Switched (13 page)

25

Have you ever been ashamed of your white socks, ashamed of your white shorts
or ashamed of your tights?

—Oxydol Detergent

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. The birds were chirping.

And Laura Melon was tucked away in a dormitory basement, doing laundry.

Over the past few weeks her desk had become a guilt magnet, housing her mother’s postcards, which arrived on an almost daily basis, care of Willa. The scenes were always different: sunset beaches, coral reefs, or the infamous “My mom went to Florida and all I got was this lousy postcard.” Laura could easily picture her mother shopping at the tourist stands, proudly selecting a different snapshot for every day. The image always caused Laura’s stomach to seize—even before she turned the card over and absorbed her mother’s neat, slanted print and cheerful message.

Laura kept them locked in the back of her desk drawer, safe and completely out of sight, but just knowing they were around was unsettling.

As if that weren’t bad enough, the top of her desk now served as a breeding ground for college viewbooks. Kenyon, Wesleyan, Smith, Middlebury, Bates—every time she turned her head a glossy new brochure seemed to appear.

Laura had accepted the first information packet—from Kenyon—graciously. Unfortunately, despite her best attempts at enthusiasm, Mr. Stade had sensed a hesitance in her voice.

“Some people don’t like Ohio,” he’d suggested, scanning her face closely for clues.

“Not me. I love Ohio. I
really
love Ohio,” she’d sworn, even though she had no opinion about the state whatsoever.

A week later Mr. Stade had handed her another pile of viewbooks. “You should be thinking of a large variety. I’m sure your parents will agree—once they get back from their trip.”

Laura had responded with as much fake excitement as she could muster. What choice did she have?

Laura had managed to dodge Mr. Stade so far, but she’d have to read the books sooner or later.

It wasn’t like she didn’t want to learn about the schools, either. She’d even reached for the books a few times but had stopped herself. She’d been through this before, last fall. The conversation with Mr. Atkins—the one she’d tried so hard to forget—kept scratching through her brain like a Brillo pad on fine china. She couldn’t apply, couldn’t risk falling in love with yet another school—another Fenwick—she could never afford. (The burden of a loan was out of the question, and if she was turned down for a scholarship she’d be crushed.) What would she do then—scour the campuses for a look-alike willing to swap lives for four years? Right.

So Laura had done her very best to avoid the brochures altogether. She studied, went to classes and meals and basically tried to stick to a business-as-usual routine. It was the original plan, after all.

Still, no matter how hard she tried, the stupid viewbooks overwhelmed her tiny room, swallowing everything in it—including her. And now they were tormenting her. They knew who she was, that she didn’t belong.

The stupid information packets were driving her crazy.

And just when Laura was sure things couldn’t get any weirder, a third, equally bizarre problem had her running straight down to the laundry room.

She’d been accosted by Jenna Palmer.

Laura had been on her way to class when the dorm advisor had popped up out of nowhere.

“Hey, you.” Jenna wore her usual uniform: overalls, bare feet. She flashed Laura the peace sign. “Listen, Willa. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”

“No, not really. I have English lit.”

“Great, great. This’ll only take a second.” Jenna swept Laura into the student lounge and sat cross-legged on the far edge of a sofa cushion. “So listen, Willa, what’s happening?” she said. “We never talk. Why is that?”

Laura shrugged.
Because you say things like ‘we never talk.’

“Listen, I wanted to speak with you because, well, to be honest, I’m just a little concerned about your lack of involvement so far this year.”

Laura blinked. “Huh?” Inside, her mind tripped into full panic mode. Had Jenna spoken with Mr. Stade? Was this about the whole college thing? Maybe she’d run into him at some faculty meeting? Had she called the Pogues? And what was
wrong
with the teachers at Fenwick? Didn’t they have lives of their own?

“You’ve been here, what, almost six weeks? And you haven’t gone to one dorm function or meeting—and we’ve had several since the term started,” Jenna explained. “It wouldn’t bother me except that I don’t ever see you leave your room or socialize—not with anyone on your floor or anyone period. You seem very isolated.”

“Um, I’m not sure what you mean,” Laura said, speaking slowly. “I go to all my classes.”

Jenna blew out a long, low sigh. “Willa, school—especially a place like Fenwick—is so much more than just class and studying,” she said, clearly disheartened by Laura’s profound ignorance. “There are clubs, teams, fund-raisers. You get so much from just going down to the student center on a Friday night and bonding with your classmates.” Jenna’s forehead puckered with concern. “I know you’ve had some trouble in the past and you’re under a lot of pressure. But you need to get out more. School can’t just be about the work. The pressure will get to you.”

