Switched (9 page)

17

Less laundry, more life

—Maytag

As the cab reached the gates of Fenwick Academy, the butterflies in Laura’s stomach flew higher, tickling her throat.

“Turn here, right?” the driver shouted from around his cigar.

“Yes.”

Laura peered through the window as the taxi wound its way toward the school. She resisted the urge to clap like a three-year-old.

She was in heaven.

Fenwick was even prettier than the glossy pictures in Willa’s information packet. Green lawns sprawled for miles; trees swept the campus; the brick and wooden buildings dated back to the eighteenth century. Everything was perfectly maintained. And it was all huge. The library alone—a magnificent stone structure covered with columns and gargoyles—was twice the size of Laura’s old high school.

When they reached her dorm, Hubbard House, Laura paid the driver but didn’t go inside. She stood in front of the building and stared out at the quad, trying to lock down the moment forever. All around her, the campus buzzed with life: kids were tossing Frisbees, shouting to one another from windows, unloading cars filled with their belongings. An unfamiliar ripple of school spirit swept through her.

She was a student here.

Sort of.

She turned and lugged her suitcases up three steps and onto the dorm’s wraparound porch. She knew her room number and that she had a single—all upperclassmen did—but all other details were a mystery.

As she glanced down at the wooden beams under her feet, Laura’s pulse accelerated. The rooms in this place were probably amazing, very
Pride and Prejudice.
Most of the dorms had, at one point, been private residences. She closed her eyes and pictured a slightly smaller version of Willa’s bedroom at Pogue Hall. The dorm looked like it might have been built around the same time. Hopefully, there’d be a window seat looking out over the quad.

Laura opened the front door, which screeched loudly, and slid her things down the hall toward room 112. The dorm room was wide open—ready and waiting.

And completely disgusting.

The carpeting was some sort of rough Astroturf that stank of mildew—which made sense because it was slightly damp. It made Angie’s filthy zebra skin seem luxurious. A single, naked lightbulb was screwed into the ceiling, encircled by a dirty ring where a fixture had once hung. There was no window seat—there was no room for one. There was barely room for the graffiti-covered desk and the flimsy metal twin bed.

Laura tilted her head sideways, then up. Wait, how could that be? The room was slanted. Everything—bed, desk, window—sagged toward the right. Laura felt like she’d stepped inside the set of
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
She leaned sideways and the room instantly righted itself once again.

“I can’t believe this,” Laura muttered as she eyed the stained mattress (didn’t
everyone
know the baking soda/peroxide trick? Honestly). “This school costs thirty-five thousand dollars a year, how do—”

She froze, horrified at her indignation. She’d been on campus for about ten minutes and already she was acting like a spoiled debutante. True, she’d read the brochures. And yes, Fenwick did cost thirty-five thousand dollars. But it wasn’t
her
thirty-five thousand dollars. This—none of this—was hers. And that meant it was not hers to judge. She was in no position to make demands, either. She had to try to remember that.

It was important not to lose perspective. Again.

Besides, she was miles away from her vast collection of cleaning supplies
and
Angie. She could enjoy the next four months without any near-death experiences. Wasn’t that what this was all about?

Laura pushed her luggage into the room, opened her suitcases and ran her hands over the clothing Willa had lent her for the semester. Laura still couldn’t get over the way the expensive fabrics felt against her skin. The finely spun cashmeres, cottons and silks—even Willa’s expensive jeans seemed to rest on her hips differently than her own from Old Navy.

I have to stop treating everything like it’s new,
Laura reminded herself as she started to unpack.
It’s a dead giveaway that I don’t belong here.

Willa had given her a crash course in boarding school behavior, imparting a few nuggets of wisdom, such as: wealth is important but understated, sloppy is stylish but dirty is gross (hence Willa’s overwhelming unpopularity) and it’s okay to be smart but don’t be a suck-up.

