Trading Faces

by Julia DeVillers

  Jazmine recoiled in horror.

  I started to defend my poor, brain-deficient twin, but in a way Jazmine was right. Payton could be embarrassing.

  “Well, no sense worrying until the competitions start up,” Jazmine said. “This year I’m going for the triple: science fair, spelling bee, and mathletics.”

  Who does Jazmine think she is? I thought. Then I slumped. Yeah, it was possible the trophies would be hers. The front row center seat? Hers. The whole middle school seemed to belong to Jazmine James.

  I sighed. And chewed.

  “Hey!” I heard a voice call from the next table. “Girl genius!”

  Jazmine turned around. Her dark ponytail swung gracefully.

  “Yes?” she said. “Do I know you?”

  “No,” a boy said. “I’m talking to her.”

  He pointed at me. Jazmine turned around in a huff and glared at me.

  It was the boy from homeroom.

  “What did I tell you?” he called over. “Third-period lunch is a joke!”

  “You were right!” I called back, pleased that he remembered me. And that he called me a genius. In front of Jazmine James.

  “How do you know Nick?” Tess asked. “I read his articles in the sixth-grade paper last year. They were good. He seems nice.”

  “Whatever, he’s totally not in our league,” Jazmine said dismissively. “I’ve never even seen him in a competition. Nice doesn’t equal brains.”

  I looked at Jazmine. Obviously not.

  “So, Emma, what instrument do you play?” Jazmine asked, changing the subject. “I’m first-chair viola. Hector’s first-chair violin. Tess is first-chair cello.”

  I froze in my seat. I couldn’t exactly say I was first chair in Choir, since we all stood up to sing. Not to mention, with my voice I’d probably be closer to last chair.

  “Um . . . I’m taking private lessons this year,” I improvised.

  Okay, I lied. I panicked. How was I supposed to admit to these musical geniuses that I had no musical talent whatsoever? I know, I know. There’s always this thinking that the smartest kids are musical whizzes. That just isn’t me.

  “What instrument do you play?” asked Tess.

  “With whom do you study?” asked Hector.

  I took a quick look at the clock. I “accidentally” dropped my lunch bag and fumbled under the table for it.

  “She must be really good if she gets out of Orchestra for privates,” I heard Tess say.

  I stayed under the table. One . . . two . . . three . . . Cl-cl-clang!

  “Oh! The bell!” I popped my head back up over the table. “Time to go!”

  “Emma, tell us all about your music next week at lunch,” Jazmine said.

  Another lunch? With this group? Bluh. I’d thought that having a place to sit in the cafeteria would make me happier. But proving myself to Jazmine and her cohorts just made me feel sick to my stomach.

  Eleven

  LUNCH, FRIDAY

  Oh, shoot.

  I’d forgotten my lunch. On our kitchen counter was a brown bag containing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, a granola bar, and a brownie.

  Agh. I had two choices: Buy lunch or starve. The first choice seemed like the obvious one, but it really wasn’t.

  “Hot lunch is disgusting,” Sydney had said. “And the soup and sandwich option is even grosser. Don’t ever buy.”

  I walked into the cafeteria and could feel my stomach growling. I’d just go ahead and buy a little something; it really was no big deal. I went up to stand in line.

  The line was seriously long. I leaned against the railing as I waited. I had on a pair of Summer Slave shoes that were totally adorable—wedge heels with teeny polka dots on them. The polka dots were teeny, but the heels weren’t. They were pretty high.

  “Hi, Payton!” the girl in front of me said. “I’m in your gym class! I was on your team when we played volleyball yesterday; remember me?”

  “Yeah,” I said, looking down. I remembered her, because Sydney had made fun of the way she served the ball. She seriously had looked like a chicken, but I felt bad now for laughing. “Hi.”

  “Isn’t Sydney awesome at volleyball?” she said as I picked up a tray and looked at the lunch choices. “I think she was impressed with my overhand.”

  I nodded but didn’t look at her.

  “The burrito isn’t bad,” the girl said. “You should get that.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said. I put a burrito wrapped in aluminum foil on my tray. I put an orange and a cookie on and slid my tray down. I paid for my food and walked toward my lunch table.

