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There was a loose photograph in the drawer as well. It was of the girl--Larissa--in front of a giant redwood, leaning against a tall, pale man who looked kind of like her. He wore a baseball cap and a heather gray T-shirt, just like the one I was wearing now. Perhaps it was the same one. She wasn't dressed in any of her glamorous clothes. Instead, she wore faded jeans and sneakers. She was smiling.

Was her father here, I wondered? Probably not. From what I saw at the snack shack, she was a nanny. Too bad: I would have liked to meet him, to find out what it was like to have a father, if only for a few hours. But--whatever. He probably wouldn't have appreciated being woken up in the middle of the night, anyway.

I pulled at the gray T-shirt, which was easily the ugliest thing she owned. Then I smiled at the flawless face in the closet mirror before switching off the light and crawling back under the fluffy white comforter. I was on the verge of falling asleep when--

"I want juice!"

My eyes popped open. Standing at face level was one of the little blond boys I'd seen at the snack shack.

"What?" I said. My voice surprised me, even though I'd heard it before. It was nasal and high, not a beautiful-girl voice at all.

"I want juice!" He had sour morning breath. Who knew kids got such a thing?

"It's too early." I gasped. "Go back to sleep."

"If you don't get my juice, I'm going to scream!" His voice was getting higher, tighter.

I sat up and glared at him. "Listen, kid. I need my beauty sleep. You have no idea. Tell you what." I squinted at the clock.
(Don't

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panic,
I told myself.
There is still plenty of time.)
"Come back in half an hour--no, let's say an hour, just to be safe--and then I'll get up and get your juice and make you eggs or pancakes or whatever, but right now I'm going back to sleep." I turned away from him, curled up in a ball, and squeezed my eyes shut. (Sleep! I had to sleep!)

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"

I flipped back over. "Stop it!" I said. "You're going to wake everybody up!"

He tilted his pointy chin. "I told you I'd scream."

I narrowed my eyes. I've dealt with some brats before, but this kid was really starting to piss me off. "I'm not getting you any stinkin' juice."

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" He closed his eyes and clenched his fists as he howled, then stopped for a moment to check my expression, which hadn't changed. He took a deep breath and pulled up his sharp little shoulders. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

"Are you going through all the vowels?" I asked when he quieted down. "The next one is I, in case you're wondering."

He looked at me, bewildered. "Where is my mommy?"

"I don't know. Sleeping?" I, too, was surprised that his mother hadn't come running to see what was wrong.

"MOMMMMEEEEEEEE!"

I was all set to remind him that we were done with the Es and it was time to move on to the Is when I noticed that his tears were real. "Don't cry," I said.

"I want Mommeeeeeee!"

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I moaned. "Okay. You win. If I get you juice, will you stop crying?" He nodded, too distraught to speak. "And will you go back to bed after that?" He nodded again.

And I was stupid enough to believe him.

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***

12

Juice Boy was Cameron . He was five. I found that out by doing a little investigative work as he finished his second glass of juice. "How old are you again?"

"You know how old I am," he whined. Cameron's voice was like a siren. "I forgot."

He scowled. "If you forgot, you're stupid."

"Oh, now I remember. You're four."

"I'm not four! Prescott is four! I'm five, and I hate you!" He jumped out of his chair and clenched his little hands into fists. His face grew red. "Mommmeeeeee! Larissa is being mean!"

This had to be the cruddiest babysitting job in Sandyland, if not in all of North America.

At least serving as Cameron's juice waitress meant I got to see more of the Ice Cube House. There were three floors in the big concrete box. Larissa and the boys slept on the bottom level,

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which backed up to the hillside on one end and led out to the lawn on the other. There appeared to be a third bedroom down there as well, but the door was closed. The downstairs was dark because the upstairs deck hung over the sliding glass door. The main floor, which had stairs going up to another level, was one big kitchen-and-living-room combo. The walls and furniture were bright white, the counters and table were stainless steel, and the floor was the same fugly gray concrete as the outside of the house. It made Beanie's sterile house look cozy in comparison. It would have been a horrible room if not for the view. The far wall was all glass, opening onto the huge deck, with sky and sea pro-viding a spectacular and ever-changing backdrop.

Six o'clock came, then six thirty. The ocean outside changed from black to silver. The inky sky turned a powdery blue. I tried to go back to bed. Cameron turned on his siren whine. Still no Mommy.

At 6:45, Prescott came stomping into the living room. He was shorter than Cameron, more solid, and meaner looking. If Cameron was Juice Boy, then Prescott was Chocolate Milk Boy. But he didn't tell me that. He just asked for (demanded) milk. Presumably the chocolate part was understood--which was why he was perfectly justified in throwing the white milk that I handed him across the room and screaming, "You're stupid! I hate you!"

It's always nice when two brothers can agree on something.

Maybe I could nap later, I thought, on my hands and knees on the cold concrete floor, cleaning up the milk with a wad of paper towels. And maybe Evelyn could nap later too. Surely Evelyn

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would cover for me. Surely--
surely
--she had gotten into my body in time.

At seven, a short, stout woman in a maid's uniform came clomping up the stairs.

"Morning, Consuela!" Cameron squealed, all sweetness and sunshine.

"How are my angels? My angels happy today, huh?"

The boys ran to her and wrapped their arms around her thick waist. "I want waffles!" Prescott snapped. "Larissa won't make them!" Prescott had never asked me to make waffles. Prescott had said he wasn't hungry yet.

"Larissa, she don't know how to cook," Consuela said, stroking Prescott's golden hair. "Larissa, she too busy looking in the mirror."

