Switched

by Jessica Wollman

  Angie tossed her head back and laughed. “Probably not. But you know, I get to live my dream all the time—or at least whenever Yellow Thunder’s up and running.” She pointed to the picture of the car and sighed. “Ol’ Yellow really makes me feel like I’m racing for NASCAR.”

  Laura leaned back against her pillows. Angie’s Trans Am, her mother’s lottery tickets. Everyone around her had found their own little secret, their own escape. What was wrong with her?

  Angie glanced down at her watch. “I gotta go,” she said. “I got a green-water situation all the way out in Kent.” She stood and stretched, cracking her knuckles high overhead. It sounded like someone was cooking up microwave popcorn in front of a bullhorn. “Listen,” she said, “you and Willa are gonna be okay.”

  “Thanks, Angie.”

  Angie paused at the door. “Maybe, you know, we could all hang out sometime.”

  “I’d really like that,” Laura said. And as the words spilled out of her mouth, she was surprised by how much she meant them.

  36

  The girl of to-day soon discovers, if she does not know it already, that to be a ballroom belle it is necessary first of all to dance really well.

  —Etiquette

  Emily Post

  Curled up on her window seat, Willa stared out at the leaf-covered lawn and considered the old adage: Before you can understand a person, you’ve got to walk a mile in his shoes. She understood that the advice implied empathy. It was supposed to show you how other people lived—how difficult the other guy had it. But the saying was supposed to make you appreciate your own life, too. After walking that mile you were expected to request—no, beg for—your shoes back.

  And that was where she and the cliché parted company.

  As far as Willa was concerned, it simply didn’t apply to her situation. She’d not only walked a mile in someone else’s shoes, she’d vacuumed, mopped and scrubbed in them. And after she’d done all those things, she hadn’t missed her old shoes at all. She hadn’t even been curious as to their whereabouts.

  Not that any of it mattered anymore. Her parents were going to stuff her back into her hideous, uncomfortable, ill-fitting shoes and ship her off to Fenwick. Or maybe a military academy. They’d probably fly her everywhere from now on, too—since cars were bound to be considered a bad influence.

  Sunlight tumbled in through the window and stretched across Willa’s legs in thick, fat stripes. As she hugged her knees to her chest, Willa’s eyes traced the lines where they fell across the floor. Her brain skipped forward and settled on Laura.

  Why hadn’t Laura let her take the blame? Everything was her fault. The whole plan had been her idea. She groaned into her knees as the image of Mrs. Melon’s red, injured face flashed through her mind. It would haunt her forever.

  Her stomach rumbled, but there was no way she was going down to the kitchen for a snack. She’d rather starve. She deserved it. She deserved worse.

  She was so depressed and weary that she didn’t hear the knock on her door.

  So she was genuinely surprised—shocked, even—when her mother slipped quietly into the room. It had been years since either of her parents had been inside. So long, in fact, that Willa wondered if her mom had gotten lost on the way to her wing of the house.

  Her mother sat at the foot of her bed and tilted her head slowly to one side, as if testing the mobility of her neck.

  “So,” she said. Her voice was so quiet that Willa had to lean forward slightly to hear. “You found my ballet memorabilia. I’m still in shock.”

  “It was kind of an accident.” Willa looked at her, not sure whether to go on. Her mother didn’t look mad. She didn’t look happy, but she definitely didn’t look mad. “It was when I was, uh, pretending to be Laura. I was in the cellar.”

  “I did love it, you know.” A hint of light crept into her mother’s eyes. “My parents sent me to weekly lessons when I was small. It was what one did.” She glanced at Willa. “We sent you, do you remember?”

  Willa avoided her mother’s gaze. Her ballet teacher, Miss Audrey, had suggested Willa “take some time off” after she’d spent her entire first recital picking her nose—center stage—while the rest of her class had danced around her.

  “It didn’t really take,” Willa said.

