Switch

by Tish Cohen

  With panic blocking my throat, I look at Joules. “They’re not here.”

  “What do you mean they’re not here?”

  “I mean they’re not here! I buried them right here to keep them safe and …” I stand up and look around wildly, my chest heaving up and down. “Somebody took them. Somebody dug them up and took them!”

  “You mean we have no way to wish back?”

  I stomp along the wall to see if some animal dug them up, thinking they were food, and left them all chewed up among the trash. Nothing.

  “Andie! Where are the gloves?”

  “I don’t know, okay?” I wander around the entire plot of weeds and grass to find zero evidence of Gran’s magic gloves. But there’s not a feather, not a rhinestone, not so much as a chewed-up piece of black rubber. I go back to the hole and dig wider around the mouth of it.

  There’s no mistaking it. The gloves are gone.

  chapter 24

  We’ve combed this area three times. We’ve crossed beneath the bridge and searched the littered side twice. We’ve checked out the train tracks, and I’ve even scaled the cement wall to have a look in the yards nearby.

  All we’ve come up with is a whole lot of nothing.

  Joules, who just ten minutes ago was saying she didn’t want to go back, is staring out into traffic, crying. I’m numb. It was one thing to talk about not switching back when we still had hope. Without hope, the prospect of remaining each other is terrifying.

  “How could you think burying them and leaving them behind was safe?” she whispers.

  I can’t answer.

  “And what was your reason?”

  I really can’t answer that one.

  “Seriously. You couldn’t have brought them back to my house and put them under the bed or something? What were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She flops her hands in the dirt. “So this is it. For the rest of my life I walk around as …” she waves her arms angrily above her head, “Andrea Birch?” Her voice rises in pitch. “I mean, this is it? This is really it?”

  “Don’t panic. We can still find them.”

  “Yeah? How? Some person came along and dug them up. Took them. How are we ever going to figure out who?”

  “I don’t know, okay? Let me think.”

  She wraps her arms around her knees and starts to rock.

  “Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. This isn’t happening. This totally isn’t happening.”

  I put my arm around her and finally let myself cry. “I know. I know. Joules, I’m so sorry.”

  She leans her head against my shoulder and starts to sob with me. A bearded guy walking past stops, moves closer to ask if we’re okay. Neither of us has the energy to answer, but he waits. When we’re both spent, when we have no more tears left to cry, we wipe our filthy faces and look up at the guy. Joules speaks first.

  “It’s okay. My friend’s cat just died is all.” She puts her arms around me. “She really loved that stupid cat.”

  After he moves on, Joules surprises me by offering up a sad smile. “It’s okay. We’ll keep looking for the gloves. We’ll find them. Nigel always says there’s a scratch …”

  “For every itch,” I say.

  “They’re not gone. They’re out there, right?”

  They are. Somewhere. But looking for a couple of pieces of scrap rubber isn’t like looking for a missing grandmother or a lost dog. You can’t inform the police or ask your local radio station to air your plea.

  The gloves were probably dug up by a couple of kids who had a quick laugh and stuffed them in a garbage can. Or the serial killer with the stained hose—maybe he’s tired of scrubbing dried blood from his cuticles and has determined to cover his hands next time around. Kids or killers, it doesn’t really matter.

  We’re never going to find those gloves.

  Wait.

  Gran.

  Maybe there was another pair! Maybe she can find the roadside fortune teller and buy another pair! I pull out Joules’s cellphone and start to dial.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, scooting closer.

  I hold a finger to my mouth to shush her as Gran picks up.

  “Hello?”

  “Gran. It’s Andrea.”

  She’s silent for a moment. “Which Andrea?”

  “I’m still Joules. Listen, Gran. I need another pair of those gloves.”

  “Another pair?”

  “You can get more, right? I mean, they couldn’t have been the only pair. I was thinking we could call her. The witch. Give her a credit card number and have her mail them or something. Was there another pair?”

