Switched (10 page)

19

Great new look! Great new formula!!

—Zout Stain Remover

It’s really a good thing that Caleb has a girlfriend,
Laura told herself for the millionth time.

She stared down at the brown plasticine substance on her plate—Salisbury steak, according to the Fenwick dining hall—and frowned.

No wonder Willa was so obsessed with food, if she’d been subjected to this stuff every night.

Laura’s eyes traveled across the room to Caleb and Courtney’s oh-so-cozy table in a quiet corner of the cafeteria. Caleb had invited her to join them, but Laura had declined, insisting that she had some last-minute summer reading to finish. Everyone had known it was a lie, but he hadn’t pushed. The murderous look on Courtney’s face, combined with her death-lock grip, had probably weighed heavily in his decision.

So now Laura was alone. None of the happy, chattering voices bouncing around the dining hall were meant for her.

The current of mingled conversations pulled her away from her tray and Laura found her gaze drifting back to Caleb. He was talking, his face animated and expressive, his hair tousled.

Laura ducked her head. Why was she torturing herself?

This is the way it was supposed to be,
she thought, staring at the empty seat next to her.
I’m not here to become homecoming queen.

And Caleb Blake wasn’t part of the plan either.

Laura stood and lifted her tray, her back straight and stiff.
Just pull the Band-Aid off quickly,
she thought.

As she walked toward the dorm, she forced herself to digest every magnificent building, walkway and blade of grass that comprised the quad.

When I’m by myself I don’t have any distractions,
she thought as she leaned over to read a plaque outside the infirmary.
I can really get to know the campus history.

“Willa Pogue?”

She started. A middle-aged woman in a blue terry-cloth jogging suit was standing next to her, perhaps a bit too close, scrutinizing her through intense brown eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“That’s okay.”

How does this woman know Willa?
Laura wondered. Tiny dots of perspiration decorated her forehead.

“I’m Mrs. Flemming,” the woman said, extending her hand.

“Willa Pogue.”

“I thought so. I manage the infirmary and since everyone usually comes to see me at some point during the year I try to introduce myself—even before you really need me,” Mrs. Flemming explained. She was practically glowing at the thought of Laura’s future illness.

“Uh, that’s nice.” Laura felt like her head was about to explode. Mrs. Flemming knew Willa?

Laura excused herself as quickly as possible. She was annoyed at Willa for not doing her research. This was so typical. All Willa had to do was look at the faculty listings and Laura could’ve been better prepared.

There were two girls sitting on the porch of Hubbard House drinking bottled water. One had curly black hair that she wore tied back in a ponytail. The other had straight, light brown hair. Their tennis racquets were in cases, leaning off to the side.

Laura climbed the steps, unsure of what do with her eyes. Should she look down at her feet or should she try to say hello, maybe introduce herself, instead? She wasn’t supposed to make friends, but she didn’t want people to think she was rude, either.

She was still mid-debate when ponytail girl waved. “Hey,” she said, looking up. “Are you Willa?”

Oh no,
thought Laura.
Not again.

“Uh, yeah.” She forced her voice to sound normal. “I am.”

“Hi. I’m Alice.”

The girl sitting next to her smiled. “I’m Brewer. Nice to meet you.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Alice reached back and ran a hand through her ponytail. “So, are you unpacked and everything?”

“More or less. Are you?”

“So-so. Have you met Jenna?”

Laura nodded. “She seemed sort of interesting.”

The girls laughed.

“That’s one way to phrase it,” said Brewer. “Listen, whatever you do, don’t take her whole ‘I’m totally relaxed’ vibe seriously. It’s all an act.”

“It is?” Laura pictured Jenna in her head, with her overalls and bare feet.

“She’s super-uptight. She sees anything against the rules, she’ll tell,” Alice said. “Last year, she got eleven kids expelled for drinking on a school trip to see the Ballet Folklórico in Mexico City.”

Laura had already been planning to stay away from Jenna, so this wouldn’t change anything. “Thanks for the warning.”