Unfortunately, that advice was barely enough to get Laura beyond the first week of school. Willa, by her own admission, wasn’t exactly a boarding school success story. She had, in fact, semiseriously counseled Laura to “just do the opposite of anything I’d do and you’ll be valedictorian by October.”

Basically, Laura was on her own.

“Willa? Am I interrupting?”

Laura looked up and realized she’d left her door wide open. A young woman stood in the doorway.

“Uh, no,” Laura said, trying to muster her best “I’m-nice-but-please-don’t-bug-me” smile.

“Great.” The woman moved breezily into the room and plopped onto the desk, which creaked in protest.

Laura bent over her suitcase, pretending to fold a shirt but instead studying the woman. She was tiny—and her short, straight brown hair was streaked with gray. She wore a white tank top under overalls, and her bare feet were tan. A small ruby stud winked at Laura from her left nostril.

“So, how do you like Fenwick so far?”

Laura shrugged. “It looks great. I mean, I just got here a few minutes ago.”

The woman fingered a silver chain around her neck. “Well, I just wanted to come down and introduce myself. I’m your dorm advisor, Jenna Palmer. You’re supposed to call me Ms. Palmer but I hate that, so around the dorm you can call me Jenna. I teach dance at Fenwick—I’ve been here for about ten years—and I’m actually an alum myself. Class of ninety-three. So if you have any questions, please feel free to knock. I’m upstairs in two thirty-four.”

“Thanks. I will,” Laura said, relieved she wasn’t living on the same floor as this woman. It could pose a threat to her anonymity. Plus, she hated when adults told you to call them by their first name. It was impossible to remember and they always got annoyed when you forgot, because then they felt old.

“Great. Listen, I gotta go. I’m making my ‘welcome’ rounds today.” Jenna hopped off the desk and stretched, then slid across the room, her tiny dancer’s feet barely making a sound on the cheap carpet. “Nice meeting you, Willa.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Laura shut the door and leaned against it, lost in thought. Ms. Palmer had thought she was Willa, so she’d obviously pulled this off. One person down, an entire campus to go.

Someone was knocking on the door.

Laura’s pulse rose, her breath coming in uneven spurts through her mouth and nose. It was Ms. Palmer. Definitely. She’d come back with the authorities. Campus police. Or worse—the Pogues. Laura had lasted ten minutes at Fenwick.

Laura opened the door, steeling herself for the very worst.

She blinked. She blinked again. Then she realized that she was still holding her breath and was beginning to feel a little light-headed, so she focused on breathing. She still felt dizzy but that had less to do with oxygen and more to do with the boy who was standing in the hallway.

He somehow managed to be tall and thin but athletic-looking at the same time. Laura’s eyes traveled across the planes of his face, over the strong jaw and high cheekbones, absorbing his deep blue eyes and the short, light brown hair.

It was, she realized, too good to be true. Guys who looked like this never knocked on her door. They asked her for help in chemistry but then didn’t bother to apologize when they jostled her in the hallway. They saw her without ever really seeing her.

But to repeat: this guy
had
knocked on her door. This boy was standing in front of her. Right now.

“Uh, hi,” he said, his eyebrows wrinkling slightly. He looked mildly surprised. “Willa?”

Once again, Laura waited for the apple effect to overwhelm her cheeks. The real Laura Melon couldn’t talk to guys—especially cute ones—and when she absolutely had to she said something embarrassing and then tortured herself about it for months.

But she wasn’t Laura anymore. And somehow, her body could tell. “I am,” she said smoothly.
There is no doubt in my mind that I am who I say I am; that I should be here, talking to you.

“Oh, great.” He looked relieved. “I’m Caleb—Caleb Blake. You, uh, don’t know me or anything but our parents are friends and my mom asked me to introduce myself. She was kind of dead set on it, actually. I tried to call over the summer—did you get any of my messages?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I had kind of an intense summer, getting ready for school and everything. I know it was rude—I’m sorry.”