  “All she had on her table were the one pair of gloves and her crystal ball. There was no other pair.”

  My throat starts to tighten. “But … maybe if we call … she could make us another pair.”

  “She was a dust-covered soothsayer in the plains of Africa. She didn’t hand out business cards. I doubt she even has a phone. What’s going on here, Andrea? Don’t tell me you’ve lost the gloves. I told you to take very special care not to lose them …”

  I drop the phone into my lap.

  Joules stares at me, her cheek scratched and her face smeared with dirt. She could be five years old, the way she’s looking at me to fix her world. “It’s going to be okay, though. We’ll find them one day, right?”

  I push my chin up in the air and take a deep breath. “We’ll totally find them.”

  chapter 25

  What choice do we have? We dust ourselves off. We walk to Pizza Hut and splash water on our dirt-smeared faces in the bathroom. I buy us a Coke and a slice with Nigel’s money. Then we go to school and sit in each other’s chairs at each other’s desks in each other’s classes.

  Only now it’s different. Now I walk around in Joules’s life knowing this may be it for me. No more play-acting. The assignment on the board in Algebra is my assignment. The graffiti-ed binder in the bag at my feet is my binder. The mop-haired boy across the room who keeps looking at me is my boyfriend.

  What a difference a week makes.

  The Stanford interview no longer matters. Joules has nine days to decide what she wants to do as Andrea Birch.

  Will keeps silently raising his eyebrows as if to ask if everything’s all right. It isn’t but I nod anyway. He winks, which is probably supposed to assure me he’s on my side. But the wink hits me harder than that. More than anything right now, I want to lay my cheek on his shoulder. Listen to his heartbeat.

  I take my pen in both hands and snap it in half. “Ms. Wigg?” I hold up an inky hand. “My pen leaked. May I go wash my hands?”

  She nods and turns back to the blackboard where she writes out tonight’s homework assignment.

  Out in the hall, I lean against the iron railing and wait. A few minutes later, he’s standing beside me. “You okay?”

  Holding my stained hands away from his shirt, I wrap my arms around his neck. “Yes. No.”

  “What can I do?”

  I shake my head, nothing. “Remember you said I was a different person before?”

  He nods.

  “And I said, no, I wasn’t?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I lied. I’m not the girl you used to date. Not even close. And I may never be again. Are you okay with that?”

  He grins. “Sure.”

  “You think I’m kidding, right? Exaggerating?”

  “No. You mean you’ve changed. I get it.”

  “I’m not sure you realize how much I’ve changed. I mean, in some ways I haven’t changed one single solitary bit. I’m still the me I always was. And always will be. That part of me can learn and grow but never really change, you know? But in other ways,” I hold up my hand, Joules’s hand, “I’m completely someone else. As in physically. I am not myself, physically. Not even close. Not even kind of close. I’m wa-a-ay off in another state of being, this freakishly impossible state of being …”

  Will looks confused. “
You don’t sound like Joules right now.”

  My babbling. Of course! “Right! Who do I sound like?”

  “I’m not sure I should say.”

  “Say.”

  “You might not like it.”

  “Please say.”

  “You sound like Andrea Birch.”

  I smile, relieved. “I am Andrea Birch, Will. It’s me in here.” I touch my chest. “It’s Andrea.” I remember what Joules called me at the bridge. “Andie.”

  He stares at me as if waiting for some sort of punch line to this joke. “You’re telling me you’re Andrea?”

  “It makes no sense, I know. But there was a wish. My fault and Joules’s fault. We both wished it. And it happened.”

  “You switched bodies? Lives?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes dart to the right and I watch as he tries to decide what to make of this information. Squinting, he looks at me again. “That’s not possible.”

  “I know.”

  “As in, it’s completely impossible.”

  “Right? That’s what I thought. And yet.” I wave toward Joules’s body. “Maybe we can switch back, maybe we can’t. Right now it isn’t looking good.”

  He says nothing.

  “But I want you to know who you’re kissing.”

