Don't You Wish (5 page)

I touch it, unable to resist running my fingers through the chocolate locks with caramel-colored highlights expertly woven in. Stick-straight, too, like someone spent the whole night flat-ironing it, which they’d have to, because it’s so damn thick.

And my eyes? They’re still big, wide-set, but the blue-gray I’m used to seeing is green now, almost emerald. Contacts? I blink, but nothing changes.

My fingers graze my skin, which is buttery smooth. My cheekbones are more prominent; my nose is a tad smaller but still mine. And look at that chin! Is that a little cleft in the middle? Omigawd, is that not the cutest thing
ever
?

I take a step back, smiling. The braces are off!

I’m freaking beautiful!

The realization makes me giggle a little. I put my hands on my hips to give those incredible locks a shake over my shoulders, but the move pulls my gaze south, to the V-neck of the silky nightgown I’m wearing.

To … my cleavage.

I grab my chest. Now, these, thank you very much, are boobs. A handful at least. Maybe a C-cup! Su
-weet
!

Sliding my palms down, I slip over a narrow waist and I turn, tightening the nightgown so I can see the shape of my backside.

Well, goodbye, No-Fanny Annie. Wait till I tell Lizzie her nickname is no good in this dream.

I laugh a little, my hand to my mouth for the auto-cover of braces, only to remember that the braces aren’t there. I realize I’m shaking, from shock or pleasure or terror. Placing both hands on the counter, which feels solid and real, I lean all the way into the mirror and look right into those gorgeous greens.

“Annie Nutter, this is a dream.”

I nod back in total agreement. I’ve always had Dad’s hyperdrive imagination and some wild and crazy dreams to go with it. Nothing quite like this, but still.

“This is the best dream you’ve ever had,” I tell the reflection. “So just go with it. Before you know it, you’ll wake up on Rolling Rock Road, boobless, buttless, Chanel shoe–less.”

I inch back a few steps, unable to wipe the smile from my face. “Now, dream,” I say to my imagination. “What should I do next?”

Get dressed
.

Oh, like that’ll be a supreme hardship. I start to climb
over another towel but stop, picking it up out of habit and shaking it open to hang on the towel rack.

As I smooth the velvety cloth, I notice a turquoise-colored
A
embroidered on the corner.
A
for
Annie
?

Still smiling at the wonder that is my dreamy imagination, I head to the closet for some fantasy threads.

The underwear drawers are a mess of silk and lace, an array of the sweetest little strips of colorful satin I’ve ever seen. Even the bra I choose—which I certainly need with these most excellent bazooms—is lemon-yellow with a flower made of teeny little pearls that take my breath away.

I pick designer jeans labeled
7 for All Mankind
and step in, somehow not at all surprised that they fit like, well, a dream. Rolled in the top drawer, I find five—no, six Juicy Couture T-shirts, all with the tags still attached. I choose a deep purple to match my funky toes and bite off the price tag, but not before checking it.

Hello? What idiot would pay $198 for a T-shirt? Wait’ll I tell Lizzie about this.

I could spend an hour picking shoes but settle on some cool Michael Kors platform espadrilles and leave the closet, still marveling at that magic light when I close the door. Back in the bathroom, I try a little dream makeup, not surprised that the MAC and Bobbi Brown go on better than HiP from L’Oréal.

When I look at the finished product, I smile again. I might never want to—

“Miss Ayla!” A loud knock on the bedroom door jolts me out of my thoughts. But, thankfully, not the dream. If Theo
wakes me now, his death will be slow and painful. “Are you awake, Miss Ayla?”

The voice is female, lightly accented, a little desperate.

“It is a school day, Miss Ayla. You must get up right this very minute.” She jiggles the handle furiously.
“Please.”

I walk to the door and unlock it, opening it to find myself face to face with a dark-haired woman in a crisp navy dress with an apron over it. Under one arm, she carries an empty wicker basket.

“Oh, my God!” She steps back, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide.

“What? What is it?”

“I don’t believe what I see.”

Well, join the club, lady. That seems to be the way things go around here.

But I just invite her in, dying to know more.

