Don't You Wish (11 page)

“Play both ends against the middle, that’s what. How could I blame you?” His lip quirks. “You’ve inherited so many of my most impressive traits.”

He snaps the card onto the desk, next to a single pen. That’s all that he has on his huge block of gleaming wood. Just imagine how much of my dad’s junk this surface could hold.

But this man, this dream dad, is so not like my dad.

He slides the card toward me. “Go ahead. Take it. Use it. And do your job. Sneak around a little. Ask some questions. See if you can get her to trust you.”

Blood money, that’s what he’s offering. Well, blood credit. But maybe with this card, I can convince my new best friends not to steal. With that pathetic rationalization in my head, I reach for the card. As I do, Jim’s phone beeps with a digital melody, and he grabs it before the third note and presses it to his ear.

“Well, hello there,” he says softly, pushing away from the desk and getting up to walk to the bar, his voice so different and … warm.

What’s she thirsty for now? Or is this someone else?

I stand there, but he gives me a dismissive wave and shoulders the phone, laughing softly.

“I thought you’d like that,” he says, his tone entirely different. “It was the least I could do after …” He glances back to see me riveted to my spot; then he points to the door. “Get out,” he mouths.

I turn and walk out of the room, knowing instinctively to close the door behind me. As I reach the end of the hall, I turn to find Mom standing right there. Her expression is pained as she looks down at the card in my hand.

“What’s that for?”

I just stare at it, then her. “Um, Dad gave me this for … supplies. For a school project.” The words taste sour in my mouth. Have I ever flat-out lied to my mom before?

But this isn’t my mom. This is some other woman who …

Who is she? She is Emily, deep inside, the same person I just shopped with at Walmart—

That’s when all this started. That day in the store, that magazine, that iPhone app and the Picture-Perfect mirror.
Maybe Jimbo is right. Maybe she does know
something
. Like what I’m doing here.

I stuff the card into my back pocket. “Mom, can I talk to you?”

She looks at me, her eyes impossible to read, like there’s a veil over them. Not the bright, open eyes of my mother, my
real
mother.

“I’m tired, Ayla.”

“It won’t take long.” I angle my head toward the hall. “Let’s go into the kitchen and …” With Mom, it was always tea. I’d drink hot chocolate at night, and she’d drink tea. “Have some tea.”

She frowns, a creaseless effort. “I don’t drink tea, Ayla. And I’m too tired to talk.” She passes me, heading up the stairs.

“But, Mom, I really want to talk to you.”

She shakes her head and continues on her way.

“You’re just going to ignore me?” I call out to her. I mean, she is my mom. On any planet.

She turns around. “I already talked to your brother, Ayla. Don’t waste your time trying to suck up to me. Nothing’s going to change.”

I stare at her back as she makes her way up the curved staircase, moving like an old, tired, aching woman, even though she looks much younger now.

I hear her sigh as she turns and disappears at the top.

Wow. The Monroe family is a hot mess.

Maybe this is a weird twist of my dream, a message telling me I better watch for warning signs back at the Nutter house.
Divorced parents … it’s like my very worst nightmare. Like the world cracking underneath me.

I head to my turquoise and green room, close the door and lock it. Falling on the bed, I dig out the American Express and flip it around just the way Jim Monroe did.

Then I stop and read the name.

Ayla Anne Monroe
.

My middle name is Anne. Taking some bizarre comfort in that, I turn over, curl my arms around one of the pillows, and close my eyes.

When I wake up from this, I’ll be back on Rolling Rock Road. I’ll be Annie Nutter again, awake, alive, and without my own Sky’s-the-Limit AmEx, conniving dad, and miserable mom.

It’s been fun, but I’m kind of looking forward to being home.

“Meeees Ayla!”
Thump. Thump. Thump
.

What is that sound?

“You will be late for school! Get up, Miss Ayla!”

No. This is not possible. I slide under the comforter, blocking out all light, but not all sound.

Thump. Thumpthumpthump
.

Jeez, she could lead the drum line in band.

“Get up now, Miss Ayla!” The doorknob jiggles furiously. “Mr. Trent is almost ready to leave.”

