Switched (2 page)

2

The debutante is the final result not only of carefully paired bloodlines but of schooling and coaching and, of course, selection.

—The Debutante’s Guide to Life

I was definitely switched at birth,
Willa Pogue thought as she leaned back against the sofa’s dark leather cushions, trying desperately to find a comfortable position. She was, once again, at her family’s Darien estate, sitting in her father’s study waiting for her world to finish falling apart.

It was a painfully familiar scene. Every time she disappointed or disgraced her family in some way, Willa’s
presence was requested
at Pogue Hall. Once firmly ensconced in her father’s wood-paneled study, she was then subjected to the now infamous “What it means to be a Pogue” lecture. Although Willa had heard the speech so many times she’d lost count, she knew it was the most common interaction she had with her parents.

“What’s wrong with me?” Willa asked the room. Her voice bounced off the walls, disappearing into the dark oak. She leaned her head against a velvet pillow, then straightened. Her family crest was embroidered across the front. Yanking the plush cushion onto her lap, Willa narrowed her eyes slightly as she considered the bold red and yellow shield. There was also a Latin phrase scrolled across the crest, but Willa could never remember what it meant. And after a year of studying Latin in school, she still couldn’t translate a simple sentence.

Willa sighed and shoved the pillow under her legs. She and boarding school just didn’t mix. Actually, she’d clashed with
every
school she’d ever attended. Over the years she’d been “excused” from dancing school, equestrian class, elocution lessons and Gymboree (the teacher had insisted she was making lewd gestures). She never
tried
to mess things up—she was just really good at it.

So today, after she’d been called to the headmaster’s office and handed her final report card—three big fat Fs and two incompletes—it had suddenly occurred to Willa that maybe she was simply leading the wrong life. Maybe she couldn’t “get” being a Pogue because she wasn’t actually a real Pogue after all.

Logic certainly supported her argument. As her parents lived to point out, the Pogues were known to excel. At everything. They all graduated from Shipley Academy—the esteemed institution where Willa had been floundering for the last three years—and then went on to Yale. From there, the sky was the limit! Name the field—politics, finance, academia—there was most definitely a Pogue outshining the competition at this very moment.

What Willa was never sure her parents completely understood was that the Pogues didn’t hold a patent on the hyperachievement gene. Boarding school was packed with Einsteins, Monets and Spielbergs, kids whose chief complaint was that the drudgery of class and homework got in the way of their extraordinary lives.

Willa, it seemed, was the exception to the rule. She
knew
she was mediocre. She didn’t even really mind. She just wished her parents—and everyone around her—would leave her alone about it. And she wished that the path her parents had chosen weren’t so
hard
.

One thing was certain. She was definitely
not
Yale material. She’d realized as much after flunking a fifth-grade social studies exam (when asked to fill in a map of the country, she’d left the entire Midwest blank—the Dakotas never made the six o’clock news anyway).

“I can see your grade-point average isn’t the only thing you let slide this semester.”

Willa snapped her head back up and found herself gazing into the icy eyes of Sibby Pogue. She could feel the dissection begin as her mother took a careful inventory of her hairstyle, weight and wardrobe, her gaze lingering over Willa’s ripped jeans and worn flip-flops. Willa felt her cheeks flush slightly. It was weird how she’d grown up under her mother’s harsh scrutiny but could never get used to it.

“You know,” her mother said, her mouth twisting into a thin frown, “when I was your age I was never larger than a size two. Never. All my ball gowns had to be specially ordered. Did I ever mention that?”

About a thousand times,
Willa wanted to scream.

But instead, she simply said, “Yes.”

Willa looked at her mother, sleek and polished in a mint green cotton suit. Her black hair was pulled into a neat French twist, and round diamond studs glittered in her ears. Her light makeup was, of course, perfect.

Willa ran her fingers through her thick blond hair. She wasn’t
bad
-looking—she knew that. She was nice and tall, and when people complimented her it was always about her hair or the green of her eyes.

But I certainly don’t look like a Pogue,
she thought.

She glanced down at her legs and swallowed as color crept into her cheeks and fanned out over her face and neck.

I am not fat,
she reminded herself.
Broad does not mean fat.

It was true, too. Willa knew that her weight wasn’t really all that significant. If someone were to describe her—anyone in the world besides Sibby Pogue—it would never be in terms of her size. She wore a six in the summer and an eight in the winter, and she’d noticed that lots of girls in her dorm were around the same size, give or take a few pounds. Sure, she was no feather, but she was no elephant, either. Her hips and shoulders were solid and blocky, but if it hadn’t been for her mother’s constant digs, Willa wouldn’t even have thought twice about the way she was built. Most people were even larger than she was.

But, of course, Willa was not most people. She was a Pogue. And Pogue women were ultrathin and elegant, yet strong and athletic, the sort of hostesses who could create a tasteful floral arrangement while playing mixed doubles.

