by Carol Snow
And then I was born. Evelyn doesn't know how it happened; she has no idea who my father is. My mother had never married, hadn't dated seriously in years. But then, so much had been lost in the fog.
Evelyn says my birth cleared the air for her, at least within the walls of our house. Outside, everything was still hazy.
"Switching is simply a fact of our lives, some genetic quirk," Evelyn has told me, time and time again. "It's what makes us different, like being left-handed or having red hair."
"I wish I could have red hair instead," I said one time.
"There's always Clairol," she replied.
The night after the mall trip, I spent the evening trying on my new clothes and deciding what to wear on the first day of school. I pictured Nate Jameson (I was good at that). Would he be more apt to notice me in my new jeans (which, okay, came from Sears, but from the juniors' department, at least) or in the cute skirt that I had found, miraculously, in Macy's?
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Like it mattered. I could walk by Nate wearing nothing but a lacy black thong, and he'd still call me "dude."
I called Beanie to tell her about running into Avon at the mall. "She and Dayna got matching makeovers."
"There isn't enough makeup in the world ..." Beanie said.
"I didn't even recognize her at first," I said. "She looked like a mime."
"If only she talked like one."
Beanie doesn't know how I found out what Avon said about me, of course; she just assumes I heard it secondhand. Beanie says Avon was always a nasty cow, and she always wondered why someone as nice as me would hang out with someone as transparently evil as Avon.
Beanie and I agreed to meet at the beach at ten o'clock the next morning to enjoy our last day of summer vacation. When I got off the phone, I looked back at the pile of clothes on my bed, with Fluffernutter sprawled on top. I buried my face in his stomach to hear him purr, then I shifted him off the clothes. No matter what outfit I chose, I'd be wearing white and orange fur on my first day of tenth grade. I finally settled on jeans and a top that looked like three shirts but was really just one.
That momentous decision out of the way, I crawled onto my bed and curled myself around Fluff. Just for a moment, I told myself. Right. I fell asleep on top of my covers, still wearing the new jeans and layered top.
When I woke up, I was all cramped and kind of cold. Fluffernutter had moved to the foot of my bed. I checked the clock: 4 A.M. My mother must have turned out my light, because
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it was dark. Evelyn wasn't in my room. I've told her it creeps me out when she watches me sleep. She was probably in the kitchen, messaging her MySpace friends. You'd expect death to be exhausting, but Evelyn never sleeps.
A full moon lit my room. I peeled off my clothes and shuffled across the new beige carpet. I couldn't see my pajamas in the darkness of the closet, so I groped inside for the light switch. I flipped the switch, and I saw a flash. Something stung my hand.
And then I was gone.
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***
11
My first thought wasn't, Where am I? or even, Who am I? , but rather, Why! Except for my very first switch, in science class, I'd only left my body during storms. But the night had been clear. And Mr. Pieteroski was nowhere to be seen.
I was so not in the mood for this right now.
I sat up in bed. It was a nice bed--big, comfortable. It had a shiny black headboard and a pouffy white comforter. Large square paintings hung on the walls. This did not look like a fifteen-year-old girl's room.
I examined my hands. The fingers were long and slender, the tips of the nails painted bright white. There was a name for this kind of manicure. Avon would know it.
I peeled the comforter away slowly. I was wearing an oversize, heather gray T-shirt. Under it, my legs flowed long and smooth and skinny. My toenails were bright pink.
The room was dark for such a bright night. I squinted, finally
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spotting a window. I slipped out of bed and crept over. The space between the window and the hillside was maybe two feet. No wonder it was so murky in there.
I listened carefully for sounds outside the room. When I didn't hear any, I turned on the light. There were no mirrors in the room, but I could see the paintings now. They were abstract, colorful. I didn't really like them, but I bet they cost a lot of money. The floors were some kind of pale wood, clean and gleaming. The walls were bright white.
