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by Carol Snow

  "I'd like that," I said. "The thing is, I'm leaving soon." I swallowed hard, the pain in the pit of my stomach suddenly unrelated to my cheeseburger.

  He wasn't giving up. "How about a lesson now, then? I mean, if you want."

  I stared at him for a moment. Then I checked the boys, who were watching Nate with wide eyes.

  A wave slid up the beach and splashed my ankles. It felt so good. "I'm supposed to be babysitting," I mumbled.

  Nate squatted back down to the boys' level. "How about if I give Larissa a quick lesson, and you guys watch us? Then, afterward, I'll give you each a ride on a boogie board."

  Cameron and Prescott nodded in unison, silent for once.

  "The lifeguard's a friend of mine," Nate told me. "They can sit right in front of his chair."

  I felt both embarrassed and excited to take off the gray T-shirt. Nate did his best not to stare, but I caught him looking me up and down, almost as if he couldn't control his eyeballs. Mostly, he tried hard to look in my eyes, even though they were Larissa's least impressive feature.

  Pretending I couldn't swim wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. My thoughts went something like this:

  Nate is so hot. Oh, my God--a wave! Will the bikini stay on? Yikes! Grab the top! No, the bottom! That was close.... Cute. He

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  is so cute. And nice. He's got that one dimple, just on his left cheek, and---oh, my God! Another wave! Hold the suit!

  We stayed near the spot where the waves were breaking, about waist deep. The surf was unusually calm, even by Sandyland's standards. He taught me to dive under a breaking wave, to float on my stomach, to paddle with my head up. When a rogue wave knocked me over, he held my arms gently and said, "Are you okay?"

  I nodded, coughing a bit, and drawing out the moment more than was strictly necessary. The weird thing was, the wave really did knock me over; I wasn't faking it. Scrawny arms and toothpick legs may look nice, but there was no denying it: Larissa was a ninety-pound weakling.

  I would have stayed in the water longer, but Nate noticed me shivering and said I should warm up. Strike two for Larissa's beautiful body: It lacked insulation. My teeth chattered uncontrollably.

  "You have an amazing feel for the water," Nate told me. "It's hard to believe you've never been in the ocean before."

  As I settled on the sand, I saw Beanie sitting nearby, frowning at her watch. It was all I could do not to call out to her, to run over and say, "You're never going to believe this, but..."

  Beanie was alone. Of course she was: She and I had agreed to meet there at ten o'clock, and it was almost noon. I'd have to think of some excuse before I saw her at school tomorrow, as much as I hated to lie.

  As she hugged her knees to her chest. Beanie caught me staring at her. I smiled. She glared and looked away. A few towels

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  away, a group of guys--men, really, probably out of high school-- gawked at me. I spun back to face the water and sat down. I hugged my knees to my chest, just as Beanie had done, and watched Nate and the boys.

  He was at the water's edge, giving them a lecture on water safety. "Until you're older and a really strong swimmer, you should never go into the water without an adult. And no one should ever go into the ocean without someone else around, even if they're the best swimmer in the world." He warned them of the dangers of getting too far out, of getting too tired, of getting too cold.

  "But you can swim alone," Cameron said. "You're almost a lifeguard."

  "Sure, I can swim alone," Nate said. "But I'd never swim without someone on the beach. I could get hurt and need help getting back to shore. Or I could get caught in a riptide."

  "What's a riptide?" Prescott asked.

  "A riptide is this really strong current that pulls you out to sea. You can't see it. And you can't fight it. All you can do is let it take you out, then swim far down the shore until you can get back to the beach. But you don't need to worry about that right now. Right now we need to get you some life jackets."

  "I'm not wearing a stupid life jacket!" Prescott snapped, his true nature finally showing through.

  "Okay." Nate shrugged. "Then you're not going in the water."

  Prescott scrunched his face and bit his lip. Then he looked down at the sand and dug a little hole with his toe. "I guess I'll wear a life jacket," he mumbled.

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  Nate borrowed a couple of tiny life jackets from the lifeguard. Then he took the boys into the water, one at a time, well ahead of the wave break, and pulled them on the boogie board.

