to his room, she’d rehearsed her lines and sworn she’d keep her eyes glued to the rug.

She’d climbed through the window, upsetting a pile of Caleb’s books in the process. She started in immediately before she lost her nerve.

“I’m-not-who-you-think-I-am-I’m-different-sorry-about the-books,” she announced, breathless from her cross-campus sprint.

Caleb grabbed her hand and pulled her the rest of the way into the room. “Look. Relax. I mean, I’m glad you’re here, but you don’t have to say that.”

Laura blinked. “Huh?”

“Willa, I know what you’re trying to say.” He twisted her hair slowly around his finger. “I know about Shipley. Our parents are friends, remember?” He looked at her. “I don’t care about any of that. I know who you are. The real you. Who you were before—and what you did—it doesn’t matter.”

Who could resist a speech like that?

So she pressed her face against Caleb’s chest, where it was always warm, and the clouds passed. She was being selfish. And it felt good.

The next day, she slipped on Willa’s jeans and a gray cashmere sweater, swept a brush through her hair, whisked some blush across her cheeks. Then she grabbed her jacket and went off to meet Caleb.

He was sitting on a bench in front of the dining hall. When he saw her walking toward him, he stood. “Hey. You should’ve stayed last night. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Really? You wanted me to stay so you could sleep?” Laura teased. “Interesting.” She turned toward the dining hall. “So, what are you thinking? Two by the window or should we just eat at the bar?”

Caleb shook his head. “Neither. Let’s split.”

“What are you talking about?”

He was walking away from her now, heading toward the wrought-iron gates that separated the campus from the town of Old Saybrook.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“Come see,” he shot over his shoulder.

Laura trailed after him but when she saw the yellow cab standing a few feet away, a cold anxiety swept through her.
He got the wrong impression last night and he’s taking me to a Motel 6.

That was Laura’s first thought. But then she looked at Caleb, standing at the cab. He was holding the door open for her, a cute, eager grin spread across his face. And suddenly she knew that whatever he had planned did not involve a fleabag motel. No way.

She slid inside the car and fastened her seat belt.

“Where are we going?”

Caleb stretched his arm lightly across her shoulder. His blue eyes twinkled. “It’s a surprise.”

Laura leaned back against his chest and tried to step into the role of curious, excited girlfriend (“I want to know! Tell me!”). But as the cab drove farther and farther away from the safety of Fenwick, she felt her cover slipping.

Change was not good. Not good for the plan.

What if his parents were in town and he was taking her to lunch, to meet them? It would be strange, since Parents’ Day was in the spring, but it wasn’t unheard of. And what if the Blakes recognized her somehow?

Or what if they were with the Pogues?

Laura’s stomach dropped.

Stay calm,
she ordered. As the car traveled farther from the campus, she closed her eyes. She could feel the soft cotton of Caleb’s jacket, the rise and fall of his body as he breathed.

The car rolled to a stop a few minutes later.

“Hey, you asleep?”

Laura sat up. Sunlight streamed into the car through every window.

She looked around. They were at the mouth of a large field. A sign read
FORT SAYBROOK MONUMENT PARK.

Relief washed over her.

Caleb paid the driver and grabbed her hand. “I know it’s kind of lame, but when I interviewed at Fenwick my dad took me here afterward and we walked around. I always remembered it, but never really had a reason to come back.” He swung her arm lightly, back and forth, as they walked down the gravel path and into the park. “But I thought you might be the one other person who’d appreciate it. Fort Saybrook was actually Connecticut’s first military fortification—1635.”

He’s such a sweet guy. You should tell him the truth. He planned this whole surprise just for you and you’re lying to him.

Laura ignored the black, ugly thoughts and instead sucked clean, sweet park air into her lungs. She looked up at the bright October sky. “It’s not lame. It’s beautiful here,” she said. She squeezed Caleb’s hand. “I love it.”

He squeezed back. “I thought you would.” He stopped walking and gave her arm a gentle tug, pulling her close. Then his hand was in her hair, combing the strands and teasing the back of her neck with the tips of his fingers.

“I wanted to make you happy,” he said. His eyes were filled with the perfect mixture of softness and longing; the arm around her waist tightened.

Laura leaned in close to meet his lips. For once, she allowed the truth to rise.

“You do,” she whispered.

32

No matter how poised and well-mannered you are, the adventurous life of a Fabulous Girl inevitably leads to a few high-stakes dilemmas.
—The Fabulous Girl’s Guide to Grace Under Pressure

Kim Izzo, Ceri Marsh

There were days when Willa’s cleaning schedule fell neatly into place. Days when she could coordinate the laundry with the vacuuming, waxing and polishing. The tasks fell away like dominos until she was the last man standing, triumphant amid a sparkling household, mop in one hand, Murphy Oil Soap in the other.

Today was not one of those days.