Caleb laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’m the one who should be apologizing, really. I felt bad calling so much, but my mother kept making me. She gets something into her head and she kind of can’t let it go. . . . Anyway, mind if I check out your room? I’m a little jealous you’re in Hub. I was going to live here last year, but then did a study abroad in Italy and had to give up the room.”

“Wow, Italy.” Laura stepped aside, wondering if they were breaking some sort of coed visitation rule. Willa hadn’t mentioned anything about it since Laura wasn’t supposed to be receiving guests—male or female. And Laura couldn’t ask since she was supposed to be a seasoned boarding school student.

“Yeah. Fenwick has a program in Florence. A lot of the students go. It was pretty amazing,” Caleb said, glancing around the room. He whistled. “Whoa, this is sweet. You really lucked out.”

Laura stared at him. He was joking, right? Where was his dorm room? Guantánamo Bay? She waited for his laughter, but there was none. He was serious.

“It’s great,” Laura agreed, trying to keep a straight face. “I know.”

Caleb leaned against the wall and grinned. Laura smiled back, appreciating the way his eyes caught the light.

Would it be rude to ask him to stand there for the next four months?
she wondered.

“So,” he said, “will you please do me a favor and ask me a few questions about Fenwick? That way maybe my mom will finally leave me alone.”

Laura laughed. “Actually,” she said, grabbing her course guide out of her bag, “I do have some questions.”

Caleb glanced down at the book, which was paper-clipped, bookmarked and covered with Post-it notes.

He grinned. “I’d better have a seat.”

“Oh, please,” Laura said. She pulled out the desk chair and watched as he settled in. “But actually—well—I guess I should’ve asked this from the very start, but, do you like Fenwick? I’ve been reading a lot about the school over the summer, but I was wondering . . .”

“You were wondering if you’ll want to hang yourself from a gargoyle by Thanksgiving break?”

Actually, she was more interested in knowing if every boarding school kid shared Willa’s attitude toward academia, but she’d start wherever Caleb wanted to.

“It’s pretty cool here,” he said. “I mean, for a school. They do kill you junior year—I’m just warning you. It’s rough. Even in Italy, it was bad. But I have to say, I never thought about transferring.” He laughed. “Don’t tell anyone but I might even miss this place next year.”

“You’re graduating?” Laura asked. She found herself wondering where he was applying to college and what he wanted to major in, but then remembered that she wasn’t supposed to be getting to know Caleb.

The thought suddenly struck Laura as tragic.

“Uh-huh,” Caleb said. He reached for her course book. “Okay, what did you want to know?”

Twenty minutes later, they wove their way through the quad, toward the dining hall. “Thanks so much for all your help,” Laura said. She meant it, too. Caleb had given her the lowdown on all the teachers—which one’s courses to take and which ones to steer clear of—and now her schedule was pretty much complete.

“No problem,” he said, giving a good-natured shrug. He stopped suddenly and turned to look at her. “You know, you’re a lot different than I expected. I mean, my parents told me a little about you, but you’re so completely—I don’t know. You’re into your classes and interested in school.” He shrugged again. “I guess I’m just surprised.”

Laura swallowed. She’d done it again. She couldn’t completely stifle herself—it was impossible. She didn’t want to, either.

Okay. You pulled this one off the last time. You can do it again. He believes you. Just stay with it. If you believe, he will too. You can go anywhere as someone else.

“You know, I did a lot of thinking this summer,” she said. “Remember, that’s why I didn’t have time to call you back?”

Caleb laughed. “Well, then—”

“Hey, handsome!”

A small auburn-haired girl suddenly fell into step beside them and grabbed Caleb’s hand. Upon later reflection, Laura would redefine the move as a hand-snatch.

“Oh, hey, Courtney.” Either Caleb had decided to ignore the lilliputian’s rudeness or he was simply too mellow a guy for that sort of thing to even register.

Laura’s heart was sinking slowly in her chest.
Please don’t say it,
she thought desperately.
I’ll know, okay? But you don’t have to say the words out loud.