This was the point at which I should have climbed back into the pouffy white bed, slipped back into sleep and into my own body. But it was kind of like when you wake up at night and you have to pee. You're torn: You want to go back to the comfort of sleep, but you're not sure if you can do it. Usually, it's best to just get that trip to the bathroom over with. It's like that when I switch. It's hard to fall back to sleep without knowing whose body I'm in. Once my curiosity is satisfied, it is much easier to conk out.
I was trying to decide whether to risk leaving the room to find a mirror when I noticed what must be a closet door. It was worth a try.
I opened it, not really expecting anything. When I saw the full-length mirror, I jumped and gasped.
It was her. Or, rather, I was her--the girl in the brown bikini, the girl Nate liked.
I touched the mirror with my slender fingers and gawked at the beautiful girl. She stared back. I cocked my head to one side. I smiled. I bent over until my thick blond hair almost touched the
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ground, and then I tossed the hair back over my head so it was even fuller and floatier than before.
"Darling," I said to the girl in the mirror. "You look fabulous."
I checked the digital clock on the nightstand. Only ten minutes had passed. Surely the girl wouldn't get up before, say, 5 a.m. ? I certainly wouldn't. That gave me almost an hour to play.
I thought of Evelyn, back at my house. How much ice cream was she eating right now? Had she found the cookies that Mom hides in the cabinet over the refrigerator? It was bad enough that my mother worried about teenage pregnancies. Next she'd be lecturing me on eating disorders. Evelyn hadn't been in my room when I'd switched, but she couldn't have been far away. Surely she'd sensed something unusual and found her way to my room. Right?
The closet was stuffed with clothes. The girl had a little flippy miniskirt, royal blue with white pinstripes. I put it on with a tank top. It looked nothing like a school uniform. No school had ever been that cool. It felt like playing with a Barbie doll, only without the ratty hair and ruined knees. I wasn't just playing Barbie, though; I was being Barbie. Playing dress up had never been so much fun.
Next I tried on distressed jeans with a halter top, then super-short shorts with a little blouse that tied at the waist, then a billowy white sundress. I tried on the brown bikini--and then a blue one that, if possible, was even smaller.
There were flip-flops at the back of the closet, peachy pink with pink and orange flowers at the V. They were girly but funky--dainty but rubber. I loved them. I would never wear them
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in my real life. They'd look ridiculous on me. But now ... I slipped them on. The soles were thick and comfortable, and they made a satisfying slapping sound as I walked across the floor.
This was nothing like shopping with my mom.
While I played dress up, the numbers on the digital clock counted down the hour. At five o'clock, the sky outside was still black. Well, the thin space between the window and the hillside was dark, anyway. Surely another half hour wouldn't matter. Since I was the beautiful girl, I was probably in the Ice Cube House right now. Just my luck, I thought. I finally switch into a house on the water, and I don't even get a room with a view.
The novelty of the Barbie show wearing off, I tried to find something that looked bad. There was a pair of baggy pants that would have made my real body look stubby. They made the blond girl look urban and cool. I found some flat-front chinos buried in her pants drawer. Aha! I thought. These will look bo
ring!
But they didn't. They were cut really low in the waist and flared out the tiniest bit at the ankle.
No matter what I did, I couldn't make the body look bad.
At five thirty, I packed it in. I slipped back into the enormous gray T-shirt and put the clothes back where I had found them. In her top drawer, amid belts, scarves, undies, and jewelry, I noticed a couple of greeting cards plus a bunch of business-size white envelopes, all addressed to "Larissa Hughes" in care of somebody named Krystal Calgrove. Krystal--and presumably, Larissa-- lived about three hours away. I opened a red envelope. It was a birthday card dated March 10--surprise, surprise--and it said, "Happy fifteenth birthday to my girl. Love, Daddy."
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There was a loose photograph in the drawer as well. It was of the girl--Larissa--in front of a giant redwood, leaning against a tall, pale man who looked kind of like her. He wore a baseball cap and a heather gray T-shirt, just like the one I was wearing now. Perhaps it was the same one. She wasn't dressed in any of her glamorous clothes. Instead, she wore faded jeans and sneakers. She was smiling.