As soon as she walks in, chaos breaks out. The iPhone starts beeping. Loud, heavy footsteps clomp outside the door, and suddenly there’s a big teenage boy in my doorway wearing earbuds and a look of sleep-deprived disgust on his face. From somewhere in the house, a woman calls, “Ayla! Trent! Breakfast!”

The basket lady reaches up and yanks the headphone out of the boy’s ear and screams, “Can you believe she is awake and dressed!”

She’s so loud, like he’s deaf or still has the bud in, that he steps back from the impact of her voice. Then he slides a look up and down me, shrugging.

“Good thing. ’Cause I’m leaving in twenty minutes. If you don’t like it, walk your ass to school.”

“There’s no bus?”

He chokes a little, like he almost wants to laugh, then looks at the woman. “You’re right, Loras. Some alien came and took Ayla. Somebody with a sense of humor and the ability to tell time and get out of bed has arrived in her place.”

For one insane moment, I cling to this alien theory. That’s one explanation, anyway.

He sticks the earbud back in and disappears as the woman hustles by me into the room.

“Is so nice to see you get up by yourself, Miss Ayla!” She stoops over to pick up some clothes and toss them into her basket.

Do I usually need help getting up?

“Here, I’ll get that,” I say. Even though
I
didn’t drop yet another Juicy T-shirt, it’s still kind of embarrassing to have my … Wait a second. Is this my dream mother, this Loras?

She freezes in the act of cleaning, staring at the T-shirt I just picked up, her eyes widening. “Are you sick, Miss Ayla?” She reaches toward my forehead. “Fever?”

“No,” I say, gently moving her hand. “I’m fine. I’m …”
Just new around here
. “Hungry.”

“Go and eat, then. I get your room, Miss Ayla.”

Ayla again. Like the
A
on the towel. And the name on the phone … Ayla Monroe. Props to the dream for a truly sick name, by the way.

“Thank you,” I say, probably smiling like a fool. But who wouldn’t be happy when you look like a model and live like a queen? “Sorry for the mess,” I add as she bends over again.

Once again, she gives me an incredulous look. Whereas my real mom would probably have dumped the basket, pointed to the piles of crap, and said, “Grounded for life.”

But this Dream Mom—

“Your mother is downstairs in the kitchen,” she says.

So this is the help. Well, duh. Dream would never skimp on something like support staff, would she?

“Oh, good. I’ll go see her.” Because I’m dying to meet the mom of my dreams.

I start toward the door, and Loras stops me with a hand. “Miss Ayla?” She’s holding out the iPhone. “I’ve never seen you go anywhere without this.” She says “this” like “thees,” with a Spanish accent.

I take the phone. “Thank you … Loras.”

She beams at me, and I smile back. Awkward! On the way out, I glance at the phone.

Message from Jade Sterling.
I touch the phone and read:
don’t 4get me! Trent said I could ride with u. am not going with bitch mom. cu.

Meaningless. But somehow, I know where to go, moving slowly as I drink it all in. The size, the scope, the luxury, the bomb-diggity staircase that curves forever. I stand at the top and just stare down to the jaw-dropping entryway, a wall of glass looking out over water and blue skies.

Wait, I’ve seen this staircase before. That view. That very statue in a fountain at the bottom of the stairs. In a movie? In a …

Magazine
.

Every nerve ending in my body tingles as I stand stone
still, gripping the smooth wood banister. I am living the flawless life! This is Dr. Jim Monroe’s house.

Of course.
That’s
why I’m dreaming this! That’s why it’s so vivid and real, so alive that I can smell the money oozing out of every corner.

Ayla … 
Monroe
.

Oh, REM sleep is a wild and wonderful thing, isn’t it?

For some reason, this realization comforts me. It’s like, if I know why I’m dreaming something, then it isn’t a nightmare, not so scary and uncertain. Not that anything about this is scary.

Still, good to know that this is just a product of a magazine article and an emotionally electrified day. Wait’ll I tell Mom about this dream! I swear, I’m gonna tell her every single detail I remember.

With a little bounce in my step, I head down the stairs, not really that surprised that I know where I’m going. Dreams are like that, senseless and crazy.

And fun. This will definitely go down as the best dream ever.

