Switched (12 page)

23

No messes too mean!

—Brillo

“Oh, honey, you should see me! I look like a beach bum! I’ve got the tan, the floppy hat, the flip-flops. You wouldn’t recognize your own mother!”

As her mom’s voice filtered through the phone in loud, staccato bursts, Laura leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “It sounds amazing. I’m so glad you’re having a great time.”

“I am, sweetie. I really am. And I’m just so proud of you, holding down the business like you are. You’re the reason I was able to do this.”

Laura swallowed. She’d dreaded this first conversation with her mother. Alone, walking around campus, Laura could push herself into the fantasy. Some days she almost believed her life here was real.

But the sound of her mother’s voice ruined everything. It made pretending impossible. She’d known it would.

“It’s nothing,” she whispered.

“It’s not nothing,” her mother insisted. “You’ve taken on so much.”

There was a pause on the other side of the phone and Laura thought she heard a sniffle.

Oh, please, don’t let her be crying,
she thought.

“I’ve been working full-time since I was fifteen years old, but you’re the best job I’ve ever done. I really mean that. I love you, honey.”

“I love you, too.” Laura covered her face with her hands. Her eyes stung.

All she wanted to do was crawl back into bed for the next twelve hours so she wouldn’t have to think about what a terrible person—and disappointing daughter—she was. But she had history and she couldn’t call attention to herself by skipping classes her first week. Willa was counting on her.

Laura grabbed her backpack and scooted out of Hub House, pausing only to toss Mrs. Pogue’s latest care package—a throw pillow shaped like a leafy green vegetable with the words
LETTUCE MAKE YOU THIN!
embroidered across the front, accompanied by a short, frosty note “from Mother” as dictated to Emory—into the garbage.

As she walked, she kept her eyes trained on her feet. She was too depressed to play the “where’s Caleb” game today.

“Willa!”

Laura twisted around as a hand jabbed her in the shoulder. Mr. Stade stood behind her, red-faced and breathless.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, coughing slightly, clearly embarrassed by his outburst. “I didn’t mean to scare you or anything. I was just calling your name for a while—didn’t you hear me?”

Great.
She really had to start being more alert. It didn’t matter what mood she was in; she couldn’t jeopardize the plan. Too much was at stake.

She shrugged. “Uh, no. Sorry. I guess I’m just tired.”

Mr. Stade fell into step beside her. “Well, you have been working overtime. I read through your proposal last night. It’s excellent, Willa. I’m very impressed.”

He was right—she
had
worked overtime. She’d started researching her first paper a few days ago and had worked incessantly for days. And if the compliment had come yesterday, she would have been elated. But after the conversation with her mother, she wasn’t sure what to do with the praise.

“Thanks,” she said, pushing an enthusiasm into her voice that she didn’t feel.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a student hand in a topic only five days into the semester.” He laughed, his eyebrows rising slightly from behind his round glasses. “The ambitious ones usually start around Columbus Day, but most leave all the work until Thanksgiving.”

Laura shrugged. She knew she was supposed to be Willa Pogue, total academic slacker, but she’d already prepared an excuse. “A year ago, I wouldn’t have bothered to write any papers at all, but I’m really trying to be organized now.”

“What inspired this sudden change? I hope you don’t mind my asking. It’s just rare to see—especially so late in a school career.”

Laura stared at her feet and forced herself to breathe. “Well, I guess I just got scared after the whole Shipley experience.”

“Well, whatever the trigger, you should be very proud of yourself.” Mr. Stade cast her a sidelong glance. “It really is hard to believe you’re the same person who attended Shipley, Willa. . . .”

Laura felt her insides twist.
Oh no.

“. . . Between this paper and the way you carry class discussions, you’re performing like an honors student.”

False alarm.
“Thanks.”

Relax,
she ordered.
And cheer up. He’s saying such nice things about a person he thinks is you.

“Junior year is when the college pressure really starts up,” Mr. Stade said as they climbed the stairs to Regan Hall. “Although I think students at a place like Fenwick feel college pressure when they start nursery school.”

“Right,” she agreed. Her stomach clenched. “It starts when you can hold a sippy cup.”

“Do you know which schools you’ll be looking at? Has your list changed at all since the sippy cup years?”

Laura had no idea how to answer. While it was true that
she’d
been obsessing about college, Willa had never even mentioned her post–high school plans. She’d barely talked about spring term, and that was less than six months away.

Mr. Stade’s brow furrowed expectantly.

Laura sighed. It was just as well that she didn’t know where Willa intended to apply. Because right now, Laura wouldn’t have been able to sell it. She was sick of lying. The conversation with her mother still echoed in her head and, for now, she simply didn’t want to add to her guilt. She would tell the truth. It was no big deal.

“UConn,” she said simply. “Main campus.”