Was her father here, I wondered? Probably not. From what I saw at the snack shack, she was a nanny. Too bad: I would have liked to meet him, to find out what it was like to have a father, if only for a few hours. But--whatever. He probably wouldn't have appreciated being woken up in the middle of the night, anyway.
I pulled at the gray T-shirt, which was easily the ugliest thing she owned. Then I smiled at the flawless face in the closet mirror before switching off the light and crawling back under the fluffy white comforter. I was on the verge of falling asleep when--
"I want juice!"
My eyes popped open. Standing at face level was one of the little blond boys I'd seen at the snack shack.
"What?" I said. My voice surprised me, even though I'd heard it before. It was nasal and high, not a beautiful-girl voice at all.
"I want juice!" He had sour morning breath. Who knew kids got such a thing?
"It's too early." I gasped. "Go back to sleep."
"If you don't get my juice, I'm going to scream!" His voice was getting higher, tighter.
I sat up and glared at him. "Listen, kid. I need my beauty sleep. You have no idea. Tell you what." I squinted at the clock. (Don't
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panic, I told myself. There is still plenty of time.) "Come back in half an hour--no, let's say an hour, just to be safe--and then I'll get up and get your juice and make you eggs or pancakes or whatever, but right now I'm going back to sleep." I turned away from him, curled up in a ball, and squeezed my eyes shut. (Sleep! I had to sleep!)
"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"
I flipped back over. "Stop it!" I said. "You're going to wake everybody up!"
He tilted his pointy chin. "I told you I'd scream."
I narrowed my eyes. I've dealt with some brats before, but this kid was really starting to piss me off. "I'm not getting you any stinkin' juice."
"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" He closed his eyes and clenched his fists as he howled, then stopped for a moment to check my expression, which hadn't changed. He took a deep breath and pulled up his sharp little shoulders. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
"Are you going through all the vowels?" I asked when he quieted down. "The next one is I, in case you're wondering."
He looked at me, bewildered. "Where is my mommy?"
"I don't know. Sleeping?" I, too, was surprised that his mother hadn't come running to see what was wrong.
"MOMMMMEEEEEEEE!"
I was all set to remind him that we were done with the Es and it was time to move on to the Is when I noticed that his tears were real. "Don't cry," I said.
"I want Mommeeeeeee!"
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I moaned. "Okay. You win. If I get you juice, will you stop crying?" He nodded, too distraught to speak. "And will you go back to bed after that?" He nodded again.
And I was stupid enough to believe him.
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***
12
Juice Boy was Cameron . He was five. I found that out by doing a little investigative work as he finished his second glass of juice. "How old are you again?"
"You know how old I am," he whined. Cameron's voice was like a siren. "I forgot."
He scowled. "If you forgot, you're stupid."
"Oh, now I remember. You're four."
"I'm not four! Prescott is four! I'm five, and I hate you!" He jumped out of his chair and clenched his little hands into fists. His face grew red. "Mommmeeeeee! Larissa is being mean!"
This had to be the cruddiest babysitting job in Sandyland, if not in all of North America.
At least serving as Cameron's juice waitress meant I got to see more of the Ice Cube House. There were three floors in the big concrete box. Larissa and the boys slept on the bottom level,
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which backed up to the hillside on one end and led out to the lawn on the other. There appeared to be a third bedroom down there as well, but the door was closed. The downstairs was dark because the upstairs deck hung over the sliding glass door. The main floor, which had stairs going up to another level, was one big kitchen-and-living-room combo. The walls and furniture were bright white, the counters and table were stainless steel, and the floor was the same fugly gray concrete as the outside of the house. It made Beanie's sterile house look cozy in comparison. It would have been a horrible room if not for the view. The far wall was all glass, opening onto the huge deck, with sky and sea pro-viding a spectacular and ever-changing backdrop.