My jaw dropped. I was all set to defend myself--or, even better--to whip up the best waffles these demon children had ever tasted--when I remembered that I was not Claire, I was Larissa. And maybe Larissa deserved Consuela's contempt.

Fifteen minutes later, when Consuela put a platter of waffles on the table, I pulled out a chair to sit, and I noticed that there were only two places set. (Even the plates were white and square and ugly.) I walked over to the counter as quietly as I could, wondering where the rest of the square plates were kept. I hadn't looked for anything beyond the boys' plastic cups.

"What you want?" Consuela asked sharply.

"Just a plate. I can get it myself." I checked her eyes, hoping they'd flit to the appropriate cabinet.

"What you gonna do with a plate?" she asked.

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I thought,
Break it in half and use it to slit my wrists.
"Um, I was hoping I could, well--I'm hungry."

She blinked in astonishment. "You going to eat breakfast?"

"If it's okay."

She snorted. "Sure, it's okay. I just never seen you eat break-fast before."

Consuela's waffles weren't as good as the ones I make (I use mashed bananas), but I put away four. Switching bodies works up an appetite.

At eight o'clock, Cameron and Prescott's mother finally came down the steps from the upper level. She was shorter than Larissa but almost as skinny, her hair six shades of blond. She wore black yoga pants over a sky blue leotard.

"Mommeeeee!" Cameron shrieked, running across the floor. Prescott glanced up and then went back to jabbing his place mat with a fork.

"Hello, my darling," the mother said, bending over and opening her arms to Cameron. "Watch Mommy's makeup."

She began to straighten, but Cameron's arms remained locked around her neck. "Okay, darling, let Mommy stand up. Herbal tea, please, Consuela?" She took hold of Cameron's hand and pried it away from her neck. "Good morning, Larissa," she said.

"Good morning." I smiled carefully. Mommy's face looked sallow under her makeup, as if she hadn't slept well. I wondered what Mommy's real name was and what I was supposed to call her.

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She settled into the chair next to mine and sighed. "What a night. That bed is so uncomfortable. I'm about ready to complain to the rental company."

Ah--so they were just renting the Ice Cube House.

"Maybe Cameron's bed is uncomfortable too," I said. "He got up kind of early."

"Oh, Cameron." She rolled her eyes. "He has yet to master sleeping through the night." At that, Cameron came over and tried to climb into her lap. "Not now, my lovey," she said, batting away Cameron's scrawny limbs. "Mommy's about to have her tea and she wouldn't want to spill on you. Consuela? How's that tea coming along?"

"Almost ready, Missus Sealy."

Mrs. Sealy turned to Prescott. "How's my little Presie this morning?" she asked in a baby voice.

"I want to go to the beach," he growled, without looking up from his mutilated place mat.

"Of course you can go to the beach, Peanut," she cooed. "Larissa will take you after breakfast."

"I want to go swimming," he said, still stabbing.

"Daddy will take you in the ocean when he comes this weekend."

"I want to go swimming
now."

Mrs. Sealy sighed--actually, it sounded more like a moan-- and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she said, "You know Larissa can't take you into the ocean, Presie."

"But,
why!"

"We've been through this before." She smiled at me gently.

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"Larissa can't take you into the ocean because Larissa can't swim."

Mrs. Sealy left soon after that, carrying her herbal tea in an enormous travel cup. "I finally tracked down a yoga studio, thank God," she told me. "I've been feeling so off balance, so uncentered lately, probably just not taking good enough care of myself." She put a twenty-dollar bill on the stainless steel countertop. "This should cover lunch for you and the boys in case I don't make it back in time. And don't forget their sunscreen--at least fifteen minutes before they go outside."

She kissed the boys good-bye, grabbed her keys, and called out, "See you in a bit!"

Cameron sprinted after her. I practically had to hold him down to keep him from getting run over by her silver luxury SUV. He had tears in his eyes.

"Don't worry," I said. "Mommy will come home soon."

He blinked at me, as if he'd forgotten for a moment that I existed. "I hate you!" he said.

"How can you hate me? You hardly even know me." I was fishing.

He stared down the road until the SUV disappeared, and then he turned to me with a scowl. "I've known you for, like, a hundred years. I've known you since before I was born."

"That's not possible." Like I was one to talk about possible.

"My mom and your mom are friends! So it is too possible!" And then he started to cry. Again.

But for now, Cameron was the least of my problems. I knew

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where Larissa's body was, but what about my own? I had to go see Evelyn---or, more precisely, to see myself. I kept trying to convince myself that she'd made it up to my room in time, but I wasn't so sure--though I couldn't imagine that Larissa would have much use for my body anyway.

I settled the boys in front of a DVD and asked Consuela to keep an eye on them while I went out for a short while.

"Why? You got a date?" she asked.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, that's it. I got a smokin' hot date."

In the bedroom, I pulled out a pair of sneakers (plaid, Converse, super cute). I'd thrown on a pair of gym shorts when Cameron first got me up, so there was no real reason I couldn't go out "as is," in the baggy gray T-shirt. But why leave the house looking merely pretty when I could be spectacular?

It took me only a moment to choose between a black halter top and a little orange blouse that tied at the waist. I went with the blouse. It looked just right with Larissa's faded denim miniskirt.

I didn't bother with makeup or earrings. That would have been overkill.

I knew I was in trouble the minute I stepped into my yard. Evelyn--or a vague outline of Evelyn--was sitting on the front porch steps, smoking her cigarette. "Oh, no!" I gasped.

Evelyn looked at me blankly for a minute and then smiled when she realized who I was. "Don't start with me," she said, flicking an imaginary ash onto the grass. "Smoking is one of the few pleasures I have left."