Switched at Birthday

  Ben’s mouth flapped open, and then, for once, he shut it without making a sound. Ha.

  “What about you, Scarlet?” Mom asked. “What are your plans this week?”

  “I have a big soccer game tomorrow,” I said. “And I’m going to try out for the musical.”

  “The musical!” Mom said. “That’s nice, honey. We did Guys and Dolls in high school. I played a gangster’s moll.”

  “Mr. Brummel told us about this old superstition that’s supposed to help you when you audition,” I said. “You say the name of the part you want three times, in all these different ways. Did you ever hear of that, Mom?”

  “Not that I remember,” Mom said.

  “What do you mean, all these different ways?” Ben said.

  “Backward, forward, upward, downward, inward, outward, eastward, westward, northward, southward, and most of all, heavenward,” I recited.

  “Like in The Shining, when the little kid keeps saying redrum, and it’s ‘murder’ spelled backward?” Ben said. “Redrum! Redrum!”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not like that at all.”

  Ben bunched up his napkin in his fist. “Musicals are so weak.”

  “I never was a big fan myself,” Steve said. “Who breaks out in song in the middle of the street? It’s not believable.”

  “In Skullmuncher, the only things that go heavenward are the bodies of all the zombies I waste,” Ben said.

  “I wasn’t talking about Skullmuncher,” I said. “The Music Man is a totally different thing.”

  “ ‘The Music Man’?” Ben mocked me. “That’s what it’s called? That’s the wussiest title I’ve ever heard. I can’t believe your plastic friends are letting you try out for it.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion,” I said.

  “Honey, Ben’s trying to relate to you in his own way,” Mom said. She was always trying to get me to understand him, to remember that his mother had moved to California and left him behind with Steve. She claimed that Ben missed his mother, even though he never said so and didn’t show it. Hey, we all had problems. I missed my dad, but he was busy with his new wife and new baby. I also missed Mom, the way she used to be before she married Steve. I didn’t believe Ben was sad, and even if he was, that was no excuse for picking on me.

  The waiter brought out a plate of petit fours and a pink cake topped with a hideous orange candle shaped like the number thirteen. Just as I’d hoped, no one sang “Happy Birthday.” It would have been embarrassing.

  I looked around the table in the glow of my one birthday candle. Mom smiled proudly. Steve signaled the waiter for the check. Ben was kicking his chair. The waiter put Mom’s leftover steak on the table, wrapped in foil shaped like a swan.

  The foil swan made me think of origami, and John Obrycki’s star.

  I didn’t really make a wish. But when I closed my eyes and blew out the candle, I saw that paper star, and Lavender Schmitz’s face.

  Which was strange. Lavender Schmitz’s face was not something I normally thought about. At all.

  Nothing special happened after that. We went home. I went to bed.

  I lay in the dark and thought about Charlie. The Anti-Ben. He’d never call The Music Man wussy. I would’ve bet he didn’t spend all his time playing Skullmuncher either.

  I imagined starring in the musical with Charlie. Gazing into his eyes as we sang a duet. Holding hands as we took our bows at the final curtain. Sneaking a kiss backstage.

  I really, really, really wanted to play Marian. But I’d never sung alone in front of people before. Not in a serious way, like onstage. I needed all the luck I could get.

  I decided to test out Mr. Brummel’s superstition. It probably wouldn’t work, but what was the harm in trying?

  I got out of bed. I said Nairam Nairam Nairam three times.

  Then I said Marian Marian Marian three times forward.

  I said it looking up.

  I said it looking down.

  I said it breathing in.

  I said it breathing out.

  I said it facing east, west, north, and south.

  I clapped my hands together in prayer and chanted the name to the heavens. Marian Marian Marian.

  Then I climbed back into bed and fell asleep. In my pretty room with the frilly bedspread, the pink canopy, and the striped wallpaper I’d picked out myself. And Charlie’s flowers in a vase on my dresser.

  I knew something was wrong the minute I woke up. Everything around me was pink.

  Pink sheets, pink frilly canopy over the bed, pink-striped wallpaper … everything was so pink I thought I was looking at the inside of my eyelids. Or else having a very bad dream.

  I blinked. The pink was still there.