“I guess I just got a little too carried away,” Laura said, trying hard to sound earnest. “You know, a little too stressed. I promise to make more of an effort.” She’d have to be sure to take more walks in the future or something—anything to show the dorm advisor she was “circulating.”

Jenna placed her palm over her chest. “So glad to hear that, Willa. You’ve got to put yourself out there like you really want to
be
out there.” Then, as if suddenly remembering that she was a hippie, Jenna cleared her throat and added, “It totally brings me down to have to have these talks, you know, but I thought it was important. People really do pick up on negative energy—don’t you think?”

And so here she was. Laura lugged her duffel bag and economy-sized bottle of detergent toward the dark, moist basement and sighed. It certainly wasn’t the most picturesque spot on campus, but after the viewbooks and Jenna Palmer, it felt like heaven. Doing laundry was the perfect way to take a little breather, stop time for a bit. She needed to get out of her room and clear her head, but the campus really wasn’t the place to do that. She’d just end up searching for—

“Hey, Willa.”

Caleb was there, standing over a row of washing machines. A strange lightness spread over Laura, like her laundry bag had become a helium balloon.

Of all places to see him.
He always caught her by surprise.

“Hi,” she said, pushing her bag into the room. “It’s, uh, nice to see you.” She was dying to ask him why he was in her laundry room instead of his own, but she couldn’t think of a way to ask that didn’t sound rude.

“Almost all the machines in my dorm are broken,” Caleb explained as if he’d just read her mind. “And the ones that do work are being used.” He hoisted an overstuffed bag onto a closed machine and grimaced. “I was gonna wait, but it’s getting kind of desperate.”

Laura did a quick mental rundown of her appearance and tried not to cringe. She was wearing sweatpants and the same shirt she’d slept in and hadn’t brushed her hair.

It’s not my fault,
she thought defensively.
He’s not supposed to be here.

Okay, so she wasn’t looking her best. That was probably a good thing. She wasn’t, after all, here to flirt with him.

And then there was the Courtney issue.

At the mere thought of Caleb’s girlfriend, Laura scanned the room. She half expected the tiny, surfaced girl to pop up from behind a washer-dryer, firing a bleach-filled squirt gun.

But the room was empty. She and Caleb were alone.

A thrill. She definitely felt a thrill. But there was an aftertaste of guilt.

She could say she’d forgotten something in her room, then not come back. She could say she had to make a phone call. She could—

Caleb leaned over and picked up her bag, dropping it on the machine next to his. The clean, soapy smell of his hair filled her head.

“Relax,” he said. “Stay awhile.”

She could, Laura realized, also do her laundry and stop reading so much into every tiny thing. She
had
promised her dorm advisor that she’d make an effort to be more social.

Laura opened her laundry bag and peered inside.
Ugh.
She wondered if there was any way she could get her laundry done and talk to Caleb yet simultaneously shield his eyes from the sight of her dirty clothes—especially her underwear.

Admittedly, it was a tall order.

Oh, get over it,
she thought, grabbing a handful of clothes.
He’s definitely seen worse.

“Thanks,” she said as she separated her whites and darks. “I was going a little stir-crazy in my room.”

“I warned you, right? The workload is tough.” Caleb slid his bag over so she’d have more room. “I thought I’d have it easy, being a senior, but so far no such luck.” He tossed some clothes into the washer, then turned to her. “But you like it here, right?”

“I really do,” she said. Then, thinking of the viewbooks piled high on her desk and her conversation with Jenna Palmer, she added: “It’s, uh, a little stressful, but I’m really happy.”

Laura shifted her weight. Caleb’s expression had changed and it caught her off guard. His eyes were suddenly intense, bright and alert. He was studying her.

Her heart started to pound.

“You know,” he said slowly, “you really don’t have to do that.”

Laura followed his gaze. Her hands, programmed for laundry, had somehow worked their way across machines, to Caleb’s pile. While she was talking, she’d been treating a nasty grass stain on his soccer shorts (Spray ’n Wash stain stick, then wash warm).

“Oh, I’m really sorry!” she said, releasing the shorts as if they’d bitten her. “I, uh, I guess I’m sort of a neat freak.”

Caleb laughed. “I wish I had that problem.” He cleared his throat and looked up. “Oh, hey, have you started studying for Stade’s class?”

Laura shook her head. Their history class was in a mini-uproar over their first test, which was next Friday. “I was going to start this week.”

“I was thinking maybe we could study together.” He grinned. “I mean, that’s assuming I can get my whites as white as yours. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you or anything.”

Laura laughed, but inside her head the alarm bells were already sounding. An accidental meeting in the laundry room was one thing. Making plans was another.