  "Ouch," Cameron said when Nate put a hand on his shoulder.

  "Sorry, little guy. Did I grab you too hard?" He peered at Cameron's shoulder. "Uh-oh--looks like you're getting a sunburn."

  Prescott sat on the sand next to me, awaiting his turn. His formerly white arms glowed pink. So did his legs. And his face.

  "Prescott? You did say that Consuela put sunscreen on you, right?"

  "I forget," he said, without looking at me. Cameron forgot too.

  "You wouldn't say that Consuela put lotion on you if she hadn't, would you?" I asked stupidly as he took the spot next to me on the sand.

  "I want another boogie-board ride," he whined. "I wanna go back in the water."

  "Look at me, Cameron," I said, placing a hand on his arm.

  "Ouch!"

  When Prescott got out of the water, Nate asked me if I wanted to try the boogie board. My chest actually ached, I wanted to do it so badly. But it was getting late, and I couldn't risk missing my nap. Besides, I had to get the boys out of the sun--and fast.

  "This has been really fun." I stood up and brushed sand off of my long, long legs.

  "It really has." He smiled shyly. "Can I see you again? Maybe to swim, or--whatever."

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  I swallowed hard. "I'd like that. Really. The thing is, I won't be here much longer. Tomorrow I'll be gone."

  He nodded and fiddled with the string on his swim trunks. "I don't know if you can get out tonight, but a bunch of my friends and me, we like to come down to the beach after sunset. Have a bonfire, hang out, that sort of thing. So, if you're not doing anything ..."

  I blinked at him. A bonfire? With lots of kids? And no one had ever invited me? Remembering who I was--or who I was supposed to be--I shook my head. "I don't think I can make it. But thanks. For everything."

  He nodded sadly. "Maybe next summer."

  "You never know," I said. Because, really, I never did.

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  ***

  14

  I hoped Mrs. Sealy wouldn't be there when I got back. I could dress the boys in long-sleeved shirts. Long pants. Turn the lights down low. Maybe she wouldn't notice the sunburns. Or maybe she would.

  "Oh, my God!" She gasped. "What happened?"

  "A day at the beach," I said lamely.

  "You were supposed to put sunblock on! Fifteen minutes before they went outside! I told you!"

  Cameron began to cry. "Mommy, it hurts! My skin hurts!" He stumbled across the room, his arms outstretched.

  Faker, I thought. He didn't complain once on the walk home.

  "Oh, my little Cammie!" Mrs. Sealy cooed. "You poor little sweetheart." He was all set to throw himself into her arms when she said, "No, no, darling! You're covered in sand. You'll get Mommy dirty."

  Cameron stopped in his tracks and looked down, his tears falling on the ground.

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  "The boys told me that Consuela put sunscreen on them," I said evenly.

  "And did you check with Consuela?"

  "No."

  "Well, then."

  It was silent for a moment save for Cameron's sniffling. According to the nickel-plated clock on the wall, it was a quarter of three, which meant I had a date with unconsciousness in fifteen minutes. I felt kind of bad for the real Larissa, having to deal with this mess when she woke up.

  "I need to shower," I announced.

  "The boys need baths," Mrs. Sealy said.

  I looked at them.
They were seriously red. Prescott was sitting on the ground, zoning out. He looked like he might fall asleep right there. I turned to their mother and held her gaze. "They certainly do," I said.

  Back in my room, I didn't bother showering. There wasn't time. I took one last look in the mirror. I wasn't as pink as the boys (I'd used sunscreen on myself, at least), but Larissa's face glowed in a way that made it even more beautiful than before. Her masses of blond hair were wild and tangled. I smiled at my reflection. I'd never be so beautiful again.

  There wasn't time to change out of the little blue bikini or the soggy oversized T-shirt. I lay down on top of the bed. Too bad I didn't have a view. It would have been nice to spend my last moments there gazing at the ocean.

  "Good night, Larissa," I whispered. "And good-bye."

