Switched (8 page)

I'll act crazy, I decided. I'll act out of control. I'll raise the knife. I'll scream at him. I'll
make
him tell me where Lucy went.

When Kent has told me what I need to know, I'll apologize, I told myself. I'll ask for his help. I'll confess how eager I am to get my body back.

He'll understand. He'll help me. I know he will.

The music blared louder as I made my way along the front hallway.

I raised the knife and stepped into the den. “Kent? It's me. Nicole. I have to talk—”

I lowered the knife to my side as I stared down at the gruesome sight on the den floor.

Kent's body lay on its back on the tile floor, arms and legs outstretched.

His head had been sliced off.

Puddles of bright red blood had streamed from the neck.

The head stood upright a few feet from the body, propped against the leather couch.

The mouth was frozen open in a wide O of horror. The blue eyes stared lifelessly up at me.

T
he room started to spin.

I dropped onto the floor. Into a sitting position. I shut my eyes.

When I opened them a few moments later, Kent's blue eyes still stared at me. As I stared in horror, one eyelid slowly drooped, drooped until it closed, leaving Kent's face with a hideous wink.

I swallowed hard, forcing down my nausea.

I shut my eyes. Blinked several times. Hoping, praying that when I looked back, the head would have disappeared. Would have returned to Kent's body.

Sobbing, I raised myself to my knees. “Kent . . .” I murmured his name.

The head had been sliced off. A jagged line across the throat.

The body stretched out calmly over the floor, as if taking a nap. The head stared blankly at its own body.

First the Kramers. And now Kent.

Had Lucy murdered them all?

It made no sense. No sense at all.

Without realizing it, I had climbed to my feet.

I turned away from Kent's headless body. I gazed at the window.

“Oh!” I cried out when I saw the two faces on the other side of the glass. The two grim faces of the gray-suited police officers.

They stared in at me. Stared at the headless corpse on the bloodied den floor. Stared at the kitchen knife still clutched tightly in my hand.

T
he two faces vanished from the window.

I let the knife fall from my hand. It clattered onto the floor, landing beside Kent's outstretched arm.

They saw me, I realized.

They saw me standing over Kent, holding the knife.

As I backed out of the den, my entire body trembling, I heard the front door click open.

“Don't move!”
one of them shouted.

“Nicole. Stay right there.”

They knew my name. They knew it was me. Not Lucy.

“But Lucy murdered them all!”
I wanted to shout.
“You don't want me! You want Lucy!”

But I was too terrified to make a sound.

“Don't move.”
The police officer repeated his instruction.

I turned and bolted to the back door.

I reached the kitchen in time to see the other officer step into the kitchen doorway. “Nicole—don't run away,” he said softly. He lowered both hands to his sides. Did he have a gun? Was he about to raise it?

“Nicole—where are you?” His partner's voice from the front.

“No!” I cried, spinning out of the kitchen. Into the narrow back hall. Down the basement stairs two at a time.

I knew this house. I had spent many happy hours at Kent's parties. I knew I could get away. If I was fast enough.

Their shoes clambered heavily down the wooden stairs.

But I was already across the basement. Through the narrow passageway that led to the furnace room.

I heard a crash behind me. Heard one of them utter a shouted curse.

He must have banged his knee or run into something, I figured.

Breathing hard, I plunged into the old coal room. The floor still black and dust-covered from the days when coal was stored here to stoke the furnace.

Up the old coal chute, my sneakers slipping and sliding. I knew the double wooden doors at the top
were never locked. With a great heave, I shoved open the doors with both hands.

Cool night air rushed in at me.

I scrabbled out. Scraped my knee on the doorframe. Ignoring the pain that shot up and down my leg, I took a deep breath and gazed around the dark backyard.

Could I make it to my car in front on the street?

Probably not. They'd catch me before I could get inside and start it up.

I turned and began to run.

I was fleeing across the backyard. Climbing over the fence at the back.

Running. Running through dark backyards. Keeping low. Keeping hidden as much as possible.

A trembling, frightened figure fleeing through the darkness.

But where could I go? Where could I hide?

I
leaned my back against the wall and struggled to catch my breath.

There was no one following me. I was sure of that. I would have heard them in these silent woods.

I had run all the way to Fear Street. Run blindly, the world a blur, through backyards and alleys, across empty streets, past familiar houses that now seemed strange and unfriendly.

The whole world appeared unfriendly to me now. Worse than that. Threatening.

And so I didn't even hesitate when I reached the Fear Street woods. I ignored the stories I had heard
since childhood, the horrifying legends of the street and these woods. Those stories held no fear for me now.

What could be more frightening than my own life?

I plunged into the tangle of trees and shrubs and twining undergrowth. Listening. Listening as I ran for the sounds of my pursuers. The two grim-faced men who wanted to capture me and bring me back—to arrest me for murders only my body committed.