I have to say no,
she thought. She had to thank him but insist that she
always
studied alone. Or something. It wouldn’t be hard:
No thanks. No thanks. Maybe another time.

Laura opened her mouth and, in a voice she’d never in a million years have recognized as her own, said, “Sounds great. What are you doing later?”

26

Exercise is unquestionably one of the very best means for the preservation of health; but its real importance is unknown, or but too lightly considered by the majority of females.
—The Lady’s Guide to Perfect Gentility

Emily Thornwell

Angie barged into Willa’s room early Sunday morning.

“Rise and shine, Professor!” she shouted. “I got a surprise for you!”

Willa yawned. “What is it?” she said.

Angie beamed. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Now, we got to be on the road in forty minutes, so get up. I’m cooking light—bagels and cream cheese.”

Willa sat up. “What’s the surprise for?”

Angie shrugged. “Remember when you had that rough week a while back? Well, that’s when I thought this up. Now come on—get moving. You really don’t want to be late. We’re taking Yellow Thunder out today.”

Willa hopped out of bed. This really was big. Angie’s car had recently suffered some sort of meltdown and ever since, she’d been driving it only on special occasions.

The question was: Would Angie and Willa’s definition of “special occasion” match?

Willa frowned as she grabbed a clean towel from the linen closet and headed to the bathroom. It didn’t matter, she decided. Whatever activity Angie chose for them today, she would be gracious. She would force herself to have fun. Because Angie was sweet. And she’d planned the whole day for her.

Less than two hours later, as Angie parked Yellow Thunder outside the Thompson Speedway, Willa’s confidence faltered.

“NASCAR?” Willa asked, incredulous. “We’re going to a NASCAR race?”

“Not just any race,” Angie declared proudly. “
The Super Dirt Series—Dodge 500.
Tickets are in the glove compartment.”

Willa forced her lips into a smile. “Wow. Uh, thanks, Angie. That’s fantastic. I’ve never been to—”

Angie snorted. “Course you haven’t, Professor! That’s why I knew you had to come. You’re gonna
love
it. Wait’ll you see the speed—it’s amazing. C’mon, let’s go inside. I’ll explain everything, but it’s real easy to follow.” Her eyes widened. “Ah, there he is!” She pointed across the parking lot. Glenn was leaning against his car, but when he saw them, he waved.

“He got here early, to try and get another ticket in our row,” Angie explained. Her wide forehead wrinkled. “He might not have been able to—most years the Dirt Series sells out way early.”

Willa unfastened her seat belt and trailed after Angie. “You know, you didn’t have to take me. I mean, I’m sure it would’ve been more fun for you guys to take someone who really knows about racing.”

Angie grinned as they walked toward Glenn. “We wanted to take you. You needed this.” She opened her arms wide as the raceway came into view. “Besides, how can you not love this? It cheers you up instantly, doesn’t it?”

Willa knew she was being a baby, but she actually felt a little sorry for herself. She couldn’t help it. Two days off a week, that was all she got. And now she was wasting one of them at the track, like a bookie. No, it was worse than that. At least bookies made money on stuff like this.

Sports bored Willa. She could never keep the rules straight and she never cared if her team lost or won. All her life, gym teachers were constantly screaming at her, furious that she’d “traveled” in a basketball game or “used her hands” during soccer practice. She never understood what the big deal was. Everyone loved to travel. Hands were pretty cool too.

After years of athletic misery, she failed to see how this experience was going to turn her into a superjock. To top it off, Willa had that attention-span problem—as in, she had no attention span.

The situation was hopeless.

How long does one of these things last?
she wondered.

Glenn was smiling broadly. He held up his ticket. “Nice, right?”

Angie let out a loud whoop as they moved through the tailgaters. “It’s, like, right next to us. How’d you swing that?”

He laughed. “Luck, I guess.” He looked at Willa. “So, are you psyched for your first NASCAR experience?”

“It’s pretty fantastic so far, right?” said Angie as they pushed toward their seats.

Willa felt guilty for being such a spoiled brat. Angie and Glenn were so nice. And so enthusiastic.

“It’s excellent,” she said, trying to sound excited. “Thanks so much.”

Willa looked around. She was surprised by the variety of cars in the parking lot. She’d expected a sea of monster trucks, driven by sleazy men with slicked-back hair, wearing mesh tank tops. And there were some of those. But there were also lots of normal-looking people. And families with small kids, running eagerly toward the track, hoping for a glimpse of their favorite driver.

“Wow, they really do pack it in here,” Willa said.

“Oh, sure,” Glenn agreed matter-of-factly. “I had to get up at six to wait in line for tickets.”

