Switched (6 page)

11

Sparkling Shine

—Palmolive Dishwasher Gel,
Label Copy (bottle)

From the doorway at Café Pertutti, Laura observed the sea of bobbing heads as they moved up, down and around the dining room. She leaned against a coatrack, closed her eyes and channeled every ounce of her energy into not vomiting.

How had she gotten herself into this mess?

It had all happened so fast. One minute Laura was protesting the absurdity of Willa’s proposal, the next she was getting into a Lincoln Town Car and answering to the name Willa Pogue.

No wonder she felt nauseous.

Laura glanced down at the outfit she’d borrowed from Willa—a green linen skirt, white peasant blouse and soft leather sandals. She’d been uncomfortable with the loan, but the situation had been urgent. She couldn’t wear her uniform to the luncheon and, besides, Willa had insisted.

“I’ve got twenty more skirts just like it,” she’d snorted. “My mom fails to accept that all I really want to wear are sweats.”

The expensive clothing made Laura look even more like Willa Pogue. The transformation had been the final, bizarre step in what had become a freakishly strange day.

After snagging a cleaning uniform from the third floor, Willa had returned to her room. Laura watched her friend move toward her as if she were watching a movie of herself. The two girls had stared at one another, paralyzed by their twin-ness.

Finally, Willa had broken the silence.

“Hey, Willa Pogue,” she’d said. “I’m Laura Melon.”

Laura realized her mouth was hanging open. She’d closed it and cleared her throat. “Wow,” she’d replied. “Tell me about it.” They reminded her of a balanced equation. Anything had seemed possible.

The problem was, Laura realized now, she and Willa weren’t
really
twins. They were
pseudo
-twins. They were wannabes.

Fingering the rich cotton of her peasant blouse, Laura sighed. The outfit was, by far, the nicest she’d ever worn, but she knew she couldn’t keep it. She shouldn’t even be wearing it now. Add that to the long list of mistakes she’d made today. Borrowing
anything
white was dangerous. Almost as dangerous as the switch itself. What had she been thinking? She’d washed a million whites over the years
(always line dry in the sun—it’s like natural Clorox)
and they were impossible to preserve. And linen wrinkled so easily
(handwash with plenty of water and pure soap. Rinse thoroughly and dry in a terry-cloth towel)
. She’d spend an hour laundering this ensemble before returning it to Willa.

Oh well. It served Laura right.

I shouldn’t be here,
she thought, a cold sweat breaking out over her neck and forehead.
I shouldn’t have let the Dr. Pool thing freak me out so much. I have to—

“Excuse me, miss?”

A man was standing next to her. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, and Laura started to feel a little spooked until she remembered she was hovering in the doorway.

“Are you here for the Fenwick meet and greet?”

All she had to do was say no and everything would go back to normal. No.
Non. Nyet. Nein.

Laura waited for her cheeks to turn their usual color, but as the seconds ticked by she felt an unfamiliar calm settle over her. She ran her hand over Willa’s soft, thick linen skirt. Her feet, cradled in the fine leather sandals, suddenly improved her posture: her shoulders straightened, her chin rose.

“Actually, I am.” Her voice was smooth and confident—and completely unrecognizable. “I’m just a little late. I’m so sorry.”

“No problem. I got lost trying to find this place myself. I’m Mr. Stade.” The man extended his hand. He looked like a nice guy, Laura decided, the kind of man she would have chosen for her mother. Forty-something, with a face as round as a tennis ball, mossy brown hair, and glasses.

“Willa Pogue,” Laura said carefully, accepting his hand. She was amazed by her newfound poise. Laura Melon would have fainted by now.

“Ahh . . . Willa. You’ll be a junior, right? I hope you’ll consider taking my U.S. history course this semester.”

They moved toward the dining room, past a huge glossy poster that read
WELCOME TO FENWICK
. Laura knew she should speak as little as possible. She was tightrope walking without a rope or a safety net—and she’d just pushed away her last escape ladder.