My body. And my friend Lucy.

My best friend.

Somehow I had found the wall. The Changing Wall. The ugly stone structure that had started my troubles.

As it rose up before me in the darkness, I felt my strength ebb away. I knew I couldn't run any farther.

I dropped down, gasping and panting, in front of the wall. I rested against it, closing my eyes, waiting for my breathing to slow, for my pulse to stop pounding.

Waiting . . . and thinking.

About Lucy. My best friend.

Trying to make sense of this.

I pictured her in her room at night, planning this, plotting it. Plotting to kill her mom and dad. And Kent. Figuring out how she could escape her ugly crimes.

Why, Lucy?

I knew she had been having trouble with her parents. I knew she thought they were too strict. I knew the Kramers didn't want her to get so serious
about Kent. They liked Kent. They just thought that Lucy and him had become too serious too fast.

And so Lucy had fought and argued with her parents.

But who didn't?

That's what parents and high school students did. It was a normal part of life. Not a happy part of life, but a normal one.

So, why? Why did she choose to murder them both?

And why did she murder Kent? Kent, who cared for her more than anyone in the world. Kent, who had always been so wonderful, so kind and understanding. So much fun.

Kent. Kent.

I kept repeating his name in my mind. Picturing him alive.

I didn't want to picture him as I had seen him tonight in the den. I didn't want to see his outstretched body, and across the room, his openmouthed, winking head.

I wanted to see him moving across the room with that sturdy, athletic walk of his, that confident smile, the flashing blue eyes. I wanted to see his blond hair ruffling in the wind as the three of us tossed a Frisbee around during one of our picnics in Shadyside Park.

I wanted to hear his voice. Hear his high, happy laugh.

Never again, I told myself, forcing back the sobs. I pressed the back of my head against the cool stone wall, picturing Kent alive and happy.

Picturing Lucy. In her own body. Not in mine. Not in the body she stole from me to commit her gruesome crimes.

Why, Lucy?

I had always been such a good friend to her. Even when she was mean to me. Even when she acted superior because she had a boyfriend and I didn't. I ignored that side of her. I ignored the part of her that could sometimes be stuck-up and cold.

Because I was her friend. Because I wanted to be there when she needed me.

And when Lucy had the car accident, I was at the hospital every day. I was her only friend who came every day without fail. Her only friend who stuck with her, who never gave up hope.

Even when the doctors had given up, I didn't budge. I knew Lucy would pull through. I never lost hope, never lost my faith in her.

And sure enough, she did pull through.

Lucy was okay, and I was there when we all learned she'd be okay.

I was there. I was always there for you, Lucy.

So where are you now?

Where are you now with my body?

Lost in my troubled thoughts, I struggled to puzzle out what had happened to me on this, the longest day of my life. I shut my eyes. I suddenly felt exhausted.

I hadn't eaten since lunch. My stomach growled, but I didn't feel hungry.

I gazed down at my clothes. Lucy's clothes. The tights torn and stained. The short skirt twisted.

My hand went to the pack around my waist. My wallet. I had my wallet in the pack.

Shaking my head, I pulled it out. Was it my wallet or Lucy's?

I held it up and examined it in the narrow shaft of moonlight that filtered down between the trees.

My wallet.

I unzipped it. I don't know why. What did I hope to find?

I slapped at a mosquito on my arm. The wallet dropped to the ground. As I reached down for it, I had an idea.

A desperate idea. A crazy idea.

But if it worked . . .

I dug feverishly into the wallet. It was so hard to see. And my fingers were trembling with excitement.

A few seconds later I found it and plucked it out. An old class photo of Lucy.

I tucked everything back into my wallet, zipped it, and shoved the wallet back into the pack. Then I raised the little photo close to examine it in the dim light.

It was a funny photo. Lucy always hated it.

She had her blond hair pulled straight back. But a thick strand had come loose and stood out at the side of her forehead.

The photographer's light reflected in Lucy's eyes, making them appear to sparkle. But her smile was
crooked. And she had a tiny smudge on her chin which looked like a pimple.

Lucy hated the photo so much, she wouldn't give them out to her friends. But she gave me one—on the condition that I put it away and never showed it to anyone.

And now, examining the photo, I climbed to my feet. I ignored my aching muscles and hauled myself onto the wall.

“Whoa!” I struggled to keep my balance. The top of the wall was so narrow and uneven.

This has to work!
I told myself.

My crazy scheme. My frantic idea.

To hold Lucy's photo in one hand. And jump to the other side of the wall.

Maybe—just maybe—the magic will work for a photograph. And our bodies will switch back. And I will be Nicole again.

Maybe . . . maybe . . .

Please work! I prayed.

I grasped the photo of Lucy tightly in my right hand. Held the hand out to my side as if I were holding hands once again with Lucy.

And then I jumped off the wall.