Even though her mother hadn’t been born a Pogue, Sibby fit right in. Willa, however, held the dubious honor of being the first large, uncoordinated heir in a long line of graceful, rail-thin, ultrasporty Pogues.

And her mother never let her forget it.

The study door opened and Willa’s father entered the room, his brown suede loafers pounding the floor as he walked. He wore seersucker pants and a cashmere sweater that was just a few shades lighter than his hair. Willa knew her father was considered handsome—people were always telling him he looked like George Clooney—but she could never fully appreciate his looks. Not so much because he was her father as because his face was locked in a permanent scowl whenever he was with her.

Willa looked up at him. He was definitely in “deal-with-Willa” mode. His features were twisted into a tight glower and his cheeks were beet red.

“Congratulations,” he said. “This was your lowest grade-point average ever.”

Willa was actually kind of impressed that her father kept track of her GPA. She was always surprised when either of her parents knew anything about her—good or bad.

Her father glared at her, his nostrils flaring slightly. Willa shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, wondering if it would be okay to look away.

“Well, you’ve done it,” he continued. “You do know that, don’t you? Even with the family influence, Shipley doesn’t want you back, and I’m not sure it’s wise to push anymore.” He raked a hand through his hair, and Willa watched as the strands fell neatly back into place. “Frankly, you’ve exhausted just about everyone involved here, Willa.”

“I—I’m sorry,” she said. “I went to the tutors and everything. I don’t know—”

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” her father snapped, cutting her off. “This is your future. And then of course there’s the family to think of. You’re not just anyone . . .”

For just a second, Willa wondered if her father expected her to send out some sort of apology to her dead ancestors. What technology did he want her to use? E-mail? IM?

She bit her lip. Giggling now—even smiling—would be wrong. So wrong.

As her father waded further into his speech, Willa tucked her chin into her chest. From this angle, she had no choice but to study her own feet. Thoroughly.

They were filthy.

I should have changed my shoes,
she decided.
And my jeans. What was I thinking? I could’ve showered, too. I really have to—

“Well—what do you have to say for yourself?”

Willa looked up, blinking at her parents in surprise. They were both staring at her. Each face wore a different shade of disgust.

Willa shook her head. She did that a lot—space out at the worst possible moments, like during exams or in the middle of intramural field hockey. Or when her parents were lecturing her about “What it means to be a Pogue.” Her short attention span usually worked against her. In fact, Willa had a hunch it was a major player in her consistently poor academic performance. But today it had kind of come in handy. She’d heard enough stupid speeches to last several lifetimes.

The only problem was, there was a question hanging in the air and Willa had to answer it. And she had no idea what it was she was answering.

So Willa Tierney Pogue closed her eyes and inhaled sharply.

“I’m really going to apply myself at my new school because I know that’s what we Pogues do. We see a situation and we go for the gold.”

Willa waited for her parents to burst out laughing. How else could they react to her response? It was absurd. It was ludicrous.

“Good,” her father said, turning on his heel. “Because I’ve been on the phone all morning with Bryce McCrady. He’s on the board at Fenwick. It took some doing, but you’ll start there in the fall. You’ll have to repeat junior year. With your record, they wouldn’t let you start as a senior. I strongly suggest you use your time at Shipley as a learning experience and start taking academics a little more seriously, Willa.”

And then he was gone. Exit dissatisfied parent number one.

Willa stared at his retreating back. Fenwick Academy? Her head was spinning. In a single day she’d left one school and enrolled in another. She wondered how much of a donation her father had promised Bryce McCrady.

Actually, she didn’t want to know.

Willa’s mother straightened and cleared her throat. It was her show now.

“We’re having the Havendales and the Todds over for lunch this afternoon,” she said, her voice crisp and businesslike. Willa knew instantly that the “we” did not include her. “When I spoke to Bunny Todd this morning, she remembered that the Blakes have a son at Fenwick. We haven’t seen them in years, but Caleb is about your age. I was thinking he could show you around, help you meet the right people . . .”

Willa listened to her mother silently, growing increasingly depressed by the moment. She could already see the entire year spread out before her, as wide and flat as an open stretch of highway. She didn’t need a crystal ball or tarot cards. It didn’t matter that she was switching schools. The year would be the same as any other. She’d show up, filled with all kinds of resolutions and promises:
I’m going to make lots of new friends this year! Get As, lose weight, and join the lacrosse team!

And then school would start. The cliques would be impenetrable—especially for the new girl, who’d only been accepted because her father had bribed someone on the board. And—surprise, surprise—it’s really hard to become a great student after years of being a total blow-off. This Caleb kid would be awful, too. She just knew it. Years of experience supported the claim.