“No problem.”

“We’re on three if you need anything,” Alice said. She took another swig of water. “Do you play?”

“What?”

Alice gestured toward the tennis racquets. “I was just wondering if you played,” she repeated.

“Alice and I play for Fenwick and we’re always trying to recruit people,” Brewer explained.

“Sorry,” Laura said, shaking her head. It was the most honest she’d been all day.

“Too bad. You look like you’re in great shape,” Brewer said absently, peeling a strip of paint off the porch floor.

Laura waved good-bye and headed back to her room. Everyone on campus seemed to know Willa already. How, though?

Laura unlocked her door and sat down at Willa’s Mac. Was this an emergency? It definitely felt like one.

Well, that was helpful. And what was a Fluffernutter?

Laura clicked off her computer and turned around. For the first time, she spotted a package on her bed, with a note attached. She hadn’t noticed it before, in her panicked state. She leaned down to read the curling, flowery cursive:

Jenna Palmer had a key to this room.

From head to toe, every part of Laura’s body snapped to attention as she scanned the room looking for clues—anything that might betray her. She knew she should be outraged by the obvious invasion of privacy but, oddly, she felt nothing. Her primary concern—actually her only concern—was jeopardizing the plan.

Laura’s eyes traveled over Willa’s shiny metallic laptop, the Pogues’ leather trunks, the expensive borrowed clothing. The shabby room looked ridiculous packed with all the overpriced luxury items.

It was, Laura realized with some surprise, your stereotypical boarding school room. She was willing to bet that her room looked like every other dorm room on campus.

I’m safe,
Laura thought.
For now.

The package was from Mrs. Pogue. Or rather, it had been sent by Emory as dictated by Mrs. Pogue. Laura recognized the firm, straight printing at once:

Laura slid a thin book out of the box and turned it over. It was the Fenwick student directory.

“It’s not against the rules to find out Caleb’s campus address,” she reasoned as she attacked the book, her fingers flipping to the Bs.

“Wait a minute.” Laura was so surprised that she sat down on the stained mattress she’d sworn she wouldn’t touch until she’d scoured it with disinfectant.

There were pictures. The student directory had
pictures.
They were there, right beside each student’s name and home and school address.

Laura turned to the Ps and gasped. Willa stared up at her, a defiant glint in her eye. There was a star by her name, indicating that she was a new student.

The picture had been taken in front of Pogue Hall. Mrs. Pogue must have sent it when she mailed the deposit.

Like a key sliding into a lock, Laura’s whole day suddenly clicked into place.

She paced the short expanse of her room. Right now, every student at Fenwick was probably cracking open their directory, if they hadn’t already. Was this cause for worry?

No. The people around campus didn’t know Willa—they had no inside information. They’d just seen one picture of her, which was fine since she and Willa looked
exactly
alike.

She reached over and jostled the care package. Two hot pink throw pillows flopped onto the floor. One read:
GET FIT, NOT FAT!
and the second, a stuffed scale with an anxious look on its face, pleaded:
PLEASE GO LIGHT ON ME.

How could anyone survive with a mother like that?

Laura felt a tiny corner of her heart break off and fly away.

Slowly, she packed up the pillows—and Mrs. Pogue’s note—and dumped them all into the garbage.

20

A young lady, on leaving school, is expected to take a more important place in her father’s house; she must go into society; she must perform her part for the poor, the sick and the afflicted; she must assist her mother in domestic affairs.
—The Young Lady’s Friend

John Farrar

At 7
AM
Angie was already in the kitchen standing over the stove. The entire apartment smelled like IHOP.

“What are you doing?” Willa said, stumbling in and rubbing her eyes.

“Hey, Professor! C’mon in!” Angie boomed, waving her spatula by way of invitation. “I’m just finishing up.”

Willa sat down at the table as Angie joined her, bringing a mountain of blueberry pancakes. The table was also loaded with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage and a huge pitcher of hot chocolate.