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  ***

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  I think I was dreaming --it was a nice dream, something about Nate--when I heard the knocking. There were three knocks: tap-tap-tap. Then four, louder this time: tap-TAP, tap-TAP.

  I buried my face in the overfilled pillow and breathed in the scent of laundry detergent. If it was my mother at the door, she'd peek in on me, and then she'd tiptoe away and let me rest.

  The knocking came harder this time: BAM! BAM! BAM!

  There was a smell mixed with the laundry detergent. Bleach. My sheets at home were colored. Bleach would ruin them.

  Finally, she gave up on knocking and opened the door. I sat up and stared at her, hoping for one brief, futile moment that it was my mother, home from work.

  It wasn't my mother. My mother had no idea where I was.

  Maybe I was never really asleep at all.

  "Larissa," Mrs. Sealy said. She cleared her throat.

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  I looked down at my legs: long. Checked my fingers: manicured. Fingered my hair: blond. It was true: I was still Larissa. "Yes, Mrs. Sealy," I said.

  She let out a sigh and walked across the room, a big glass of white wine in her hand. It was twenty minutes past three.

  She stood next to my bed and pointed to the spot next to me. "You mind?" I shook my head. She sat on the bed, sighed again, and took a long drink of her wine.

  "I always wanted a daughter," she announced. She smiled. At least, her mouth smiled. The top half of her face didn't move at all.

  "Oh," I said, thinking, And your point is?

  "Consuela is bathing the boys," she said. She paused, like I was supposed to respond to that. When I didn't, she said, "Consuela told me you went out this morning."

  I was trying to come up with a good excuse when it struck me how Larissa would respond to that question: I shrugged.

  "Your mother called," she said, and for a brief moment I thought she meant my real mother. "About a half an hour, forty-five minutes ago. You just missed her."

  She wasn't talking about my real mother, of course! The caller was Larissa's mother, a complete stranger. Not knowing what to say, I shrugged again.

  "The cruise ship was about to leave Mykonos," she continued. "So she won't have cell-phone service again for three days."

  Now I was confused. I mean, even more confused. "Why did she--I mean, my mother--wait to call me until she was about to leave?"

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  She ignored the question. "Were you with your father this morning?"

  My father? Wasn't he with my mother? I mean, Larissa's mother?

  I shook my head. "No."

  "Your mother was wondering. He's been so difficult about the whole custody thing. But your mother's got you for the whole summer. That's what the court decided, and he knows it. He'll see you in October."

  My eyes shot to the drawer where I had found the photo of Larissa and her father.

  Mrs. Sealy took another drink of her wine. The glass was huge. "You know, Larissa, you need to grow up a little, stop thinking about yourself all the time. Your mother has made so many sacrifices, and you just keep acting out." She looked at the ceiling. "Though your father didn't help, that's for sure. The way he's always spoiled you, let you do whatever you wanted. It's time for you to take some responsibility for your actions. Time to give your poor mother a break."

  I was about to ask what kind of a break Larissa's mother needed beyond a cruise in the Greek Isles when I noticed the digital clock on top of the nightstand. If I didn't fall asleep soon, I'd be stuck in Larissa's body until morning.

  "You're right," I said. "I'm wrong. Not for seeing my father, because I didn't, but for everything. I'm sorry. I think I just need some sleep."

  "Maybe later." She stood up and smoothed out her slacks. "Right now I'm going out, so I'll need you to keep an eye on the

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  boys." Her eyes flicked over me; I was still in the little bathing suit. "Perhaps you can take a quick shower and get dressed first."

  "You're going out?" I gasped. "But you just got home!"

  "I got home over an hour ago," she said evenly. "You weren't here."

  Because you made me take your kids to the beach, I thought, but I kept my mouth shut.

  I had ten minutes to shower and change into shorts and a T-shirt--uninspired but there was no time to spare. Then I was back on duty. The boys refused to take naps. That shouldn't have surprised me, but it did, somehow. Finally, I settled them on the white couch with sippy cups and blankets and turned on the Disney Channel. I slipped back to my room and dove onto the bed. I shut my eyes and lay there for maybe five minutes before Cameron came to tell me he had spilled milk on the couch (which he pronounced "cow-ouch").