  Her mother didn’t seem to hear. “From the minute my hand slid over the barre, I was in love.” Her voice sounded far away. “By the time I was ten I was studying four times a week after school.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty . . . intense.” With every second, her mother was looking more and more like the slim young girl from those black-and-white pictures.

  “It was. And I think my parents admired my discipline.” She looked at her lap. “They attended my performances and tried to be supportive. But when I informed them that I wanted to pursue dance professionally . . .” She trailed off.

  Willa frowned. “I can’t imagine Grandmother or Grandfather Welles really being fans of the idea.”

  Her mother lifted her head. “No,” she said, her voice flat. “They weren’t. It wasn’t proper. I was scheduled for a debutante ball, slated for college, marriage to the right man.” She sighed.“Ballet was to have been a passing fancy. This definitely threw them for a loop.” She smiled and Willa thought she saw—she couldn’t be sure—a hint of mischief flash across her face.

  Is she saying she didn’t want to marry Dad?Willa wondered. Is she saying her whole life has been a big disappointment?

  But she kept those questions to herself.

  “So what did you do?”

  Her mother straightened. “We went back and forth for months, until I finally decided that I’d had enough of society living. I withdrew some money from my trust and moved to New York. I planned to join the American Ballet Theatre.” She looked, Willa thought, both bemused and sad. “Just like that.”

  Willa stared at her. “Whoa,” she breathed. She tried to imagine her mother as a young woman, living alone in Manhattan, but her mind refused to form the image.

  Her mother looked down at her lap. “It was not a successful trip,” she said. “I got to the audition, and the steps—I’d never seen anything like it before. I couldn’t follow. I lasted all of three minutes.”

  “Mom, I’m so sor—”

  But her mother didn’t hear her. She’d stepped back inside the moment, like no time had passed at all. “That’s when I knew that starring in my ballet school’s production of Coppélia was the best I could ever hope for.” Her voice shook slightly and Willa felt her heart thicken. “I could study fourteen hours a day, but I was never going to be a professional dancer.”

  Willa swallowed. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  Her mother ran a hand through her ink-black hair, as if wiping away the unpleasant memories. When she spoke, her voice was clipped and measured. “It was a lesson,” she said. “Frankly, I consider myself lucky to have only wasted an afternoon, rather than an entire year. Maybe two.” She cleared her throat. “As it happened, I gathered my things and hopped on the first train back to Newport. I applied to college and met your father the following spring.”

  Willa straightened, unsure of how to react. So what was her mother saying? That she should run back to Fenwick and look for a husband? That she should listen to her mother because her parents had been right thirty years ago?

  Her mother leaned forward. Her hair looked almost blue in the sunlight. She seemed to soften slightly. “Willa, I love your father. And I was a good debutante. I know that sort of thing is lost on young people nowadays, but, well, when I was younger it meant something. In the end I don’t regret the choices I’ve made because, unlike dance, I really do excel at fund-raising and the occasional game of mixed doubles.”

  Willa eyed her mother. Was that a joke? It was, wasn’t it? Her mother’s eyes held that same mischievous glint.

  Unbelievable.

  “What you said downstairs—about fixing your friend’s car—was that true?”

  “I was th
e one who diagnosed the problem,” Willa explained. “Angie—she’s the girl who owns the car—knew it was making a weird noise but she couldn’t figure out what was going on. I told her.” Her voice rose proudly as she spoke. “Of course, that was only after I played jigsaw puzzle with her engine. I kind of owed her one.”

  “You know,” her mother said slowly, “if I had been a talented dancer it might have been a different story. The whole trajectory of my life—who knows?” She seemed to shake herself. “And while your chosen pursuit is certainly out of the ordinary—at least for this family—a talent is a talent. . . .”

  Willa’s jaw dropped open as her mind spiraled off into a million different places at once.

  Pay attention. This is important.