The burden of being a Pogue was all-encompassing: it outlined not only a specific academic behavior but a social one, too. When she was younger, Willa’s parents had rejected a number of her playdate requests for no specific reason. If she pushed, her reward was the “What it means to be a Pogue” lecture. After just a few attempts, Willa had learned to play alone or wait for her parents to extend an invitation to a more “acceptable” child.

Unfortunately, these children—always the daughters or sons of her parents’ upper-crust friends—were nightmares. Willa still had the bite marks to prove it.

When she’d left for boarding school, her parents’ influence hadn’t waned. Over the course of her stay, they’d attempted numerous connections. Shipley was huge. There seemed no end to her parents’ stock of “Pogue-approved” peers. They’d show up at random moments, grumbling and unhappy. And their introductions almost always began the same way: “My mom made me stop by. . . .”

Willa could never keep any of them straight. Because whether they were named Tristan or Coco or Greer or Caleb, they were all wieners. Total wieners. They were, in fact, the same little wieners they’d been when they were seven. Maybe they didn’t bite anymore—though she couldn’t be sure, since they never hung out all that long—but now their words took up where their incisors left off. The guys were always disappointed that she didn’t fit the prep school mold—Willa had overheard one call her Wacko Pogue—and the girls were just plain snooty.

“So it’s settled, then,” Willa’s mother confirmed in her usual clipped tone. “I’ll ask Emory to find the Blakes’ number. I think they summer in Nantucket, but I’m sure we have that address somewhere.”

“I guess so,” Willa said softly. She wasn’t sure what else there was to say.

“I’m going to change for lunch,” her mother said, turning to leave. “I’d ask you to join us, but I know you’ve got a lot on your mind. Emory has hired some additional help this summer—a cleaning crew—so I’ll have him send someone up to unpack your trunk.”

Willa watched her mother walk away.

It was all over. She was alone again.

She reached under her legs and pulled out the pillow. The family crest stared up at her, those strange Latin words pretentious and taunting.

Clutching the cushion to her chest, Willa walked over to the window and yanked it open a few inches. Using both hands, she shoved the pillow through the crack and watched as it fell softly to the ground.

She really hoped there was no language requirement at Fenwick.

3

We work hard so you don’t have to!

—Scrubbing Bubbles Slogan

Laura Melon was lost inside the Pogue Estate.

Her mother had dropped her off at the servants’ entrance. “Go find Emory,” she’d instructed before she drove off. “He’s the Pogues’ butler. I’ll meet you just inside the kitchen.”

It had all sounded so simple out on the driveway, but once inside the mansion Laura was greeted with total chaos. She’d arrived in the middle of preparations for a special luncheon and the pantry was in an uproar. A harried-looking cook was barking orders at an even more harried assistant, while a gourmet food delivery was being wheeled in.

Not wanting to get in anyone’s way, Laura had walked away from the noise, toward the front of the house.

The place was mammoth and overwhelming. With every step, Laura felt smaller and smaller: a cat, a mouse, a fly. And worst of all, she wasn’t sure
where
she was supposed to find Emory. Her mother hadn’t been very specific.

So now she was stuck somewhere, swallowed by the estate, with no clue as to how to get back to the kitchen. And there was no one available to ask for directions.

Laura looked around, worry lines creasing her forehead. She was standing in front of a winding staircase (
always use Lemon Pledge on wooden banisters)
but she had no idea how she’d gotten there.

I should’ve stayed put,
she thought.
I definitely don’t need to climb stairs, because I didn’t—

“Look at you!”

Two bony hands sliced into Laura’s shoulders and spun her around so forcefully that her thick blond ponytail circled her face, a long yellow whip. Laura steadied herself and stared up at the ultrathin woman. Her dyed platinum hair was almost white and she was wrapped in bright pink from head to toe. She looked like a walking pack of Carefree sugarless gum.

“Look at you!” pink lady repeated.

Laura could feel the color begin to creep into her cheeks. Speaking with strangers always made her nervous—especially fluorescent ones who accosted her in hallways.

“It’s such an improvement!” pink lady gushed. Her pink-polished nails dug into Laura’s collarbone. “I always
told
your mother that she should simply
insist
! No fights—just off you go! Hello, Frédéric Fekkai!”

Laura’s mouth dropped open in surprise. The shock eclipsed the extreme pain radiating up and down her neck.
What?

Pink lady tilted her head at Laura’s ponytail. “But obviously you like it better this way, don’t you? Now I can see your eyes!” She leaned forward with a conspiratorial wink. “I’m sure you break out less, too. Am I right?
Hmmm?”

Laura tried to think of some way to respond, but it was simply impossible. What was going on here? And how was she ever going to get this woman to retract her claws?

“Excuse me, Mrs. Havendale, but the guests are in the sitting room.”