  “Who am I kissing?”

  I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him just to the right of his mouth. Light-headed from the warmth of his skin, I let my lips graze his as I whisper, “Me.”

  That’s when my boyfriend kisses me back.

  chapter 26

  When some sort of shocking gossip floods a school it’s impossible to ignore. It’s like a swarm of bees—you feel the air buzzing long before you see the huddled bodies, hear the excited drone. By lunchtime, Sunnyside High is undulating with news, and it isn’t until I reach the cafeteria that I realize it’s me people are talking about.

  A group of girls stop whispering as I enter, and even the lunch ladies avert their eyes as I grab a tray and get in line. The entire place falls silent. I ask, and am given, the lunch special—hamburger and fries with a dollop of milky cole slaw on the side. As if nothing is bothering me, I slide my tray along the rails behind the other kids—most of whom are stealing glances at me along the way—and pull a lunch ticket out of my pocket.

  Bess, the heavyset woman at the cash who used to tell me about her grandkids back when I was Andrea, gives me a warm smile as she takes my ticket. Then, as I lift my tray, she reaches out to pat my hand and says, “It’s okay, pet. We’re all of us just human.”

  I set my tray down again. “What’s going on?”

  She reaches for a folded newspaper and places it on the counter. The headline reads “Hit-and-Run Rock Star.” There’s Nigel’s mug shot from the other night, and right beside it, that photo of the Disneyland couple in side-by-side hospital beds.

  Nigel’s been arrested.

  It had to happen. I know that. But imagining him sitting in that kitchen with the PR girls, in his holey pajamas with his dirty hair; the thought of his stricken face when I called him a drunk, because all he really wants in life is Joules’s—my—approval; now, the thought of him in jail, all of it makes me want to throw up.

  Why does he have to be so self-destructive?

  Bess says, “It’s his life, honey. Not yours. We are not our families, you just remember that.” She sounds like Mom. I have to stop myself from curling up in her lap like an old cat. Or a new foster child.

  There is a lineup behind me, I’m taking too long. Even though I’d love to read the article, there’s no way I’ll do it in front of all these people. I lean closer to Bess. “How did it happen? How did they find out?”

  Bess blinks at me. “Your dad did the right thing, sweetheart. He turned himself in.”

  I start to nod. Slowly at first, then quicker and quicker until I am backing away from my food and toward the door.

  Outside, with a tight smile on my face, I break into a run and head home. To Skyline Drive, to Sue, who can hopefully tell me where to find him. Nigel. I need to tell him something.

  I need to tell him I’m proud of him.

  chapter 27

  I was wrong about the inside of my house. My real house. It does have a smell.

  I stand in the foyer after not having lived here for two weeks and inhale deeply. Here’s the thing—it takes a bit of distance for you to be able to detect it in your own home. And it’s not what I would have thought. If asked what 8407 Highcliffe Court smells like I might have said fabric softener or Mom’s veggie chili. But it’s nothing like that. This house, the Birch house, smells like kids. Dirty sneakers and boys who have just come in after rolling in the grass and the double stroller littered with dry Cheerios that’s parked by the front door.

  It smells like a house that isn’t pretending to be anything other than what it is. A safe place that lets kids step away from whatever garbage they’ve lived through and finally, finally be kids.

  Not that it’s my house any more.

  Over the weekend, Nigel was charged with reckless driving and leaving the scene of an accident. And since he confessed to killing Tyler Glass, he was also charged with vehicular manslaughter. That he was sipping champagne in the car didn’t help. The judge went soft on him because he turned himself in and made the prosecutor’s job that much easier. Still, he’s in jail and will be for the next seven years, pending good behavior.

  Which left the problem of me.

  Sue stayed in the house with me until this morning, Wednesday, but once it was clear Nigel wouldn’t be around for a long time, she pretty much vanished. Hours later, I had a knock at the door. The lady in the flowered pants. Child Services.