Oh, my God.
Nothing
has changed. Not the room, not my clothes, not the maid screaming at the door. I am still Ayla Monroe. And I have got to figure out why. Or
how
. Or … how long it’s going to last. I have to figure out something, or I’m going to lose my mind.

“I’m sick,” I call out in a groggy morning voice.

Stumbling out of bed, I find my footing—my still-purple-with-crystalline-teardrop footing—and get to the door.

“What is the matter, Miss Ayla?” There’s no sympathy in the question. Just a lot of disbelief because Ayla probably lies on a regular basis and no doubt is a lot better at it than
this
Ayla is.

“Stomach,” I say, adding a dramatic moan. “My … my … monthly visitor.” I cringe as I channel one of my mom’s most pathetic expressions, and hope it works.

“Miss Ay—”

“You are
not
skipping school.”

Mom! I fiddle with the lock and whip the door open to face my mother, who somehow manages to look pretty darn put together this early. Full makeup, hair styled, top-of-the-line clothes.

“I need to talk to you, Mom,” I plead, looking past Loras, who’s waiting to dive into the room, basket at the ready. “I have to ask you something. Privately.”

For a minute Mom softens, and I see a flicker of the woman I know in her eyes as she looks at me. That caring look, the one she has when she strokes my hair even though she knows I hate to have my hair touched.

“Are you okay?” she asks, the first real glimmer of concern I’ve seen since I arrived here.

“Actually, no. I’m not.”

She studies me for a moment, her expression unsure. “I have to say … you don’t seem like yourself.”

“You have no idea.” I grab her wrist to pull her in, my decision made. I’m going to tell her everything. She’s
my
mom
. She has to believe me. I’ve never lied to her in my life.

Not in my other life, at least. And, of course, I can’t speak for Ayla, who seems to have a less than stellar track record for things like that.

“Come in here and talk to me.”

“Into your room? Since when?”

“Since … since this new me. I’m a new me,” I insist. Because I
am
. And I’m going to tell her. “I need to tell you something. I need to
ask
you something.” Like who the heck am I and how did I get here?

She still doesn’t move. “What’s wrong, Ayla?”

“Nothing’s wrong, technically.” Because I kind of like this life. But it’s not mine. “It’s … complicated. Please.”

“Go, Emily.” Jim Monroe’s voice startles me from around the corner, followed one second later by his stern expression. “Your daughter is reaching out for you, and you’re standing there like the ice queen we all know you are.”

Her eyes narrow at him. “Don’t tell me you slept in your own bed for a change.”

He ignores the comment and waves toward me. “Go talk to her. She needs you. It’s obvious. She’s calling out for help, and you are her mother. Talk to her.”

I feel viselike pressure on my temples, a feeling I’ve never had before but somehow I know is familiar. Like both of these people have a hand on my head and they’re squeezing until my skull cracks.

Mom shifts a frosty look my way. “I can’t. I’m late for a meeting.”

A meeting? With her lawyer? Behind her, over her
shoulder, I catch Jim’s glance, and I don’t mean to, but somehow I feel like we’re communicating silently. And by the way Mom closes her eyes, I can tell she thinks so, too.

But Jim notches a brow and nods at me. He likes this approach; he thinks I’m holding up my end of the bargain. I’m not, but there’s no way to explain that to either of them.

“Get dressed and go to school, Ayla,” Mom says, stepping away. “Your theatrics won’t work with me. Save them for your dad.”

“Mom, seriously, please.” I am so not going to school until I get some answers. “I can’t go to school.”

“You’re not sick,” she says.

“I … didn’t do my homework.”

She almost smiles. “You’ll figure it out.”

“No, I had this paper. For English lit, and, Mom, I cannot go to school without writing it. I just need to miss first period. Then, maybe …”

Jim clears his throat. Subtle he’s not. “Let her do her homework, Emily, and then you can drive her in an hour late. Would that work, Ayla?”

“Um, yeah. That’d be a start.”

“It’s settled, then.” Jim pivots and heads back down the hall.

For a minute, Mom fights for composure she doesn’t really have, then she strides toward the steps without a word. Loras just stands there, unsure what to do next.

I start to close my door, but don’t want to slam it in her face. “I have homework to do, Loras. Can you come back later? Please?”

She raises her eyebrows.