A uniformed man stood in the hallway now and Laura’s mother was with him. Laura’s cheeks smoldered. She was seconds away from fainting.

Pink lady released Laura’s shoulders and turned to the man. “Emory, I was just having a little talk with Willa—”

“Pardon my interruption, Mrs. Havendale,” said the man. He cast a withering glance in Laura’s direction. “But this is not Willa Pogue. This girl is a new member of our support staff—from a cleaning service.”

Laura looked down at her feet. Was she supposed to apologize to the woman now? It seemed kind of stupid, but she wondered if Mrs. Havendale would blame her for the mix-up. Laura bit her lip. She’d feel terrible if she got her mother fired on their first day. And who was Willa Pogue?

But Mrs. Havendale looked too shocked to be angry. She just stood there, shaking her head. “It’s so odd,” she said. “I mean, I haven’t seen her in a . . . but the resemblance—it’s just so . . .”

Emory stepped forward, placed a hand on Mrs. Havendale’s elbow and nudged her gently. She walked off in a daze.

“Who’s Willa?” Laura asked. Emory was staring, his eyebrows raised and his arms folded severely across his chest.

“Pogue Hall is
not
some sort of after-school hangout,” he said, his voice biting. “When you arrive, you are to use the side entrance, then wait for me in the kitchen so that I can give you your assignment. Is that clear?”

“I tried—” Laura began. Then she stopped. She knew the rules. She’d been doing this forever. And at each house it was the same story. Emory didn’t want to hear what she had to say. He didn’t care that she’d actually looked for him. He didn’t really think she had a brain.

Laura’s gaze dropped to her feet again.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered. She’d only been at work for an hour and had already been totally humiliated. Twice.

Emory nodded curtly and the moment—in his mind—was forgotten. “After the tour we’ll stop on the third floor so you can pick up your uniforms. You really shouldn’t be wearing your street clothes inside.”

Laura felt her stomach drop as she tried to catch her mother’s eyes.
“Uniforms?”
she mouthed.
“Are you kidding?”
What was this, Victorian England? None of their other clients made them wear uniforms.

Her mother shrugged and tried to smile.
Maybe they won’t be so bad,
her look suggested.

Emory started walking, motioning for Laura and her mother to follow. As they made their way down the opulent marble hallway
(any citrus-based cleaner works well on marble. In a pinch, squeeze a lemon into a bucket of Pine-Sol),
Laura noted how everything in the house—the rooms, the staircases and the corridor—was built on a much larger scale than any of the mansions she’d ever cleaned. The other homes were large; Pogue Hall was supersized.

It’s like the Jolly Green Giant was their architect,
she thought, stifling a giggle. She stared at the Pogues’ music room. It was easily three times the size of her entire apartment.

Then there were the newspaper clippings. They were everywhere, framed and hanging from the walls. Every article featured someone named Sibby Welles. And they were all about thirty years old.

“It’s impressive, I know,” Emory said, pausing suddenly in front of one of the framed pieces.

Laura realized that she’d been staring. Her cheeks flared.

“Mrs. Pogue—her maiden name was Welles—was the toast of the Newport deb circuit,” Emory declared as proudly as if he were talking about his own daughter.

Laura heaved a huge inward sigh. She’d seen this a million times before too—the help assuming that they were “part of the family.” It explained Emory’s haughty behavior and the way he was so protective of the house. He was suffering from serious delusions. This Sibby what’s-her-face probably didn’t even know his full name.

Emory continued with the tour. “The Pogues usually summer at the Newport estate, but they’re back in Darien attending to an urgent family matter.”

Laura thought she heard an undertone of discomfort edge into the butler’s voice, but it vanished so quickly she couldn’t be sure.

“They really don’t use Pogue Hall as much as they used to, now that their daughter is older,” he continued as they approached the stairs. “They’ll be leaving for Newport again just as soon as possible. They spend the fall in New York and won’t be returning to the house full-time until early spring. I travel with the family, as does the rest of the regular staff, so you see why it’s important that we have people looking after the Hall in our absence. . . .”

Emory droned on in his polished, mildly bored monotone, rattling off instructions about linens and deliveries—all of which Laura knew she should be trying to memorize—but she’d already tuned him out. There was a minicelebration going on in her head.

We have the whole place to ourselves until early spring,
she thought. Sure, there’d probably be a few other hired guns and the occasional delivery person, but no rich, snooty family around to treat her like dirt. And empty houses were super-easy to clean. Of all the homes on her schedule, Laura had been dreading Pogue Hall the most. Now she was actually looking forward to her days in the massive, empty cave. It would be kind of fun. The summer, especially, would be a breeze. Business was slow, since most of Darien was on vacation—Pogue Hall was, in fact, their only regular job until Labor Day.

A pleasant rush of energy coursed through her, adding a fresh bounce to her step. Things were really looking up.