First of all, she’d accidentally set her alarm for 7
PM
instead of 7
AM
. Angie had left the house early, so Willa had overslept. She woke with a start at 8
AM
and realized she was due at the Mortimers’ house in fifteen minutes.

After a frenzied drive across town while brushing her teeth and hair, she’d made it there by eight-thirty. No real harm done. She worked her way through the house, then drove to the Watsons’, sailing through a sea of green lights.

Things seemed to be looking up.

Willa finished the Watson mansion by three. She couldn’t wait to get back to the apartment. After a lot of wrong turns—including dismantling and reassembling the car’s engine—she and Angie had finally diagnosed Yellow Thunder. Its transmission was dying. They were, in fact, in the process of replacing it and
that
was going surprisingly well.

It turned out Angie had been right all along. Willa was a natural.

Jingling her car keys, Willa stepped out into the crisp fall air. Her fingers curled with anticipation. She could already feel the motor oil on her fingers, the grease under her nails. Nothing sounded better than the hum of an engine.

Willa frowned. Her hands dropped to her side.

There was a silver car blocking the station wagon. A 2007 Jaguar XJ8. She recognized the model immediately, having read about it in Angie’s most recent issue of
AutoWeek.

Willa looked back toward the house. She’d been through every room at least once. The place was deserted. Besides, didn’t both Mr. and Mrs. Watson drive Mercedeses? She’d been pretty in tune with that sort of thing ever since NASCAR.

Well, one thing was certain. She wasn’t going anywhere until the owner of the Jag returned. The car was parked on such a careless diagonal, they’d done an amazingly thorough job of boxing her in.

I could be here for hours,
she thought.
Who parks like that?

She took out her cell. The only new messages were, of course, IMs from Lubé:

Willa sighed. She had to deal, she knew she had to deal.

The problem was, she didn’t know how. She’d never thought about actually meeting Lubé until he mentioned it. And his message had been flattering. No, it had been more than flattering. It had been thrilling. His IM—which she’d saved—had sent such a shock of excitement through her system, the response couldn’t have been normal.

It was too much. It was too big. She couldn’t handle it.
Not now.
Not when she wasn’t even technically herself.

She shoved her phone back into her pocket.
Out of sight, out of mind.

On the upside, she was standing in front of a Jaguar. She’d been dying to take a peek at some of the fancier cars, but all her clients kept their garages locked—and her parents always traveled with their cars. A little harmless investigating just might make the time fly.

What else was she supposed to do? She
was
stuck out here.

And the car was beautiful. It just sat there, sparkling and alone. A shiny silver dollar. Waiting for her.

The sun danced along the Jag’s surface as Willa ran her hand over its smooth, polished curves. Her fingers wrapped around the pouncing cat, poised and frozen at the car’s hood.

Pressing her face against the window, she memorized the car’s rich interior: the power-adjustable driver’s seat and leather-encased steering column, the miles of walnut paneling and the soft, deep leather seats.

I wonder if this engine is turbocharged or supercharged?

The article had said something about it, but she couldn’t remember. And with high-performance engines it could go either way. She’d have to peek under the hood to find out.

But that was out of the question. If the owner saw her poking around underneath the hood of his or her car, well, it would be a bad thing. A very bad thing.

She could look
under
the car, though. There was no harm in that. Sure, it wasn’t quite as satisfying as popping the hood, but it was definitely the less obvious exploration. At least this way she’d be concealed from anyone who pulled up. She’d hear them and would have ample time to roll away and then scramble to her feet.

She dropped down and scooted underneath the Jaguar. Using the flashlight from her key chain, she stared up at the car’s insides. Her mouth fell open. She was used to the oxidized innards of Yellow Thunder, but this was beautiful. Not a drop of rust in sight.

I really hope the owner appreciates this car. And I really hope they drive better than they park, or else they’re going to be a victim of road rage. Maybe—

“Um, excuse me? Is there a problem here?”

Willa slowly pushed her now smudged upper half out from under the Jaguar’s body.

“Mrs. Watson, I’m really sorry.” The words rolled off her tongue before her eyes adjusted to the light.

“Willa, is that
you
?”

She blinked and looked up. Her mother was standing next to Mrs. Watson, wearing her typical look of outrage. Outrage mingled with baffled disbelief.

Loxlike, flat on her back, Willa reviewed the million and one ways she could paint the blank canvas stretched before her. She
could,
for instance, pretend to be Laura and see if her mother fell for it. There was a chance it could work. She and her mother had never been all that close.

Or she could simply start to cry and play the sympathy card. Sometimes that helped. It might soften Mrs. Watson up, at the very least.

Willa sighed. In this type of situation, it was always best to go with your gut.

She peered up at the obviously perplexed Mrs. Watson and cleared her throat. Her voice was surprisingly calm and controlled.

“Your husband reads
Playboy,
” she announced.
“A lot
of
Playboy.”