But Mr. Stade had struck a chord. Due to budget cuts, her high school’s football coach had doubled as a history teacher. His entire team—and a few other jocks—had enrolled in his class looking for an easy A. Laura’s homework assignments had consisted of watching ESPN Classics, then writing essays on topics such as “Should O. J. Simpson have been granted diplomatic immunity?” When she complained, the football coach had fiercely defended his curriculum, claiming that football
was
America; that he treated every class as if it were the Super Bowl.

Laura couldn’t help herself.

“How is your class organized?” she asked. “Is it a chronological study?”

“Yes, but it’s really much more than that.” Mr. Stade’s eyes were sparkling now, and Laura was suddenly glad she’d asked the question. “The course encourages students to analyze history on many levels—political, constitutional, economic, cultural—” He stopped, his eyebrows rising slightly. “Are you interested in history, Willa?”

Laura could see that Mr. Stade was surprised. Of course he was surprised—by her questions; by her responsiveness; by everything. She’d been speaking as herself, not Willa. She had to be more careful or someone was going to get suspicious. Mr. Stade was probably familiar with Willa’s transcript. And Laura was guessing it didn’t exactly scream model historian.

“Um, well, I never was before, but I watched a documentary this summer about the New Deal and it kind of got me interested,” she lied, knowing that Willa would never, ever watch a documentary unless it was about Lubé Special. She held her breath and watched those eyebrows for a reaction.

Mr. Stade’s features evened out as his mouth curved into a smile. Laura joined him. The relief that splashed over her was so intense she stifled a giggle.

“Well, if you’re interested in the New Deal you’ll be happy to know that we spend almost three weeks this fall focused specifically . . .”

Mr. Stade was off and running. And Laura was jogging right beside him. She exhaled deeply, feeling her body uncurl a bit more as her breath pushed out into the room—and with it, the rest of her anxiety.

Willa was right,
she thought.
I do need a vacation from myself.

And, just like that, Laura Melon let go of Laura Melon.

Moving toward the buffet, Laura approached a group of new students and introduced herself. The real Laura would never have had the guts, but Laura-as-Willa felt confident and charming.

“Where did you transfer from?” asked a short redhead named Anders. He claimed to be a sophomore but Laura found it hard to believe that he was even in high school.

Laura straightened slightly as the word rolled off her tongue. “Shipley.”

“I applied there too,” he said.

“Fenwick’s better,” interjected a skinny blond girl whose nametag read,
HI, MY NAME IS HEIDI!
“My sister’s a senior and she loves it. She said people aren’t nearly as happy at Shipley.”

Laura believed it. From what she’d heard so far, Fenwick sounded amazing. How could anyone not be happy there?

The group was staring at her expectantly and Laura suddenly realized that they were waiting for her to respond. It was yet another situation in which Laura Melon would have been shaken but Laura-as-Willa wasn’t fazed a bit.

“Well,” she said slowly. “Shipley wasn’t a good fit for me. But I don’t think you can condemn a school based on one student’s experience.”

“Oh, definitely,” Heidi agreed. “You’re so right. I was just saying that there are just overall, you know, criteria . . .”

The luncheon zipped by much too quickly. One minute, Laura was Willa Pogue, eating petits fours and sipping Perrier, flanked by members of the Fenwick staff and chatty new students. The future stretched before her, manicured and lush. The next minute, she was in the car, speeding back to her old life. And back to her real future.

Laura leaned her head against the window and stared up at the bright, cloudless sky. One thing was certain. Fenwick Academy was paradise. It was Eden before that unfortunate fruit incident. The teachers were friendly and interesting, the students intelligent and enthusiastic.

And Laura desperately—with a pain she could almost reach out and touch—wanted to be a part of it.

12

The parties, the dresses, the escorts . . . I just loved being a debutante, didn’t you? I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.

—Quimby Hubbard, Debutante

13

The man that’s always there for you is always here.

—Brawny Paper Towels Brawny Man Ad

For a second, right before Laura turned on the light inside her front door, a glimmer of hope shot through her. It was silly, she knew. But for just a minute, in the darkness, it seemed possible that maybe, just maybe, she might be standing in the opulent marble entryway of Pogue Hall.

And everything—from now on—would be different.

Suddenly, the lights flickered. Harsh white light swept across the hallway and into Laura’s eyes.