  Right away I was put into foster care. Where they’ve sent me is almost too ironic to be real (though I did spend a good half hour begging): 8407 Highcliffe Court.

  So here I am. Standing in the foyer like one of my now thirty-eight foster siblings.

  Mom takes me by the elbow and guides me toward the living room. “Come on in, Joules. I want you to know you are very welcome here. Whatever issues we had in the past are just that—in the past. We’re going to have a fresh start, and everyone’s waiting to meet you.”

  Sure enough, there’s Dad with Michaela on his lap, showing her how his watch works, Brayden unraveling the fringe on the sofa cushion, Joules sitting beside him, not swatting the pillow out of his hands when she totally should. Cici and Sam are on the floor, leaning against the sofa, arms hugging their knees. And the Ks—the glorious, chubby, drooling Ks—standing all by themselves in their playpen, holding onto the rail and bopping up and down with delight as they see me.

  “Up,” Kaia says to me, clearly hoping the new person will be naive enough to free her from her nylon enclosure and let her roam around in search of Play-Doh.

  From the rocking chair by the fireplace, Gran winks at me.

  Seeing the people in this room, in this house, it’s the greatest sight on earth.

  “You can call me Lise, and my husband’s Gary. Andrea—”

  Joules clears her throat loudly and makes a pretend-angry face, and Mom smiles.

  “Andie, as she likes to be called now, has generously offered to move you into her room, Joules,” says Mom, shooting the real Joules an approving look. “You’ll be with us a long time, so we’ve purchased another twin bed, which Gary and Brayden will assemble later tonight. You know Brayden from school, don’t you?”

  I nod. “Hi, Bray.”

  “And you’re okay sharing a room?”

  My room. I’ll be back in my room. “Yes. It’s perfect. I mean, that’ll be fine. Lise.” I look around the living room and smile.

  I’m back. Not the way I expected, but wishers can’t be choosers. I’m not going to be Mom’s Number One: I’m not going to be allowed, aside from the odd slip-up, to call her Mom, but still. Here I am, just where I want to be.

  Mom instructs Bray to carry my bags into the bedroom and sits me down on the sofa, where I rig
ht away try to re-ravel the pillow fringe Bray undid. She explains the deal—Andie is her natural-born daughter. How many fosters they’ve had over the years. How Bray’s been there longer than anyone else. Her belief that this is only the beginning for Joules Adams. I’ve heard this speech before, but still. It sounds different being directed at me.

  To my surprise, Joules leans over and gives me a hug, and right away I regret not having thought to hug her first. After all, this is easy for me. I’m coming home. Joules is the one who is leaving her life for a while. We hold onto each other as everyone starts to disperse, and Joules whispers to me, “I get it now.”

  “You get what?” I say.

  “Your mom. The kids she brings in. All of it. It’s incredible, what she sacrifices. She made a big pot of chili last night and there wasn’t enough to go around, so she went without. Made herself a bowl of cereal so none of the fosters had to eat less than a full serving. I could never do what she does.”

  All these years, I’ve missed who my parents really are. I’ve been too focused on what I haven’t gotten from them to truly see all they’ve given up for these kids. And none of it is for Vanity Fair magazine or to bolster a failing reputation or to sell more records. It’s 100 percent genuine, 100 percent for the kids.

  “I know. I knew it before but now I actually see it,” I whisper. “She’s pretty cool.” I watch my dad reach down to wipe drool from Kaia’s face and give her nose a little kiss. “They both are.”

  “Hey, Birch Tree?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re friends now, right?”

  I nod. “We’re friends now.”

  I can see Mom twisting a Kleenex in her hands. She wants to hug me, Joules, but isn’t sure if I’ll get all prickly about it. It’s tough welcoming the older kids—I know that. Mom wants to be all maternal but holds back at first to assess their needs. But I need nothing if I don’t need a hug so I make it easier for her. I stand up and hug her first. With the happiest sad smile you’ve ever seen, she wraps her arms around me and rocks me back and forth.