  “Hi, guys!” I said, sitting down in my usual seat between Quinn and Sydney.

  “Did you buy lunch?” Quinn said, as I sat down next to her. “That’s brave.”

  “I forgot my lunch,” I said, unwrapping the burrito. “No biggie.”

  “Maybe no biggie for you, but how about for those of us who have to smell it?” Sydney said. “Ew, that’s disgusting.”

  “What is in that thing?” Cashmere asked, leaning across the table. “It looks like poo.”

  “I guess it’s beans,” I said, looking at it closely.

  “Well, it’s grossing me out,” Sydney said.

  Alrighty. I wrapped the burrito back up in foil and pushed it off to the side of my tray. I started peeling the orange.

  “So!” I said, brightly. “Aren’t Sydney’s earrings the cutest?”

  “I know, right?” Sydney said. “Hey, we’re making a plan for the mall. You’re coming, right? You obviously need some new clothes.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. Wait. “Um, why do I need some new clothes?”

  “You’re wearing your pink shirt again,” Cashmere said. “That’s the second time.”

  “Um,” I said, “I guess. But this time I’m wearing it with this jacket. So it’s practically a new shirt, right?”

  “And you wore the same jeans twice already,” Sydney said. “Payton, Payton. We expect more of you.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. More? What more did they expect? I couldn’t meet much higher expectations, especially because I was running out of Summer Slave clothes I hadn’t worn yet. I’d thought I could mix and match pieces from those five outfits I’d slaved for. Uh-oh.

  “We’ll go crazy shopping this weekend,” Cashmere said. “Bring your credit card!”

  I didn’t have a credit card. I didn’t have any cash, either. I’d get my allowance on Saturday, which meant I’d have about . . . ten dollars to spend. I could get new . . . socks.

  This was not good.

  “Payton’s slipping,” Sydney said, shaking her head. “Clothes, a smelly burrito . . .”

  BRRRZPP!

  Saved!

  “My cell! I have to take this,” I said.

  “Is that your twin sister texting you again?” Sydney said. “Hey, I have a great idea. We can bring your sister to the mall too. You can buy her some new clothes.”

  “You know what, she’s not really into clothes,” I said.

  “Duh, obviously,” Sydney said. “Let me see your phone.”

  She talked as she texted: “Emma. Don’t text me again until you’ve had a makeover.”

  “You’re not really typing that, are you?” I said.

  Sydney ignored me.

  “You are ruining my image with your hideous clothes,” she said out loud as she typed. “And brush your hair.”

  “Okay, wait,” I said. “You’re not really texting that to my sister, are you?”

  I mean, okay, Emma might not be into clothes. But I didn’t want to crush her feelings or anything.

  “Payton,” Sydney said, smiling at me. “It’s just a joke. Chill.”

  “Oh.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “I thought you were seriously sending that text.”

  “I’m just trying to do you a favor,” Sydney said. “You know as well as I do that your sister’s embarrassing.”

  “SYDNEY! STOP!” I said. Loud
ly. Too loudly. People from other tables turned around and looked at us.

  Uh.

  “Payton, ohmigosh. Now you’re embarrassing us,” Sydney said.

  She slid my phone back to me across the table.

  “I was only trying to do you a favor,” Sydney said. “But I don’t appreciate being yelled at.”

  Uh. Oh.

  I took my phone and looked at everyone. Quinn and Priya were looking down at the table. Cashmere was looking at . . . my lunch tray?

  “Ewwww!” Cashmere shrieked, pointing. “Payton’s burrito is oozing all over!”

  I looked down. Oh. Ew.

  I saw Sydney looking at me in disgust. I needed to get out of there.

  “I think I’ll just throw this in the garbage,” I stammered, and picked up my tray. And that’s when I felt it. I forgot I was wearing Summer Slave platform heel shoes. I wobbled. And I fell forward, and—

  “Payton! Look out!” Quinn screamed.

  My lunch tray was sliding out of my hands! I watched in horror as my oozy burrito slid farther and farther toward . . .

  Sydney! Noooo!!! My oozy burrito was sliding toward Sydney! Quinn and Cashmere were looking at me like, ACK!

