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 Wi
lla 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.
21
Trust the Original
—Pine-Sol
Every once in a while, Laura’s mother won the Lotto. It was never big money—a few hundred dollars at most—but it was still pretty thrilling. She celebrated by purchasing name-brand groceries rather than the usual generic items. The next morning, she and Laura would sit in the kitchen and savor the taste of Tropicana fresh-squeezed orange juice and Cheerios and Thomas’ English muffins. The real thing always tasted better, no matter how hard the imitation tried.
Laura considered this rule as she walked across campus on her first day of classes.
It applied outside the grocery store, too.
Take Fenwick, for instance. Founded in the eighteenth century, the school was one of the oldest in the country. And after just one morning, Laura realized that her entire academic career had been a complete joke. Compared to Fenwick, her old high school reminded her of a brick sinking to the bottom of a pond.
This was the way school was supposed to be.
Laura glanced down at her schedule card. She had U.S. history next. She hadn’t seen Mr. Stade since the luncheon, but of all her classes, his was the one she was most excited about.
As she cut across the quad, Laura scanned the passing faces. It was a habit she’d developed—a bad habit—but she couldn’t help it. She’d seen Caleb only once since that first day, tossing a Frisbee with a couple of guys.
Laura frowned as she yanked open the door to Regan Hall. This wasn’t a constructive interest. First of all, it was against the rules—Willa would kill her. Second of all, he had a girlfriend.
And third—this thought was accompanied by a dull ache somewhere between her stomach and chest—he hadn’t bothered to look her up again.
It was best to just forget about Caleb and all things social. Sometimes you had to just plow ahead and not dwell on things that were out of your control, like cute guys you couldn’t have. She was happy with her schedule, right? She loved Fenwick—that was huge. How many kids actually liked school?
Finish your UConn application, enjoy this place . . . and move on, she thought as she reached the door.
The room was small, and the desks had been placed in a circle around the blackboard. As Laura slid into a chair near the window, she studied Mr. Stade’s desk. It was covered with huge towers of paper as well as a few empty Styrofoam cups, but it showed no immediate signs of life. He clearly hadn’t arrived yet.
Laura pictured Mr. Stade’s house—history texts everywhere and a sink overflowing with dirty dishes. The image didn’t gross her out at all. It appealed to her, actually. He was probably the quintessential absentminded professor.
“Hey, Willa, mind if I sit here?”
That voice. Laura had been looking for him all over campus, but he’d managed to slip into class without her even noticing. She’d been too busy thinking about Mr. Stade’s dirty dishes.
Stay calm, she thought, her heart pounding.
“Sure,” she said, just as her hand slammed the tip of her notepad, sending it flying straight into Caleb’s face. It swatted him on the nose before flopping to the ground. A few stray papers drifted to the floor in its wake, like confetti thrown at a parade float.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Laura said. She had a flashback to her old self. This was definitely something the real Laura Melon would’ve done around a cute guy. Maybe she was back.
It wasn’t a cheerful thought.
“Whoa. I can sit somewhere else if you want.” Caleb laughed as he leaned forward to pick up the notepad. “Honesty is always the best policy, Willa.”
“You’re taking this class?” she asked, hoping her cheeks weren’t too red. “I mean, aren’t you a senior?”
Caleb pulled a laptop out of his bag. “Yeah, but I was in Italy for a semester junior year, remember? I never got to take Stade’s class.”
Why hadn’t he mentioned that, back on that first day? He hadn’t said anything about it, which was weird. Could he have switched his schedule around—maybe taken the class because he knew she was enrolled too?
Don’t flatter yourself, she thought as Mr. Stade walked into the room. He sat next to you, that’s all. He’s just being nice.
“Good morning,” Mr. Stade said, smiling. “Welcome back.” His eyes found Willa’s and his smile grew wider. “And for those of you new to Fenwick, welcome for the first time. This class is United States history, 1898 to 1945. If you’re supposed to be someplace else—say PE or studio art—now is the time to go find that place.”