  “I had always hoped you’d find your way academically. Or perhaps on the athletic field,” her mother continued. “But after this past semester we see now that that might never happen. It’s still very important to your father and me that you finish school, though,” she said firmly. “Not because you’re a Pogue but because you’re our daughter. Do you understand?”

  Willa nodded.

  “Good. Here’s our offer,” her mother said. Her tone left no room for negotiation. “You can stay home and attend the local high school starting next semester. Your father and I will stay here with you, full-time.” She studied Willa closely for any signs of rebellion. “In return, you are to attend—and pass—all your courses.”

  “Public school?” The words flew out of Willa’s mouth before she could stop them.

  “I hear it’s quite good.” Her mother stood and smoothed out her skirt. “Besides, I’m sure they’ll have some sort of ‘shop’ elective you can take. If you’re going to pursue this as an interest, you might as well go about it properly. At the very least, I’d like to see you fixing fine automobiles.” She sniffed. “It just seems less coarse, somehow.”

  Willa grinned.

  Her mother cast a stern look in her direction.

  “But your GPA has to improve, Willa. If it doesn’t, the deal is off.”

  “Right.”

  In a forgotten corner of her heart, Willa felt a quiver. It was so unfamiliar—strange, in fact—this fresh swell of emotion. Odd but pleasant.

  “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was hoarse. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Her mother gave her a funny half nod, half smile. Willa watched her mother’s thin, graceful back ease its way across the floor. And then—Willa was never sure but she could’ve sworn—as her mother stepped out the door, her toes were pointed.

  Willa settled back into the window seat. She hesitated only a second before scooping up the shiny silver phone at her feet.

  boardgirl: i’m so, so sorry. messed everything up. my life has been really screwed up, u have no idea.

  lubespecial: try me.

  37

  Choose your Cheer.

  —Cheer Detergent

  “Professor? Where are you?”

  Laura tried to shake off her daze and turned toward Angie. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  “Nothing important.” Angie rose from behind Yellow Thunder’s raised hood, her brow furrowed. “You okay? You seem a little out of it.”

  Laura shook her head. “No, it’s okay. I’m just tired. It’s hard starting work again and everything.”

  Willa shoved herself out from underneath the car’s body. Her face was covered with thick black grease. “I think I found the leak,” she said. “Or at least one of them.” She paused. “Wait, what’d I miss?”

  Angie motioned toward Laura with an oily rag. “Professor’s sad.”

  “Not true. I’m really not.”

  “You should call that guy, Laura,” Willa said. She wiped her face and hands on a bandana. “I know that’s what’s bothering you.”

  “Or how about a present?” Angie suggested. “I love those cards—you know, the ones that play music. Or chocolate. Everyone loves chocolate.”

  Laura sighed. Now that Willa’s life had taken an upward swing, she was hanging out at the apartment a lot. She and Angie were using the time to work on Yellow Thunder—and offer Laura advice. It was all well-intended, of course. And Laura was appreciative that Willa had forgiven her for amending the “plan” to include a boyfriend—without even so much as a consultation. But things with Caleb were past the point of a Whitman’s Sampler and singing greeting cards.

  Almost two weeks had passed since the Fenwick disaster. She’d considered contacting Caleb—she’d even picked up the phone a few times. But then she’d remembered how they left things—his pale, horrified expression and her panicked retreat—and she couldn’t follow through. Besides, what was she supposed to say? I’m sorry I repeatedly lied to you for four months. I’m sorry I’m just a housecleaner.

  Anyway, she barely had time to call. She’d thrown herself back into her old life—her real life—without looking back.

  She’d started by finishing her UConn application. As she’d stood in line at the post office, she’d glanced down at the envelopes, not recognizing her own handwriting. It was angrier than usual—fierce, deep slashes that practically sliced the page.

  Why am I so bitter? she wondered. She ran her fingers over the grooves in disbelief. UConn is a good school. It’s where I’d planned to go all along, before the switch.

  Before.

