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Authors: Jessica Wollman
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Laura realized now, she and Willa weren’t
really
twins. They were
pseudo
-twins. They were wannabes.
Fingering the rich cotton of her peasant blouse, Laura sighed. The outfit was, by far, the nicest she’d ever worn, but she knew she couldn’t keep it. She shouldn’t even be wearing it now. Add that to the long list of mistakes she’d made today. Borrowing
anything
white was dangerous. Almost as dangerous as the switch itself. What had she been thinking? She’d washed a million whites over the years
(always line dry in the sun—it’s like natural Clorox)
and they were impossible to preserve. And linen wrinkled so easily
(handwash with plenty of water and pure soap. Rinse thoroughly and dry in a terry-cloth towel)
. She’d spend an hour laundering this ensemble before returning it to Willa.
Oh well. It served Laura right.
I shouldn’t be here,
she thought, a cold sweat breaking out over her neck and forehead.
I shouldn’t have let the Dr. Pool thing freak me out so much. I have to—
“Excuse me, miss?”
A man was standing next to her. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, and Laura started to feel a little spooked until she remembered she was hovering in the doorway.
“Are you here for the Fenwick meet and greet?”
All she had to do was say no and everything would go back to normal. No.
Non. Nyet. Nein.
Laura waited for her cheeks to turn their usual color, but as the seconds ticked by she felt an unfamiliar calm settle over her. She ran her hand over Willa’s soft, thick linen skirt. Her feet, cradled in the fine leather sandals, suddenly improved her posture: her shoulders straightened, her chin rose.
“Actually, I am.” Her voice was smooth and confident—and completely unrecognizable. “I’m just a little late. I’m so sorry.”
“No problem. I got lost trying to find this place myself. I’m Mr. Stade.” The man extended his hand. He looked like a nice guy, Laura decided, the kind of man she would have chosen for her mother. Forty-something, with a face as round as a tennis ball, mossy brown hair, and glasses.
“Willa Pogue,” Laura said carefully, accepting his hand. She was amazed by her newfound poise. Laura Melon would have fainted by now.
“Ahh . . . Willa. You’ll be a junior, right? I hope you’ll consider taking my U.S. history course this semester.”
They moved toward the dining room, past a huge glossy poster that read WELCOME TO FENWICK . Laura knew she should speak as little as possible. She was tightrope walking without a rope or a safety net—and she’d just pushed away her last escape ladder.
But Mr. Stade had struck a chord. Due to budget cuts, her high school’s football coach had doubled as a history teacher. His entire team—and a few other jocks—had enrolled in his class looking for an easy A. Laura’s homework assignments had consisted of watching ESPN Classics, then writing essays on topics such as “Should O. J. Simpson have been granted diplomatic immunity?” When she complained, the football coach had fiercely defended his curriculum, claiming that football
was
America; that he treated every class as if it were the Super Bowl.
Laura couldn’t help herself.
“How is your class organized?” she asked. “Is it a chronological study?”
“Yes, but it’s really much more than that.” Mr. Stade’s eyes were sparkling now, and Laura was suddenly glad she’d asked the question. “The course encourages students to analyze history on many levels—political, constitutional, economic, cultural—” He stopped, his eyebrows rising slightly. “Are you interested in history, Willa?”
Laura could see that Mr. Stade was surprised. Of course he was surprised—by her questions; by her responsiveness; by everything. She’d been speaking as herself, not Willa. She had to be more careful or someone was going to get suspicious. Mr. Stade was probably familiar with Willa’s transcript. And Laura was guessing it didn’t exactly scream model
really
twins. They were
pseudo
-twins. They were wannabes.
Fingering the rich cotton of her peasant blouse, Laura sighed. The outfit was, by far, the nicest she’d ever worn, but she knew she couldn’t keep it. She shouldn’t even be wearing it now. Add that to the long list of mistakes she’d made today. Borrowing
anything
white was dangerous. Almost as dangerous as the switch itself. What had she been thinking? She’d washed a million whites over the years
(always line dry in the sun—it’s like natural Clorox)
and they were impossible to preserve. And linen wrinkled so easily
(handwash with plenty of water and pure soap. Rinse thoroughly and dry in a terry-cloth towel)
. She’d spend an hour laundering this ensemble before returning it to Willa.
Oh well. It served Laura right.
I shouldn’t be here,
she thought, a cold sweat breaking out over her neck and forehead.
I shouldn’t have let the Dr. Pool thing freak me out so much. I have to—
“Excuse me, miss?”
A man was standing next to her. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, and Laura started to feel a little spooked until she remembered she was hovering in the doorway.
“Are you here for the Fenwick meet and greet?”
All she had to do was say no and everything would go back to normal. No.
Non. Nyet. Nein.
Laura waited for her cheeks to turn their usual color, but as the seconds ticked by she felt an unfamiliar calm settle over her. She ran her hand over Willa’s soft, thick linen skirt. Her feet, cradled in the fine leather sandals, suddenly improved her posture: her shoulders straightened, her chin rose.
“Actually, I am.” Her voice was smooth and confident—and completely unrecognizable. “I’m just a little late. I’m so sorry.”
“No problem. I got lost trying to find this place myself. I’m Mr. Stade.” The man extended his hand. He looked like a nice guy, Laura decided, the kind of man she would have chosen for her mother. Forty-something, with a face as round as a tennis ball, mossy brown hair, and glasses.
“Willa Pogue,” Laura said carefully, accepting his hand. She was amazed by her newfound poise. Laura Melon would have fainted by now.
“Ahh . . . Willa. You’ll be a junior, right? I hope you’ll consider taking my U.S. history course this semester.”
They moved toward the dining room, past a huge glossy poster that read WELCOME TO FENWICK . Laura knew she should speak as little as possible. She was tightrope walking without a rope or a safety net—and she’d just pushed away her last escape ladder.
But Mr. Stade had struck a chord. Due to budget cuts, her high school’s football coach had doubled as a history teacher. His entire team—and a few other jocks—had enrolled in his class looking for an easy A. Laura’s homework assignments had consisted of watching ESPN Classics, then writing essays on topics such as “Should O. J. Simpson have been granted diplomatic immunity?” When she complained, the football coach had fiercely defended his curriculum, claiming that football
was
America; that he treated every class as if it were the Super Bowl.
Laura couldn’t help herself.
“How is your class organized?” she asked. “Is it a chronological study?”
“Yes, but it’s really much more than that.” Mr. Stade’s eyes were sparkling now, and Laura was suddenly glad she’d asked the question. “The course encourages students to analyze history on many levels—political, constitutional, economic, cultural—” He stopped, his eyebrows rising slightly. “Are you interested in history, Willa?”
Laura could see that Mr. Stade was surprised. Of course he was surprised—by her questions; by her responsiveness; by everything. She’d been speaking as herself, not Willa. She had to be more careful or someone was going to get suspicious. Mr. Stade was probably familiar with Willa’s transcript. And Laura was guessing it didn’t exactly scream model
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