He paused politely as a tall, red-faced kid muttered an apology about an SAT tutorial and stumbled out the door.
Caleb rolled his eyes. There were a few snickers.
“Now then,” continued Mr. Stade as he passed out the syllabus, “I am assuming all cell phones are off and all laptops are either plugged in or are running on full batteries.”
A few students leaned over and turned off their cells.
“Why are we in a circle?” said a tall brunette near the door.
“Ah, thank you for not raising your hand, Cricket,” replied Mr. Stade as everyone laughed, including the tall brunette. “I arranged the seats in a circle because this class is not your typical history class. It’s not a lecture. It’s more of a seminar. I encourage discussion and analysis—and debates, of course.”
Laura stared down at her syllabus. She wasn’t used to talking in class—class discussions were unheard of at her old high school. She couldn’t really see herself debating anyone.
“If you check your syllabus,” Mr. Stade continued, “you’ll also note that in addition to chapter exams you’re responsible for two papers. You may hand in these papers at any time, on any topic of your choice, so long as both the topic and outline are preapproved by yours truly.” He looked around. “Are there any questions?”
There were some scattered nos, a bunch of head shakes and a few yawns.
“Great. Shall we get started?” Mr. Stade pushed off his desk and, with thick squeaky chalk, printed “1898” on the blackboard. “Okay, if you were living in the U.S. during this period, what was on your mind—other than the millennium countdown and early preparations for what I’m sure were a slew of absolutely fantastic New Year’s parties?” Mr. Stade turned back to face the class.
Patches of laughter and a few hoots broke out around the room. Laura jotted the words “Spanish-American War” in her notebook but kept her arm firmly planted by her side.
“That’d be McKinley’s Spanish-American War,” Caleb said, his own hand semiraised as he answered the question.
“Good. What else can you tell us about it? Anyone?”
Again there was a silence and again Caleb jumped in, rattling off facts and dates. A few other students commen
ted here and there while Mr. Stade shaped the discussion, but, for the most part, Caleb had the floor.
Head lowered over her notebook, Laura took copious notes and tried to conceal her astonishment. She’d never—not for a second—assumed Caleb was an idiot.
But nothing had prepared her for this. It was shocking. Caleb was the History Channel.
Laura sat up a little straighter in her chair and squared her shoulders.
But so was she.
Any hesitation she might have felt about speaking in class suddenly evaporated. The new Laura Melon thrived on healthy competition.
“A lot of people compare the Spanish-American War to the war in Iraq,” Caleb was saying.
“Why do you think that is?” probed Mr. Stade.
“Well, it was the first U. S. intervention on foreign soil.”
Laura’s hand felt like it was buzzing. Slowly, deliberately, she raised it into the air.
“Yes, Willa?”
“But you’re not including attacks on the nations of the Apaches, the Seminole, the Cherokee—and a ton of others I’m forgetting.” She turned to Caleb. “No offense.”
“What’s she talking about?” a guy in a baseball cap asked.
“She’s talking about the Native American population,” Mr. Stade said, smiling. “So, Willa, why do you think people compare the wars? Or don’t you agree?”
“Oh, no, I see a comparison,” Laura said as she turned to Caleb apologetically. “Only, uh, sorry, but I do think it’s more complicated than just the occupation.”
Caleb spread out his palm. “No—please. Go for it.”
“Well, both invasions involved freeing an oppressed group of people—in Cuba it was liberation from Spanish rule, while in Iraq it was Saddam Hussein, of course. . . .”
Laura continued talking, her voice clear and steady. A few of the other kids asked her questions, challenging her, but she never flinched. It was amazing how good this felt.
“Great work,” Mr. Stade said as the bell rang, his eyes pausing momentarily on Laura before moving around the circle. “This bodes well for the rest of the semester. Keep it up. And keep those cell phones off, Brooks. I heard that, you know.”
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