  That was it, wasn’t it? Deep down, there’d been a part of her that really had believed—or hoped—that there would be no “after.” She’d always harbored some insane fantasy that the switch would be permanent. There was nothing at all wrong with UConn. But by mailing off her application, Laura felt like she’d somehow returned to a life—and a self—she’d already waved good-bye to.

  By the time Laura had approached the window, she’d smudged the return address. The elderly postal worker offered her a tissue. Laura hadn’t realized she was crying.

  She was also cleaning again. Every house minus two: the Pogues’ (for obvious reasons, they’d made arrangements to use another service) and the Youngs’. For less obvious reasons, Willa refused to relinquish that job. It wasn’t about the money. She promised to give that to Laura’s mom. She simply insisted that the place “sort of felt like home.”

  Still, even without those houses it was a pretty packed schedule. It was, in fact, her old schedule. It was the way she used to live.

  And that was the problem. Her old life didn’t fit anymore. She’d unhitched herself from it months ago, slipped it off like an old coat. And in the interim, pieces of the last few months—the conversations, smells and experiences—had all joined hands inside her. And so, despite the sameness, Laura herself was changed. She wanted to wear her coat again—she needed to, in fact. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t even find the closet.

  And she couldn’t, for whatever stupid reason, cheer up.

  Floating back to earth, Laura looked over at Willa and Angie. They were staring at her expectantly and she realized they were still waiting for her to respond to their advice.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said. “Thanks, guys. I know you’re trying to help.” It was her trademark response, but her friends never pushed. “I’m gonna go inside and read a little. I’ll see you later?”

  Willa waved before she disappeared back under the car. “Sure, I’ll stop in before I leave. Listen, give yourself a break, okay?”

  Laura went inside. The phone was ringing as she unlocked the door. “Mom?” she shouted. She wasn’t in the mood to deal. “Mom?”

  Laura stood in the kitchen as the phone’s shrill bleat cracked the air. Why wasn’t the machine picking up?

  She sighed and leaned over, grabbing the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Laura?”

  It was Mr. Stade. Laura swallowed the last remaining moisture in her mouth as recognition kicked the air out of her lungs.

  “Yes.”

  Why was Mr. Stade calling her? Laura wondered. Did he want a personal apology? Was he furious at he
r for wasting all his time? Should she simply hang up and refuse to speak with him?

  No. No, that was lame. She had to deal. This was her fault. She should’ve told him the truth months ago. At the very least, she should talk to him. She owed him that much.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I’m calling you.”

  “No. No, not at all,” she said. She took the first deep breath she’d taken since picking up the phone. “Listen, I don’t really know what to say. I know what I did was—well, horrible. But it really started because of Fenwick. I kind of fell in love with the place.” She sighed. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but I just wanted you to know that. You really were the best teacher I’ve ever had.” She paused. “Even if you weren’t officially my teacher.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the line.

  “Thank you, Laura,” he said. “And thank you for your apology. I have to say, I was a little upset to hear about what you’d done. On the other hand, I wasn’t as shocked as you might think.”

  Laura’s forehead wrinkled. “Wait, what do you mean?”

  “Well, let’s just say that I’ve been teaching for almost twenty years and I’d never seen a student do such a rapid turnaround, performance-wise, in my entire career.” Mr. Stade chuckled. “Not even when college counselors were breathing down her neck.”

  “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell the headmaster? Or the Pogues?”

  “What would I have said? And to be honest, you were a joy to have in class,” he explained. “Plus, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone go to such extreme lengths to receive a good education. You’re an incredibly dedicated student.”

  “Thanks,” Laura said. “I’m sorry,” she added lamely.

  “Thank you, Laura, but I really wasn’t calling for an apology.” He cleared his throat. “I wanted you to know that there’s no reason why I can’t continue to advise—or pester—you about your college choices simply because you’re no longer my student. And I’d still like to call my friend at Kenyon, with your permission, of course.”