Willa reminded herself to act extra enthralled once the race started.

Shoving her hands under her thighs, she tried not to fidget. She stifled a yawn but forced herself to keep her eyes glued to the track. She’d sat through so much worse—boring classes, parent and teacher lectures—she could deal with NASCAR. This really wasn’t all that bad.

“Oh, oh, good!” Angie exclaimed. “They’re starting. I’m so psyched. Professor, you’re going to love this!”

Willa held her eyes tight on the track. If she looked away she was done for.

She watched as men wearing brightly colored snowsuits defied all laws of spatial relations by folding themselves into tiny high-gloss cars. It looked kind of cool, the way the seats conformed snugly to each driver’s body, effortlessly hugging his frame.

“Gentlemen, start your engines!”
trumpeted a loud, low baritone. Willa jumped as a thunderous roar filled the speedway and the cars lurched forward. The crowd went wild.

“What’s the big thing in NASCAR?” Willa asked, more out of boredom than any genuine interest.

“Huh?” Angie was staring at the track, totally captivated.

“I mean, in football there’s the Super Bowl. In baseball there’s the World Series. What’s the big thing for NASCAR?”

“They all want the Nextel Cup,” Glenn explained. His eyes were also trained on the speedway. “Big money. Millions. Lots of endorsements and stuff, too. The usual.”

Willa had never heard of the Nextel Cup. Feeling oddly excluded, she turned back to the cars. They were definitely loud, but there was also a kind of grace to them, in the way they slipped around the circle like figure skaters on ice. She had to admit, it was kind of cool.

Red,
she thought as her fingers curled around an imaginary steering wheel.
I think I’d want a red car.

Willa liked to drive. Other than the convenience factor, though, she’d never really thought much about driving—or cars. But suddenly, that seemed strange to her. The world was, after all, car-obsessed.

What makes it go so fast?
She eyed a bright orange car with the number five stenciled on the door.
Could an ordinary car—the fancy ones maybe—drive just as fast?

“Hey,” she said. “What’s that thing in the front of the cars—below the front bumper?”

Angie squinted. “Oh, that’s the—
Come on, Stewart! Don’tcha wanna light your wheels!
—Sorry, that’s the valance. It changes your downforce.”

Willa paused. “Uh, what’s downforce?”

Angie pounded Willa’s shoulder like she was clapping out a fire. “Told you you’d love it here! It’s the best, right? Okay, let’s see, downforce is what gives you your tire grip, see? You need it to corner. But you have to be careful because too much down-force can mean too much drag. And that slows you down, right? Too much drag’s a drag.”

Angie dissolved into a fit of cackling snorts while Willa gingerly rotated her bruised arm.

“Now, this driver I like, Tony Stewart,” Angie continued. “His car’s number twenty. See it there? He’s won two championships in the last four years.”

Glenn grinned. “Don’t listen to her, Laura,” he teased. “She just likes him ’cause she thinks he’s cute.”

“That’s not true!” Angie laughed. “Okay, maybe it’s a little true. But he’s also a great driver.”

Willa pointed at the track. “But he’s way in the back.”

“Nah. Don’t let that fool you. They do five hundred laps. I was just joking around before. It’s the time that counts. It’s too early to tell.”

Five hundred laps? Willa turned back to the track as the cars zoomed off the course into tiny stalls. Good thing they were going so fast.

“What’s going on now?”

“Those are pit stalls.” Angie pointed to the uniformed figures zipping up and down the cars. “When the driver takes a car in for a pit stop, he drives in there so his crew can do some adjustments. You know, change the tires or whatever.”

Willa watched as the crews ran up and down the cars, zipping back and forth. It was amazing how synchronized their movements were. From far away, they almost looked like they were dancing.

She stared, mesmerized, until every car drove back out onto the track.

“What do the flags mean?” she asked, craning her neck forward.

“Oh, well, it’s pretty much like regular traffic lights, really. Green is go, yellow is slow down and hold your position behind the pace car . . .”

Willa listened, her eyes glued to the multicolored cars zipping around the course. She kept waiting for her body to betray her: for her legs to squirm, her mind to wander, her stomach to issue its trademark snarl.

But the only thing that moved was Willa’s pulse, which was suddenly in competition with the speeding cars below. It sprinted to new levels, leaving MySpace and Lubé Special behind. This was something completely singular, an excitement Willa owned completely. It left her red-faced and breathless, like she herself was racing five hundred laps.

She didn’t mind, though. She embraced the heat. She reveled in the sweat.

Because for the first time in her life, Willa Pogue was interested in something.

And for Willa, something was no small thing.