Six o'clock came, then six thirty. The ocean outside changed from black to silver. The inky sky turned a powdery blue. I tried to go back to bed. Cameron turned on his siren whine. Still no Mommy.
At 6:45, Prescott came stomping into the living room. He was shorter than Cameron, more solid, and meaner looking. If Cameron was Juice Boy, then Prescott was Chocolate Milk Boy. But he didn't tell me that. He just asked for (demanded) milk. Presumably the chocolate part was understood--which was why he was perfectly justified in throwing the white milk that I handed him across the room and screaming, "You're stupid! I hate you!"
It's always nice when two brothers can agree on something.
Maybe I could nap later, I thought, on my hands and knees on the cold concrete floor, cleaning up the milk with a wad of paper towels. And maybe Evelyn could nap later too. Surely Evelyn
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would cover for me. Surely-- surely --she had gotten into my body in time.
At seven, a short, stout woman in a maid's uniform came clomping up the stairs.
"Morning, Consuela!" Cameron squealed, all sweetness and sunshine.
"How are my angels? My angels happy today, huh?"
The boys ran to her and wrapped their arms around her thick waist. "I want waffles!" Prescott snapped. "Larissa won't make them!" Prescott had never asked me to make waffles. Prescott had said he wasn't hungry yet.
"Larissa, she don't know how to cook," Consuela said, stroking Prescott's golden hair. "Larissa, she too busy looking in the mirror."
My jaw dropped. I was all set to defend myself--or, even better--to whip up the best waffles these demon children had ever tasted--when I remembered that I was not Claire, I was Larissa. And maybe Larissa deserved Consuela's contempt.
Fifteen minutes later, when Consuela put a platter of waffles on the table, I pulled out a chair to sit, and I noticed that there were only two places set. (Even the plates were white and square and ugly.) I walked over to the counter as quietly as I could, wondering where the rest of the square plates were kept. I hadn't looked for anything beyond the boys' plastic cups.
"What you want?" Consuela asked sharply.
"Just a plate. I can get it myself." I checked her eyes, hoping they'd flit to the appropriate cabinet.
"What you gonna do with a plate?" she asked.
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I thought, Break it in half and use it to slit my wrists. "Um, I was hoping I could, well--I'm hungry."
She blinked in astonishment. "Y
ou going to eat breakfast?"
"If it's okay."
She snorted. "Sure, it's okay. I just never seen you eat break-fast before."
Consuela's waffles weren't as good as the ones I make (I use mashed bananas), but I put away four. Switching bodies works up an appetite.
At eight o'clock, Cameron and Prescott's mother finally came down the steps from the upper level. She was shorter than Larissa but almost as skinny, her hair six shades of blond. She wore black yoga pants over a sky blue leotard.
"Mommeeeee!" Cameron shrieked, running across the floor. Prescott glanced up and then went back to jabbing his place mat with a fork.
"Hello, my darling," the mother said, bending over and opening her arms to Cameron. "Watch Mommy's makeup."
She began to straighten, but Cameron's arms remained locked around her neck. "Okay, darling, let Mommy stand up. Herbal tea, please, Consuela?" She took hold of Cameron's hand and pried it away from her neck. "Good morning, Larissa," she said.
"Good morning." I smiled carefully. Mommy's face looked sallow under her makeup, as if she hadn't slept well. I wondered what Mommy's real name was and what I was supposed to call her.
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She settled into the chair next to mine and sighed. "What a night. That bed is so uncomfortable. I'm about ready to complain to the rental company."
Ah--so they were just renting the Ice Cube House.
"Maybe Cameron's bed is uncomfortable too," I said. "He got up kind of early."
"Oh, Cameron." She rolled her eyes. "He has yet to master sleeping through the night." At that, Cameron came over and tried to climb into her lap. "Not now, my lovey," she said, batting away Cameron's scrawny limbs. "Mommy's about to have her tea and she wouldn't want to spill on you. Consuela? How's that tea coming along?"