“Honey! I thought that was you!” Laura’s mother appeared. Beside her stood a short, deeply tanned man.

Laura looked around the time-worn living room. Her spirit felt cleaved; stripped down to its lining.

But feeling depressed at the sight of her own apartment only made her feel worse; guilty and mean-spirited. Besides, her mother looked ultracheerful, so Laura tried to perk up.

Her mother continued, a little breathless, “We were in the kitchen.” She stepped aside importantly. “Laura, this is Dr. Pool.”

Tan man stepped forward. “Happy birthday, Laura,” he said, handing her a bouquet of daisies. His bronze cheeks were tinged with pink. “Your mother told me you liked these.”

“Thanks.” Laura could feel her own cheeks coloring. She stared into the arrangement and forced herself to rise above her own discomfort. It was a sweet gesture. It was a little sad that her mom’s boyfriend was the first guy to give her flowers, but that wasn’t his fault.

Dr. Pool grabbed her mother’s hand. “Your mother’s an amazing woman,” he said as the object of his affection looked on, blushing like a love-struck teenager.

Laura stood there, feeling completely lame.
How do you respond to something like that?

But her mother and Dr. Pool were staring, so she managed to squeak out another “Thanks.” That seemed to do the trick.

Dr. Pool’s real name was Benji. For some weird reason, Laura’s mother refused to call her new love by his first name. Instead she called him Dr. Pool—as if the guy truly held some sort of advanced degree in pool maintenance and chlorine administration.

“Isn’t he just like one of those ER doctors you see on TV?” her mother whispered to her when Benji stepped out of the room to return an emergency call.

Laura stared at her.

Her mother leaned forward. “So, what do you think?”

Laura considered Dr. Pool’s full effect. Her mother’s eyes were wide and happy, her voice playful. She was glowing. Her mother was actually
glowing
.

Laura had heard about this sort of thing happening. Actually, she’d seen it happen, kind of—to women on soap operas and terrible made-for-TV movies—the type of stuff she watched when she was sick and housebound. But she’d never actually thought a person could turn into a human flashlight in
real life.
And she certainly hadn’t thought anything like that could ever happen to her mother—simply because she’d met a too tan man with a beeper and work boots.
That
was completely bizarre.

Laura stifled a groan. She should be supportive. That was the mature thing to do. What was wrong with her?

“Honey?”

Guilt hit Laura from all sides. Okay, so maybe it was kind of uncomfortable to watch, but Benji really did seem to love her mom. Laura remembered her mother sitting alone, all those years, watching Powerball. She’d never complained once—not about anything. Her husband had walked out on her, leaving her alone with a three-year-old daughter. And all she’d ever wanted was to make Laura happy, to provide for the two of them. Now she was asking Laura for just a little approval. It seemed like such a small thing.

Laura’s throat felt tight. “Benji seems like a great guy,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.”

Laura’s mom laughed. “It was so important to me that you like him—you know, that you approve. At my age, sweetie, you just know when you’ve won the Lotto.” She took Laura’s hand. “You know, Benji and I have been talking. It’s only been six weeks and nothing’s definite yet, but I don’t want you to be shocked . . .”

Laura closed her eyes. She couldn’t deal with any more news. “Mom, it’s fine. Let’s just have a good time tonight.”

Her mother squeezed her hand.

“Sorry about that,” Benji said, snapping his cell closed as he stepped back into the hallway. “False alarm. And Angie called on the other line. She’s on her way up.”

Laura’s mother brightened. “Wonderful!” She turned to Laura. “Angie is Dr. Pool’s daughter.”

Laura jerked her head up. “Oh! Uh, great! How old is she?”

“That’s the lucky part!” her mother chirped. “You’re only about two years apart.”

“Angie’s so excited to meet you,” Benji added. He turned to Laura. “She had a job out in Cornwall today so she didn’t think she was going to make it, but she was able to cut out a little early.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

I can do this, I can do this,
Laura repeated to herself.

Forcing a cheerful look on her face, she opened the door.

“Laura, this is my daughter, Ang—” Benji began.

And then Laura’s feet were no longer touching the ground.

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” Angie boomed as she swept Laura into a bone-crushing bear hug. “It’s great to meet you!”