Willa watched as Angie helped herself to a fat stack. No guilt, apology or stress. Last night, Angie had fixed herself a giant salad, not because she was dieting but because she’d been hungry and in the mood for a salad. Her motives hadn’t run any deeper. Angie’s meals were free; they didn’t come wrapped in emotion.

Willa had never had a free snack in her entire life.

Willa served herself, completely disregarding any attempt at portion control. It was the first time, she realized, she’d ever been able to eat with someone else and not feel shame or embarrassment. At home, the dining room was a war zone, her mother’s eagle eye a tracking missile. Within seconds, Sibby could slice portions in half and blast dangerous carbohydrates to smithereens.

The constant mealtime battles had pushed Willa into a permanent state of food paranoia. It followed her everywhere, to every table and every other location. And no matter what she did, she could feel herself being judged in terms of what she ate.

Until this morning.

Angie reached for the syrup. “Uh, do you always cook such big breakfasts?”

“Yeah, usually,” Angie said. “I try, unless I get a real emergency—you know, like a busted impeller or something. It’s the most important meal of the day.” She pounded the back of Willa’s chair and the entire room seemed to shake. “Gotta keep your energy up, right?”

Willa frowned slightly as Angie’s comment sank in. It was true. She did need to keep her energy up. She had a job now.

And last night she’d dreamt she’d gotten fired.

An arrow of pain shot through her temples as she pulled a crumpled schedule out of her pocket. Willa liked to keep it with her, even though she’d memorized it ages ago:

She cleaned Pogue Hall—her house—today.

“Listen, I’d better get going,” she said, swallowing a last bite of pancake and scraping back her chair. “I have to clean Pogue Hall today. I, uh, should probably get an early start. The kid just left for school so her room is probably a real mess.”

“Oh, okay.” Angie stood and walked over to the refrigerator. She pulled out a large shopping bag and passed it to Willa. “Here, I made you lunch when I was making mine. Just a couple of drinks and sandwiches and some of those fruit snack things. Oh, and I stuck in some granola. You know, in case you get hungry between jobs.”

“Thanks, Angie.” The lunch felt as if it weighed nearly ten pounds. Still, Willa was really touched. She wondered if Laura had any idea how sweet her stepsister-to-be was. “That was really nice.”

“Nah, forget it. Listen, Glenn’s coming over tonight. We’ll all hang out.” Angie dove back into her breakfast as Willa grabbed her keys. “Happy dusting!”

Willa let herself into her own house through the servants’ entrance and changed into the uniform she’d borrowed from Laura’s mother. It itched around her neck.

She eased the cleaning caddy through halls she’d known forever. Concerned that someone would recognize her, she kept her eyes glued to the floor until, after about ten minutes, she realized there was no need for caution. She and Laura had purposely arranged the schedule to coincide with Pogue Hall’s emptiest time of day. Plus, the regular staff—anyone who would recognize her—traveled with her parents. The house was pretty much deserted.

As she shoved the caddy toward her bedroom door, a memory rose to the front of her brain: She was seven years old and had somehow become convinced that inanimate objects had feelings. A rarely used vase could feel lonely, a broken end table depressed.

All of a sudden, Pogue Hall had been jam-packed with suicidal appliances and it had become Willa’s mission to save each and every one. She’d run from room to room, flicking lights on and off, crooning words of comfort to various pieces of furniture. The phase had come to a catastrophic halt after Willa tried to comfort her mother’s Ming vase. She’d tried to explain that she’d been practicing a unique form of CPR, but her mother had been in no mood to listen.

Surprise, surprise.

Her bedroom now was exactly as she’d left it: the bed was unmade, a few items of clothing lay scattered on the floor and the curtains were drawn.

Not bad,
Willa thought as she pushed the cleaning caddy into the room.
I should be out of here in no time at all.

It took her almost twenty minutes just to clean the floor. She had no idea where all the dust had come from. And vacuuming an area rug? Forget it.

Finally—
finally
—she moved to the curtains.