“Laura, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Courtney Wilton.”

18

Elite women typically do not describe themselves as privileged or see their early childhood socialization as having been vastly different from that of girls in other social classes.
—The Power of Good Deeds: Privileged Women and the Social Reproduction of the Upper Class

Diana Kendall

Willa drifted through Laura’s apartment, noting the comfortably worn furniture, the stucco walls and the soft, frayed area rugs. She had to memorize the whole thing—rooms, knickknacks and cabinets—by the time Angie arrived, or else her cover would be totally blown.

Kicking off her shoes, Willa flopped onto the living room couch and sank into the softly worn cushions. She leaned her head back slightly and from this position was able to study the entire room.

The mismatched furniture and cheerful walls were so cozy, so inviting. And everywhere you looked there were pictures of Laura and her mother from various stages of their life together. In every single one, they were laughing or hugging.

Willa stared down at her hands. The only photographs her parents hung in their houses were of her mother, back in her debutante days. The few baby pictures they had of Willa had been professionally taken and they all looked the same: she wore stiff, overly starched dresses and looked completely miserable.

Enough.
She wasn’t a Pogue—not for the next few months, anyway.
This
was her living room now. These were her photos—her happy memories.

They were on loan. That was the deal.

Willa strode down the hall toward her bedroom, mentally recording the number of doorways, light fixtures and closets along the way. She stepped inside and looked around.

Her mouth fell open as her toes curled in delight. “Adorable,” she said. It was tiny, sure, but it was cozy. A bookshelf was built into one wall and the floor was covered with a pretty aquamarine and coral area rug. The walls were painted sky-blue and the quilt on Laura’s daybed picked up all the colors.

The room was so great. It was
so
Laura.

But what was that smell?

Wincing, she sniffed at the air again. Was that
garbage
? It couldn’t be—Laura was such a neat freak. Willa looked around the room for the source of the smell.

“Ahhh,” she said as her eyes landed on the rolled-up zebra skin rug, which lay slumped in one corner of the room. So
this
was Angie’s attempt at interior design.

Willa approached the rug and nudged it with her toe. It unrolled about a foot. She pinched her nose shut and leaned down for a closer look.

It stank, sure. And the stains looked pretty bad. But Willa could kind of see where Angie was coming from. The rug—at one point—had probably been really expensive. Willa was pretty sure her parents had something like it in their New York town house.

Wait. Hadn’t Laura passed along some sort of cleaning recommendation for carpet stains and odors?

Still holding her nose, Willa scooped up the malodorous rug and carried it toward the kitchen, where she spread it out on the linoleum floor. As she unfolded the last corner, a CD skidded across the room. Willa walked over and picked it up.

“The Professor’s Got Yellow Fever.”
She laughed.

Some background music would be nice while she cleaned. Besides, Angie was definitely going to mention this mix, so Willa figured she ought to listen.

She walked over to the counter and popped the CD into a Discman that was hooked up to some tiny speakers.

Everything in this place is so cute,
she thought.

Static crackled through the room. “Mellow Yellow” burst through the speakers.

“This had better work,” Willa muttered as she assembled the supplies and dipped a scrub brush into a bucket filled with warm water, ammonia, white vinegar and laundry detergent. She’d initially forgotten the rubber gloves and her skin was red and throbbing from the ammonia.

Her hands moved over the rug in smooth, gentle strokes. The song was vaguely familiar. Then Willa’s hand froze.
What the—?

A new voice had joined the mix. It was large and booming, yet undeniably female.

Angie was now with the band.

It was no Lubé Special, but the mix was fun in a goofy sort of way. Willa went back to work. She worked through Angie’s karaoke versions of “Yellow Submarine” and “Big Yellow Taxi.” She even found herself humming along.

Somewhere near the end of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree,” the white stripes on the zebra skin rug had become purer than a debutante cotillion.