  I had only a second to act. I regained my balance and yanked the lunch tray back and—

  Whew! The burrito slid back, away from Sydney! Whew! I steadied myself on my shoes.

  Except that the burrito slid the other direction and flew over my head and behind me.

  “What the—?!!” I heard someone yell.

  I turned around and saw the guy called Ox jumping up. With a big brown splotch on his shirt.

  “Ewww!” Cashmere said. “Gross!”

  Everyone was looking at me. Well, they were looking at Ox, who was pointing at me, so then they were looking at me.

  “I—uh,” I stammered. “I gotta go.”

  I grabbed my tote bag. And was out of there.

  Twelve

  PE, FRIDAY

  BRRRZPP! BRRRZPP!

  My cell phone would not stop buzzing. I ignored it and watched everyone else in my class whack the volleyball across the net. The gym, like everything in this school, was humongous. There were about six different PE classes going on at the same time.

  “Temporary carpalmyalgia,” I had told my PE teacher. “That’s pain in the hands and wrists.” Mr. Gregory looked at me for a minute, then told me to sit on the bleachers.

  Hee.

  Knowing the Latin derivatives of words really helped make up great excuses. I mean, PE? When would I ever need those skills in my future career?

  BRRRZPP! BRRRZPP!

  Plus, I am a klutz.

  BRRRZPP! BRRRZPP!

  I ignored my cell. The last two times I had checked my text messages, they’d been insults. From Payton. Things like, “You’re ruining my life!” and “Get a makeover!”

  If that was her idea of a joke, it wasn’t funny. And if she was serious? I would not take this lightly. I was starting to get all worked up, so I went to my happy place: mental math.

  I tried to do square roots in my head, but it was impossible to calculate with volleyballs flying, whistles blowing, people cheering, and other people booing. Plus, that gym smell—combination of floor wax and BO—was overpowering my cognitive abilities.

  BRRRZPP! BRRRZPP! I gave up and pulled out my cell phone, turning so Mr. Gregory couldn’t see. I had enough problems without Payton turning into an evil twin. Without reading my messages, I texted Payton back.

  im busy. and u r a snob.

  BRRRZPP! BRRRZPP! She texted back.

  EmergenC!!!!

  Well, I really wasn’t that busy warming the bleachers. Might as well go see what the drama queen wanted. I texted back to meet me at our lockers.

  K but hurry!!!

  “Mr. Gregory!” I called out, and hopped off the bleachers. “I need to run my achy hands under warm water so my condition doesn’t get aggravated.”

  He waved me off to go.

  I took the hall pass in my achy (not really, hee) hand, grabbed my bag, and left the gym. I didn’t need to change or anything; my PE clothes were my regular clothes: sweats, T-shirt, and sneakers.

  When I got to our lockers, I saw Payton. Well, part of Payton. Her head was in her locker.

  “Looking for something?” I asked.

  Payton turned around.

  Whoa. She looked awful. Was she crying? She was.

  “I can’t do this!” she wailed. “What should I do? I don’t know what to do!”

  “Um,” I said, stalling for time. I’d never seen Payton like this. She was getting hysterical. I looked up and down the hallway. It was empty now, but what if someone came out? I knew Payton wouldn’t want people to see her like this. We needed somewhere private.

  The girls’ bathroom? No, people were always in there. Aha! I knew! I ripped Payton’s mirror off the locker wall and grabbed my sister’s hand before she could say anything.

  “Come on,” I said, and guided her to the janitor’s closet.

  Yes. The site of Emergency #1: The Tank-Top Strap Attack Incident.

  The door was unlocked, so I dragged Payton inside and shut the door behind us.

  “Ewww,” we both said as the smell hit us. I heard a little spritzy sound, and suddenly the closet smelled like flowers. I felt for the mirror and turned on the light. Now we could see.

  The janitor must have taken his mop and bucket with him. There was only an empty space. I looked around. Gray walls. No green or white or geckos. An oasis in the middle of middle school.

  “Well, this place isn’t so bad,” I said out loud.

  I saw Payton put a little fragrance spray back in her tote bag.

  “Good,” she sniffed. “Because I’m never coming out. I can never show my face in school again.”

  Her face crumpled and she started crying again.