“Tillie is right,” she says in a hushed whisper. “You are a witch.”

“I think she meant bitch.”

Loras shakes her head. “She meant witch. Go do your work, Miss Ayla. I’ll come back later.”

Oh, great, so now the help thinks I’m a witch. Well, whatever. I have to find out what I am before I can set anyone else straight. So the minute I’m alone, I lock the door and head to the computer.

I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for, though. Can you Google “woke up and I’m a different person”?

Like I’m on autopilot, I log on to Facebook and type my email as my user name and
theoisabrat
for my password.

No such account exists.

Goose bumps cascade up my spine. Why wouldn’t Annie Nutter have a Facebook page? I mean, even if … I’m
here
? Wherever I am.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, and I realize there’s a lump growing in my throat.

If Annie Nutter doesn’t have a Facebook page, does she even exist?

Very slowly I type
Ay
and an email address pops into the box, giving me hope that I can get onto Ayla’s page easily and navigate from there. But the hope is dashed when the password box stays blank. Dang. How will I ever know her password?

I try
trentisatool
, but it doesn’t work. Because Ayla isn’t Annie and she doesn’t think like I do. How does she think? I
close my eyes and channel my inner Ayla. She loves clothes, makeup, shoes, and … Ryder.

I type
Rydersgirl
.

Access denied.

Ryderswoman. Ryderschick. Rydersbabe
. Nothing. The goose bumps have turned to a fine sheen of sweat, and I know I’m going to have to give up this attempt soon. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and just let my fingers move the way they always do when logging in to Facebook. Without thinking.

TheAlist
.

I’m in.

I skip the news feed and profile and slide up to the search box, type
Lizzie Kauffman
into the box and then click on my best friend’s name and the group picture I instantly recognize from last summer.

I’m in that picture, I know it! I can’t read her page, of course—we’re not friends—but I click on her profile picture to enlarge it. There were five of us, inseparable that day at Lake Erie. Sarah, Mia, Jessica, Lizzie, and …

I’m not in that picture, though. I squint at the girl standing where I remember I was, a dishwater blonde with angular features that are kind of familiar, but I can’t quite place her.

Why isn’t that me?

“I remember that picture,” I whine under my breath. “Why am I not in it?” We were by the canoes, wet and screaming and happy and … Who is that girl?

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. “That’s Nickel-ass.” What is Courtney Nicholas doing in my place?

I remember I had one hand on Lizzie’s shoulder, and the
other was giving a thumbs-up to Lizzie’s mom, who’d taken the bunch of us to the lake that day. Courtney isn’t giving anyone the thumbs-up, but it’s definitely her. On a really bad hair day.

The lump in my throat is bigger, closing things up and forcing tears to my eyes.

“Where am I?” The question is a croak now, and I feel the first tear meander down my cheek, when I blink and realize that the answer is obvious.

I’m here. In this house. In this family. In this world I don’t know but somehow seem to understand. Before I leave Facebook, I hit the friend request and send it to Lizzie.

Maybe …

But she never accepts people she doesn’t know.

I Google a few things—including Courtney Nicholas, but she doesn’t have a Facebook page—and even try digging up my dad’s RadioShack location, but his name isn’t listed as an employee. I try Mom’s real estate website. No such URL. Even Theo Nutter doesn’t show up on Facebook.

It’s like we never existed.

I return to Ayla’s page, and there I am. Dozens of pictures. Backstage at a concert, on a yacht, toasting champagne glasses with Jade and Bliss, a link to a video called “My Slammin’ Sweet Sixteen Party at Edge in SoBe.”

Ayla had her sweet sixteen at a nightclub in South Beach? I had mine at the Moose Lodge in Lawrenceville because my dad had a customer who belonged and we got it for a discount.

So why am I complaining? This glorious, glamorous life is so much better.

I click on the video and watch as my face comes into focus. There’s loud music—a live band. Holy God, it’s Never Shout Never. Christofer Drew played at my party?

The camera is jumpy, but I can see I’m in a sparkly pink minidress, and I look like I’m about to walk the red carpet at the People’s Choice Awards. Mesmerized, I turn the sound up.

“So what day is it, Ayla?” It’s Jimbo’s voice, so he must be working the video cam.