“I don’t even want to know
what
this is,” she muttered, scrubbing a Clorox-and-salt solution over an angry black splotch.

After almost three straight hours of cleaning, Willa was done with her bedroom. It looked great but she was a mess, with blisters on every finger and carpet burn on her knees.

“These uniforms are the stupidest things ever invented,” she muttered, scratching at her neck with one hand, rubbing her shoulder with the other. “It’d be so much easier to clean in sweats.”

Her eyes drifted over to her freshly made bed. She’d give anything for a catnap—she’d forfeit an entire day’s pay if she could just curl up for ten minutes . . . or maybe an hour—

This isn’t your paycheck to forfeit,
she reminded herself.
And that’s not your bed.

She’d seriously underestimated the amount of work this entailed. She’d thought she could slip on her iPod and listen to Lubé Special all day. But she needed to focus while she worked. Music was a distraction. Cleaning an entire house was way harder than cleaning one smelly rug. And her schedule was packed with houses.

Inhaling deeply, Willa let her eyes wander around her room—her clean, sweet-smelling room. She’d spent thousands of hours in here over the years but had never—not once—contributed to its upkeep. No, she’d had to become someone else to do that.

Still, her finished product was impressive.

I did this,
she thought.
And
I
know it was me.

Maybe it didn’t qualify her as the next Meryl Streep, but it felt amazing all the same.

She made a mental note to apologize to Laura. This was one tough job.

Willa pushed the cleaning caddy down the hall. It had been years since she’d been in her parents’ room and now, stepping inside, she felt a chill run down her spine. The room was decorated in white and ice-blue—ice-blue couches and curtains, white duvet and floors, thick white and blue striped wallpaper. The only real signs of life were her mother’s prized debutante clippings. Otherwise, the place was completely sterile—like it had been hermetically sealed or something.

At least this won’t take long,
Willa thought as she rolled the cleaning caddy into the middle of the room. She grabbed the Swiffer and gently brushed the pictures
(Laura was right, how could anyone dust without a Swiffer? It picked up everything)
as her eyes skimmed the clippings.

There she was: “Newport Beauty Sibby Welles.” In this particular photo, taken at something called the Cinderella Ball, the caption described her mother as “fresh and glowing.”

Willa moved onto another clipping—a write-up of Newport’s Medallion Ball. This article called her mother both “eye-catching” and “stunning.”

Willa had passed these pictures a million times—she’d grown up with them. But she’d never really
looked
at them before. They were always such a thorn in her side—just one more reminder of how she’d failed to follow in her parents’ footsteps.

She wasn’t Pogue material. And she wasn’t deb material, either.

Her eyes slid over a picture of her mother, smiling and pretty, at the Gold and Silver Ball. At this event, her mother was supposedly “breathtaking.”

Willa walked up and down the display of articles, comparing adjectives. They were all variations on a theme: “radiant,” “sparkling,” “charming” . . .

Sadly, these were not words Willa would ever use to describe her mother. If pressed, Willa wasn’t even sure she’d be able to describe her mother at all. Other than Sibby Pogue’s fanatic worship of tennis and golf—and, of course, her “dazzling” deb past—Willa didn’t really know her mother.

She didn’t really know either of her parents. Their presence was shadowy at best, their most memorable quality being the intense disapproval they expressed toward her and everything she did. It coated them like barbed wire, preventing any softer, more positive sentiments from slipping out—or in.

It was really sort of sad.

Willa glanced down at her watch and gasped. She’d wasted almost thirty minutes on these lame pictures. She still had to clean the other six bedrooms
and
be out of the house before the gardeners arrived in the late afternoon.

Besides, maybe she didn’t know her mother because there simply wasn’t much to know.

Need some adjectives to describe Sibby Pogue?
she thought.
How about “vain”? “Vain,” “shallow” and “preppy.” Those are perfect.

Willa turned her back on her mother’s glory days and shoved the cleaning caddy out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

She didn’t look back until she was in another wing of the house.