Willa stripped off her rubber gloves, her nostrils flaring slightly as she sucked down the new scent of clean. Staring down at the slick fur, her eyes traced the bold black and white stripes, mesmerized by the sharp contrast.

I did that,
she thought as her chest rose with pride. Her first cleaning job had been a success. It felt strange. Strange but good.

“I just need to keep this up,” she said, running her fingers over the rug’s smooth, sponged surface. “I hope Angie likes it.”

Every single roommate Willa had ever had—and there had been many—hated her. It didn’t matter who they were—artists, jocks, satan worshippers, prom queens—the one thing they all shared was an instantaneous dislike of Willa. In her most paranoid moments, she even suspected they’d formed some sort of anti-Willa secret society, complete with a special handshake and logo—her head with a slash through it or something.

“Maybe this was a really bad idea,” Willa muttered. The ammonia burned her eyes; anxiety had her heart thumping. “It was
my
bad idea. Laura’s not despised everywhere she goes. I am. That’ll probably tip Angie off just a
little.”

She reached into her back pocket and grabbed her phone.

Willa snapped her phone shut. Her stomach issued a long, low wail.

She walked over to the counter and grabbed a can of Pringles. She had to call Fenwick immediately and tell Laura to get out of there. It was that simple. This was an emergency. They could switch back tonight and maybe nobody would notice.

With a shaking hand, Willa flipped her cell open again. Suddenly a human tidal wave crashed through the apartment. Willa, her Pringles and a chair were lifted off the linoleum floor in one movement. The phone shot out of her hand and spiraled through the air like a model airplane.

“Hi, Angie,” she croaked, struggling for breath.

Angie tossed her to the floor in what had to be a WWE regulation body drop. Standing beside Angie was a pale, thin boy. Willa remembered Laura’s mentioning something about Angie having a boyfriend.

“Hi, Laura,” he said, extending his hand. His voice was mild and Willa couldn’t help noticing how tiny his hand was compared to Angie’s. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.” He glanced admiringly in Angie’s direction. “Angie’s so excited about living with you.”

Willa tried to sound relaxed. “Thanks. It’s gonna be great.”

“Great?” Angie boomed. “Professor! This is amazing!” She turned to Glenn. “Sorry about that. I’m so bad with introductions. I always forget.”

Glenn laughed. “It’s okay. I managed.”

Angie pumped her head up and down as she turned to Willa. “I can’t believe how long it’s been, right? Me and all my emergencies. I’m just about ready to throw my beeper off a high dive!” She laughed good-naturedly. “But I’m so psyched about moving in. I mean, I’ll miss our parents and everything, but it’s just so cool we’ve got the place to ourselves. . . .
Wait a minute!
”

Willa’s cheeks flamed as the floor slipped slowly out from underneath her feet. She dug her toes into her shoes and tried to steady herself but couldn’t seem to find the proper balance.

I knew this wasn’t going to work,
she thought miserably. She waited for the blow that would bring pain and darkness.

Suddenly, a huge smile spread over Angie’s thick features. “You look great, Professor!” she shrieked.

Willa’s jaw fell slack.
“What?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Angie thundered on. “You were pretty that first time I met you. But just a little scrawny, you know? But now, step
back
! You’re beautiful!” She turned to Glenn. “Now don’t you get any funny ideas, okay?”

Glenn held up his hands. “Promise.”

Willa was still reeling from the surprise compliment when Angie caught sight of the zebra skin rug. Her face lit up.

“Did you do that, Professor?” she asked, not waiting for a response. “ ’Cause it looks great! I shoulda known you’d know what to do with it. Do you care where we put it, ’cause . . .”

But Willa was totally zoned out. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had complimented her looks. Willa had, in the past, received plenty of negative feedback, of course. Over the years her mother had called her chunky and tubby and—when she cared to be tactful—big. But nobody, not her mother or father or anyone else, had ever told her she was beautiful. They hadn’t even said she was average.

Willa watched as her new roommate leaned over the rug and ran her hands along the pelt.

This is going to be okay,
she thought.