Mr. Stade gave her a look filled with pity. “UConn is a good school,” he said carefully. “I’m just a little surprised that you’re not applying anywhere else. Maybe stretching just a bit.”

Laura felt like kicking herself.

So much for telling the truth,
she thought.
That’s so not happening again.

Laura’s mind raced. This wasn’t hopeless.
Just think.

“Well, I did just get my act together,” she said, pushing out a laugh. “I mean, you should see my transcript. It’s about as pleasant as a stroll through a minefield.”

“I know you’ve had a rough couple of years,” he said. “But you could always apply and see what happens. Schools really do like to see an improvement, and you’ve done a real one-eighty, you know. If you’re worried about recommendations, you can always come to me.”

“Thanks,” said Laura, shifting her weight from side to side. “That’s, um, amazing of you.”

She glanced toward Regan Hall longingly.
Now can we please go to class and talk about the McKinley assassination in peace?
she thought.
Please?

“I have a friend at Kenyon,” Mr. Stade said as he pulled open the door. “It’s an excellent school.”

Laura had never even heard of Kenyon.

“I really need to talk things over with my parents,” she said. She tried to push the right amount of doubt into her voice without sounding rude. “We, uh, haven’t really had a chance to talk much. They’ve been a little unhappy with me—with my grades.”

They were at Mr. Stade’s desk now, watching the other students pour in around them. A few lined up behind her to speak with Mr. Stade before the bell rang.

“Well, I’m happy to help if I can.”

Laura slid into a chair. Willa would
kill
her if she applied anywhere for her. That was definitely
not
part of the plan.

“Hey, Willa. Have you gotten your PhD yet?” Caleb dropped his long, lean body into the chair next to her and swiped his hand across his face as he issued a yawn that grew into a smile.

How did he always manage to sneak up on her like that? she wondered. And how did he always manage to look so good?

Even this morning, with a severe case of bed head and two different socks, Caleb looked good. She sighed. The guy just couldn’t make himself look unattractive. It really was hopeless. Tarred and feathered, he’d still be cute. Fuzzy, but cute.

Be strong,
Laura thought.
You need to kick the Caleb Blake habit.

“I thought I’d settle for my master’s this month. How about you?”

“Nah. I’m all or nothing.” His cheeks had color today, she noticed. He’d probably been outside, playing Frisbee or something. Or had he been with Courtney?

Stop.
She couldn’t let her mind wander this way.
Don’t go down that path. Just stop.

This is history class,
Laura said to herself.
That’s my mantra. This is history class. Just do your work.

The bell rang and Mr. Stade led the class into their discussion of Leon Czolgosz, the anarchist who shot President McKinley.

Laura breathed a sigh of relief. She was home free.

The problem was, history class lasted only fifty minutes. At which point, Laura returned to her semi—okay, fully—obsessed state and Caleb returned to Courtney, whose impatient little body greeted him in the hallway after
every
class.

As the bell signaled the end of the period, Caleb stood over Laura, smiling.

“Hey, what are you up to now? Do you have class?”

“Uh, no,” Laura said, eyeing the doorway, half expecting Courtney Wilton to come barreling through blasting an Uzi, maybe two. “I have a free.”

Caleb dropped his bag over his shoulder so that the strap cut across his body on a diagonal. “Me too. Want to get some food?”

Laura’s toes curled.
I shouldn’t do this,
she thought.

One meal. A snack. Was a snack really breaking the rules?

“I—”

“Willa, can I talk to you for a minute? I have some comments on your outline.”

Laura knew she should either thank Mr. Stade or kill him, but she settled for a tiny nod instead. She turned back to Caleb.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Another time.” As he started to move off, something inside her crashed.

Stay,
she begged. The word flashed through her head in bold neon.
Please stay.

As if on cue, Caleb stopped and turned. “I, uh, well—I’ve been meaning to check in with you for a while. You know, see how you’re liking it here and everything.”

Laura laughed. “Your mom’s been bugging you again, right?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing like that,” he said. “This time it was my idea. Listen, I’ll let you talk to Stade, okay?”

Laura watched him walk away. And as she trudged up to the desk, she knew, beyond a reasonable doubt, that she definitely wanted to kill her history teacher.

24

Agreeable manners are very frequently the fruits of a good heart, and then they will surely please, even though they may lack somewhat of graceful, courtly polish.
—A Manual of Etiquette, with Hints on Politeness and Good Breeding

Daisy Eyebright

Willa answered the wail of her alarm clock with a long, low groan. Another day. Another dirty house. More bizarre secrets to unearth.

She grabbed her phone off the bedside table.

Willa shoved the phone under her pillow and pulled the covers over her head. “I can’t do it,” she moaned loudly. “I just can’t.”

Angie’s large frame appeared in the doorway. She was already dressed for work in her blue Dr. Pool jumper.

“I heard you screaming from the kitchen. You sick, Professor?”