  "But it was a no-spill cup!"

  He wrinkled his nose and swallowed a sob. "I took the top off."

  "No big deal. Milk's white, the couch is white," I said, forgetting for a moment that the boys drank only chocolate milk.

  Once I'd blotted the spilled milk, flipped over the couch cushion and fought with Cameron over whether or not he could have another chocolate milk (he won), I headed back to my room.

  Consuela was pulling the sheets off of my bed.

  I yelped. She gave me a dirty look and then went back to yanking off the sheets.

  "I was going to take a nap," I explained.

  "This late?" she said. It was 5:20. Time was running out. My

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  mother left work at six o'clock. I had to get to sleep--and get back into my own body-- and I had to do it soon.

  "Where are the extra sheets?" I asked. "I'll make up the bed."

  "No extras," she said.

  "None?"

  "Is a rental."

  She dumped the sheets in a laundry basket and hauled it into the hall. I smoothed the comforter back on top of the bed. I was about to lie down when Consuela reappeared with the vacuum cleaner and a mean smirk. She turned on the vacuum. It was a nice machine, a lot quieter than the one we have at home (I've been stuck with vacuum duty since I was ten). Still, it was clear: I would not be napping.

  "I need to go out," I announced.

  She narrowed her eyes. "You got a date?" I glared at her. You'd think she'd get some new material.

  I put a hand on my abdomen and winced. "Cramps. I need to go to the drugstore. The boys are just watching TV."

  She shrugged. "Mrs. Sealy, she don't like you leaving."

  "I won't be gone long."

  Evelyn was pacing in front of my house. "Where have you been?"

  "I couldn't sleep. I tried, but they wouldn't let me. How am I? I mean, how's Larissa?"

  Evelyn rolled her eyes. "Whiny. Sullen. Keeps saying she's sick of this dream and wants to wake up."

  "Did the Benadryl work?"

  "For a little while."

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  "Give her more," I said. "I'll pull out some more pills." From the corner of my eye, I could see a neighbor coming down the street. I slipped around the back of the house before he could wonder why a beautiful blond girl was standing on my front porch talking to herself. I let myself in the back door, Evelyn following soundlessly.

  Upstairs, the door to my bedroom was open
a crack. A girl lay on my bed crying. She was me but not me. No one really knows what she looks like to other people, but I've seen enough pictures and I've felt my face move. Her expressions were not mine. I couldn't imagine that anyone would ever believe she was me-- but then, no one had questioned that I was her. Her hair was loose and greasy and falling in her face. She was still wearing the jeans and fake-layered top I'd fallen asleep in. They didn't look nearly as hot as I'd thought they did.

  After putting a couple more Benadryl on the bathroom counter, I tiptoed back down the stairs, my breathing coming fast.

  "Well?" Evelyn asked.

  I pictured myself upstairs. "Are my shoulders really that big?"

  She didn't answer, which I took as a yes.

  I grabbed the pad and pen next to the phone.

  Mom,

  Got a headache & went to bed. Please don't wake me up.

  See you in the morning.

  Love,

  Claire

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  I stared at the pad, surprised. Even though it came from Larissa's hand, the handwriting was my own, upright and plain.

  Next up: stalling my mother. I called the clinic and took a deep breath. "This is Marjorie Humphrey--Mary Humphrey's daughter? I know it's late, but my mother is complaining of chest pains and really needs to see Dr. Martin." I sounded appropriately panicked--not difficult to do at this point.

  And then: "Yes, I know she should go to the emergency room, but she refuses. And if I call nine-one-one, she'll lock herself in her bedroom."

  Mary Humphrey has been my mother's patient since before I was born. She has medical "emergencies" at least twice a month and has said she'd rather die in bed than go to the hospital. If my mother had still been at the clinic, she would have waited hours for Mary Humphrey. But my mother had already left.

  Next, I tried her cell phone, trying to remember which patients she had (foolishly) given the number to. But when her voice mail picked up, I disconnected.