Toward the back of the house, I turn left and head through a short passageway with counters and cabinets on either side. I think I’ve heard Mom, when in realtor mode, refer to this as a butler’s pantry, leading to a kitchen. There, another woman, wearing the same uniform as Loras, is cooking.

She’s light-haired, broad-shouldered, and huge. Like, linebacker huge. And that big teen guy, who I’m going to guess is Trent, is at the table scarfing cereal.

And another woman has her back to me, looking out
over a patio, and, oh, there’s the infinity pool! Beyond it, a forever view of water, boats, palm trees, sun, and a sky that’s Windex-bottle blue.

I clear my throat. “Mom?”

The woman doesn’t turn, and I realize she’s talking on the phone. Instead, she holds up one finger, as if to say,
Just a second
, and keeps talking softly.

I walk closer, and the lady at the stove glances my way.

“I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.” Her words are also slightly accented, but definitely not Spanish. She scowls at me, not nearly as sweet as the woman cleaning my room.

“Believe what? That I’m up and dressed?” Apparently this is some kind of major coup for Ayla.

“And dressed so … simply,” she adds.

I glance down at what has to be a six-hundred-dollar outfit. If this is simple, I can’t wait to wear complex.

She waves me toward the table. “I have your yogurt chilling, Miss Ayla.”

Do they all have to call me Miss? When she angles my way, I see that she has a gold name badge pinned to her uniform that says
Mathilda
. Are there so many staff members that they need IDs?

“Thank you, Mathilda.”

That earns me another fierce look. Am I not supposed to use her name?

“Is it in the refrigerator?” I glance at the side-by-side Sub-Zeros. “Refrigerators,” I amend.

“What are you doing?” she asks, blocking my way like a human wall.

“Um … getting the yogurt?”

She gives me the same look Loras did when I picked up the T-shirt. “Sit down, Miss Ayla. I promise you it’s not strawberry. You don’t have to test me.”

“I’m not …” I close my mouth and nod, then head toward a table that could seat at least ten.

As I get closer, Mom-on-Phone turns away even more, still hiding her face, murmuring. The boy, who I’m going to take a wild guess is my dream brother, pops the earbud and glowers at me. His green eyes match the ones I just admired in my mirror. His hair is lighter, his face the male version of great-looking.

“What the hell’s up with you?” he asks, all accusation and disgust.

“Nothing.”
Just don’t screw up my dream, bonehead brother. I’m not ready for it to end
.

“Why are you acting like a freak?”

I scowl at him. “How am I acting like a freak?”

“What do you want? I’m not letting you drive today, so you can take that learner’s permit and shove it where the sun don’t shine. It’s not my fault you and your posse are too dumb to pass driver’s ed. You want to drive that car Dad gave you? Find someone else with a legit license to sit next to you.”

I have a car? Of course! It’s dreamland! “Nah, but I need a ride to school. With Jade,” I add, kind of smug for catching on to this gig so fast.

He lets out a grunt like I’ve punched him. “That little skank never shuts up.”

I want to defend my friend, but just as I open my mouth,
a place mat flutters down in front of me, and Mathilda sets a glass bowl of yogurt on it, a mint sprig at a jaunty angle. Spoon, napkin, and a tall glass of OJ.

I half expect her to bow.

“Thank you,” I reply, looking up at her.

She stares at me as if I’ve spoken in another language. But the woman on the phone has ended her call and turned around, and she approaches the table, stealing all my attention.

“Are you still determined to do this?” she asks.

I blink at her. Mom? Holy smokes, she looks different. All shiny and smooth and tight. Her face is kind of amazing and weird at the same time. Her eyes are bright, brows high. There’s not a wrinkle in sight, and her hair is silky, thick, and definitely not bottle blond. She paid big money for that highlights job.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” she replies for me, parking a hip on the corner of the table.

She’s in a body-hugging knit dress, with several heavy necklaces hanging around her neck. Whoa, this mom’s been hitting the gym and skipping the ice cream after dinner.

“You look great, Mom.” The words are out before I know it.

She tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing in distrust. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Put on this act.”

“It’s not an act.” It’s a
dream
. Didn’t everyone else get the memo?

“Why are you wearing that?” she asks.

I automatically check for a bra strap showing, which would be what usually upsets Mom about a T-shirt. “Uh, because I like it?”