Willa propped herself up on her elbows. “I’m okay,” she said, touched by the display of concern. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh, good. I thought maybe it was all the Jelly Bellies we ate last night.”

“No, nothing like that.” Willa paused for a few seconds, debating whether or not to continue. She and Angie had hung out a lot over the past week, but the two had never really had a serious conversation. She shrugged. “I guess I’m just a little sick of work.”

Angie clucked sympathetically. “You’ve got the hard job, Professor. It’s like I say to Dad, I don’t know how you and your mom do it. It’s what I always say.”

“You do?” Willa looked up, startled. “But you work longer hours than I do. Plus, you get all those emergency calls.”

Angie swatted at the air with an oversized hand, like Willa’s comment was a fly buzzing around her head. “That’s no big deal. My work keeps me
outside
the house. It’s once you go inside that things start getting really weird, right?”

Willa bit her lower lip.

How had Angie done it? In just a few words, she’d summed up Willa’s entire week—and the way she’d been feeling.

Willa sank back against the headboard and let a thicket of blond hair fall across her face. It was so easy to write the girl off as a clod—an overgrown townie who tucked her brain into her biceps. Willa herself had been guilty of issuing the stereotype—even before the two girls had met.

But life with Angie was definitely not the rough and bruising affair she’d anticipated. Angie had so completely surpassed these low expectations—she helped around the house, cooked and seemed to have a direct handle on Willa’s every mood—that Willa was ashamed to have even thought them in the first place.

Maybe I should come clean and tell her about the switch,
she thought.
She could handle it.

On the other hand, Angie might get angry. Her hugs were painful enough. Willa couldn’t even imagine what the girl’s reaction to bad news might be.

Besides, what if Angie told her dad? Benji would probably feel like he had to tell Laura’s mom. Then Laura would get into trouble. At the very least her mother would probably have to leave Miami. And it would be all Willa’s fault.

That settled it. No matter how guilty she felt, Willa had to stick to the plan.

She pushed her hair out of her eyes.

“That’s it, exactly,” she said. “And I have to go to work now but I’m dreading it. I can’t deal.”

“Listen, you gotta remind yourself that it’s just a job—you know? Don’t let anyone drag you down. ’Cause no matter what, those families aren’t your family. Your mom, my dad and me. We’re what’s real.”

Willa’s eyes filled with surprise tears. Angie was wrong—sweet, but wrong. Willa had no place in this reality. Her situation here was temporary—a short-term rental at best.

The Youngs were the only family on Willa’s cleaning roster whose house didn’t qualify as a mansion. They owned a redbrick split-level on one of Greenwich’s more modest streets.

For Willa, it was love at first sight.

Even though no one was home—Mr. and Mrs. Young worked full-time and their two small children attended the local elementary school—Willa decided that it was impossible for the place to ever truly be empty. It was just way too happy-looking, too alive.

Every crumb, every color, every tiny imperfection—and there were a lot—fascinated her. As she moved through the rooms, her mind soaked up each detail as thoroughly as a paper towel passing over spilled milk. She wanted it all: the goofy family photos displayed in cheap, store-bought frames; the scattered toys; and the disorganized array of kids’ artwork that hung just about everywhere—from windows, doors and walls.

A greatest hits medley of Young family moments was rapidly unfolding in her head: tickle sessions, bedtime stories, mac and cheese dinners. They were all there, as if the memories were her own.

This is what a family should look like,
she thought.

An image of Pogue Hall blew through her like a gust of wind stamping out a flame. She shivered.

Of all the homes on her roster, Pogue Hall was by far the gloomiest. Sure, she hadn’t discovered any bizarre secrets like the weirdness over at the Mortimers’ or the Watsons’. Life at Pogue Hall was dull; its closets contained no skeletons, just cleaning products and clothing.

In a way, though, that only made the place seem worse. The whole mansion—Willa’s childhood home—was simply void.

Willa glanced around the Youngs’ kitchen. Three long green lights dangled from the ceiling, casting a bright, happy glow against the pale yellow walls and white-tiled floors.

There was a note for her on the counter from Mrs. Young:

The note had been written with two different pens and was covered with crumbs. Willa imagined Mrs. Young scribbling furiously while the chaos of breakfast rose around her. She read the note three times before wiping it off and slipping it into her pocket.

Snapping on a pair of gloves, Willa grabbed a bucket. She was determined to clean this house like it had never been cleaned before. She’d get out stains. She’d sweep and mop
behind
the refrigerator and couch. She’d be the Lance Armstrong of maids.

She didn’t care that she’d never met this family before. She didn’t care that they seemed more than satisfied with the service Laura and her mother had provided up to this point. She didn’t care.

Because she was, after only one day, addicted to this house; to its smell; its overstuffed furniture; the sense of warm completion that washed over her as soon as she passed through the front door. She could handle the other houses, with all their strange little secrets, so long as she had this one.