  “Payton, calm down,” I said. “What happened?”

  “It was at lunch,” Payton wailed. “First, Sydney was pretending to send fake text messages on my cell phone—”

  “You mean the ‘You are so hideous’ messages?” I said. “That was Sydney?”

  “You got those?” Payton’s eyes got wide. “She sent them for real?”

  “Yeah, I thought you sent them,” I said.

  “Oh, no! If she sent mean messages to you, and she doesn’t even know you . . . what is she going to do to me?” Payton wailed. “I’m doomed! Sydney’s going to turn everyone against me! Why did I forget to bring my stupid lunch today?!”

  “Just tell me what happened,” I said.

  “She got mad! I tripped! It flew! And . . .”

  She took a deep breath.

  “I OOZED OX!” Then she dissolved into more tears.

  Oh. Kay. Clearly my twin sister had lost her mind.

  “Payton, you’re right,” I said. “You’re a mess. You can’t go out there in this condition.”

  I had a thought. A crazy thought.

  CLANG! It was the warning bell.

  No more time to think. Just do.

  “Quick,” I said. “Switch clothes with me.”

  “What?” Payton said.

  “Don’t talk; just move,” I said. “Give me your clothes.”

  I turned my back to Payton and pulled my sweatshirt over my head. Then I kicked off my sneakers and started stepping out of my sweats.

  “Emma, I told you! It was Sydney who said that about your outfit,” Payton protested. “I don’t really care what you’re wearing. At least, anymore.”

  “This isn’t about me,” I said. “It’s about you.”

  Seeing my sister so upset made me feel bad. But it was more than that. I had stopped feeling sorry for myself and started thinking about someone else for a change.

  “Hurry up and change!” I insisted. “Put on my clothes! And give me yours! I’ll go out there as you. Hanging out with your friends is all about faking confidence? I can do confident.”

  It was true. Before middle school started, I wa
s confident and self-assured. Who didn’t crack under pressure at the spelling bee sudden-death round? Me! Emma Mills!

  “You’re going to pretend to be me?” Payton was starting to catch on.

  “Yes! I can be Payton with her head held up high,” I told her. Me, “Payton” Mills! “Well, for one afternoon anyway. That’s just four periods.”

  Payton thought for a moment. I held up the mirror so she could see what she looked like.

  “Let’s do it,” Payton said.

  Payton and I traded outfits. I put on jeans and a pink shirt with some strappy things. I slipped on her shoes and . . . holy moly. How did a person walk in these things? Ve-e-ery carefully, I guess. Payton slipped into my sweats, still snuffling.

  This felt weird.

  “Wait!” Payton said. She whipped out a makeup kit.

  AGH!

  Payton powdered some stuff on my face, glossed my lips, and smoothed down my hair.

  “There,” she said. “Now you could be me.”

  “I am you,” I said, confidently. “I am Payton!”

  I took a sanitizing wipe from my bag and gave it to Payton, who wiped the tears off her face. All of her makeup came off with it.

  There, the natural look.

  “And you’re going to be me!” I told her. “Look, here’s my schedule. Just lay low in study hall, and give a note to Señora Kane claiming laryngitis. And Choir? You can’t do worse than me in Choir anyway. Last period is Math. Don’t even try it. Just go to the nurse. I’ll meet you at our lockers for the bus.”

  “Thanks, Emma,” said Payton. I opened the closet door to leave. I had Payton’s schedule memorized, so I knew where I was going.

  “Emma!” Payton called. “Switch bags! And don’t forget! Our bracelets!”

  We quickly slipped off the P and E and put them on each others’ wrists.

  “Promise you won’t do anything too weird?” Payton said, sniffling.

  “Promise you won’t let any snobby people use my iPhone?” I asked.

  “Promise to try to make Sydney not hate me so my middle-school life isn’t completely shattered so you and I won’t both be middle-school outcasts?”

  I was smart. I would figure out how to do all of that. How hard could it be to be Payton anyway? I’d just say “yeesh” a lot.

  “Yes, yes,” I said, impatiently. “Wait, I’m not an outcast! But no time for that. Now, you promise to hurry up so I’m not marked as late for study hall?”