Laura, her face buried deep in Angie’s armpit, was assaulted by the stench of chlorine. Even if she’d wanted to reply she wouldn’t have been able to. Her throat had closed on impact.

Please let me pass out soon,
she prayed silently, her eyes tearing.

After what seemed like forever, Laura felt her feet hit the floor. Hard.

Angie shoved a finger in Laura’s stricken face. “Tonight is big,” she swore. “Huge.”

This situation is not about me,
Laura reminded herself.
And tonight is an important night for my mom. And Benji.

Laura tried. She really did. But the rest of the evening was a catastrophe.

Once they reached the living room, Angie forced Laura to look at pictures of her boyfriend, a lifeguard at a local swimming pool.

“I fixed Glenn’s swimming pool last summer—pilot needed a new starter—and it was, like, love at first sight,” Angie said, pointing her beefy index finger at the photo.

Laura stared at the lifeguard, a scrawny kid covered with zinc oxide.

“He’s real cute, right?” Angie demanded repeatedly as she flipped through picture after picture.

Laura couldn’t help noticing that in every shot, Glenn wore the same hesitant, shaky look—and he never smiled. She wondered if maybe Angie had just yanked the kid into one of her death squeezes and the poor guy had simply been too petrified to break things off.

After the pictures, Angie dragged Laura into the parking lot to stare at her new car, a battered old Trans Am that Angie proudly introduced as Yellow Thunder.

“She’s a beaut, isn’t she?” Angie declared.

Up to that point, Laura had thought it was impossible to find a car in worse shape than her mother’s station wagon, but Angie had managed to do just that. Yellow Thunder looked like it had been tested for combat—and failed miserably. The door on the passenger’s side had been torn off and the gaping hole was patched with a garbage bag. The mirrors were held in place with electrical tape, and there were no hubcaps.

Still, Laura nodded enthusiastically.

Big mistake.

“Hey!” Angie shrieked so loudly that Laura was sure someone in the building was going to call the police. Actually, she
hoped
someone would call the police. “Looks like you got yourself a case of the
mellow yellows
! So how about a lesson?”

“What?”

But it was too late. Angie had already popped the car’s rusted hood. “Okay, you
do
know where the restrictor plate is, right?”

Laura shook her head miserably. Time had definitely stopped. She knew that now.

“Now, for Yellow Thunder it’s a little different than for most cars ’cause there is none—I took it out. I got rid of the muffler, too. I like to announce my presence with authority. . . .”

By the time they were called for dinner, Laura was covered with motor oil, grease and a few burns. Slamming down the rusted hood within inches of Laura’s hand, Angie had raced upstairs, where she’d eaten thirds of everything while everyone else was still serving themselves firsts.

After dessert, Angie had insisted on checking out Laura’s room. Laura had opened her mouth to protest, but Angie was already gone, racing down the hall.

When Laura finally caught up with her, Angie was already rifling through her things.

“Wow, you’ve got an awful lot of books, you know that? Are you, like, some kind of professor or something?”

It was the first question Angie had asked about Laura’s life—her own interests—the whole evening. Unless you counted the dozens of times she’d said, “Hey, how come your cheeks turn all red like that every time you talk?”

After that, Angie started calling Laura the professor. Laura repeatedly asked Angie to stop—about thirty times in all. But, not surprisingly, Angie wasn’t the best listener. Laura had a feeling “the professor” would be engraved on her tombstone.

Finally, after Angie had dealt her last organ-smashing hug and lurched off into the night, Laura said good night to her mom and Benji and escaped to her room.

She lay down on the bed. Every inch of her was sore and bruised. What a day. She’d gone from heiress to Angie. It was quite a tumble.

She sighed. She loved her mother and she was happy for her. But Angie was a nightmare.

Laura’s thoughts turned to Willa, sleeping soundly in her million-dollar mansion.

Envy reigned over her.

Willa had money. Willa had Fenwick. Willa had everything.

From the kitchen, Laura could hear her mother and Benji, laughing together as they filled out a Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes application.

Even if her last name wasn’t Pogue, her mother had found a way to make her own life glitter.

Now Laura just had to do the same for herself.