  What day is it? I wondered. The last thing I remembered was Mom saying, “I hope you had a happy birthday, Lavender,” and kissing me good night. And Dad saying, “Maybe next year will be better. Don’t give me that look — it could happen.”

  Then I fell asleep in my room, which was not pink. Not pink at all.

  So how did I end up here, surrounded by pink?

  I sat up and bumped my knee against my head. Ow! That had never happened before. My legs seemed awfully long all of a sudden. And bare. Hadn’t I been wearing my flannel cowboy pajamas when I went to bed?

  I stood up and knocked my head. Maybe my fabled growth spurt had come at last! Along with some kind of weird pink vision problem.

  I’d knocked my head against a stupid frilly canopy thing. Across the room I saw a life-size poster of a girl who looked just like Scarlet Martinez. Now I knew for sure this was a nightmare.

  I stepped toward the wall for a better look. That girl didn’t just look like Scarlet. She was Scarlet!

  I twitched. The Scarlet poster seemed to move.

  I raised my arm. The Scarlet poster raised her arm too.

  This was no poster.

  This was a mirror!

  I turned my head left and right. In the mirror, Scarlet copied my movements exactly.

  I was looking at myself. And that self looked just like Scarlet.

  I felt like screaming. But I was afraid to breathe.

  My mind raced. Was I possessed? Was this some kind of Alice in Wonderland Through the Looking Glass situation? Or … I know … a reality TV show!

  Someone knocked on my door. Maybe this was the camera crew.

  “Scarlet, are you up yet, sweetie?” a woman’s voice called.

  I froze. What should I do?

  Another knock. “Scarlet?”

  Definitely not my mother’s voice.

  I looked down at my storky legs. Scarlet’s legs. Such knobby knees. I grabbed a terry cloth bathrobe and threw it over the tank top and boy shorts Scarlet’s body had slept in.

  Knock knock knock. “Scarlet! Time to get up.” The door opened. In walked a deeply tanned, deeply blond woman wearing a tennis skirt and carrying a racket. She looked a lot like Scarlet.

  “It’s the day after your birthday! Do you feel different now that you’re thirteen?”

  Did I feel different? What kind of question was that? I couldn’t have felt more different if I’d woken up in a bird’s nest. I was a different species. I moved my mouth, but no words came out. My tongue flapped uselessly against the roof of my mouth, as if I couldn’t remember how to work it.

  “Does your throat hurt?” Scarlet’s mother asked.

  “I feel different,” I said. My voice was weirdly high and squeaky. Scarlet’s voice. “Yes, I feel totally different.”

  “Get up, Scarlet!” a man’s voice shouted from the hall. “Birthday’s over.”

  “Did you thank Steve for dinner last night?” Scarlet’s mother asked. “You know how he likes to feel appreciated —”

  Steve? Who was Steve?

  This was all very confusing. I had to sit down.

  Scarlet’s mother sat beside me and put her arm around me. “Are you feeling all right? Something looks different about you. Around the eyes —” She stared at
me. “I don’t think I’ve seen that expression for a long time. You look … confused. And worried. Did you have a bad dream?”

  Confused and worried? Confused and worried? That was putting it mildly. I wanted to get out of there and clear my head. “I’d better get to school,” I squeaked. At least at school I knew who was who and where I was.

  “Have some breakfast first,” Scarlet’s mother said. “And say good morning to Ben and Steve.”

  “Who are Ben and Steve?” I asked.

  “Don’t be smart,” Scarlet’s mother snapped. “Get dressed and come downstairs soon, before Steve leaves for work. Hurry up.”

  She left, shutting the door behind her. I opened Scarlet’s closet. It was crammed with clothes. What should I wear? There was too much to choose from, all of it so girly I could puke.

  I threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. One look at myself in the mirror and I realized maybe I should put a bra on under it. So I rifled through the top drawer — so much frilly stuff, ick — and picked out the least frilly thing I could find, a sports bra.

  I glanced in the mirror again. It was hard not to — there were mirrors on every wall. Even in just a T-shirt and jeans, I looked … well, pretty. Very pretty. It was scary how easy it was.

  Socks and sneakers, and I was dressed. My hair was already shockingly clean, so there was no need to deal with that. Scarlet had her own bathroom — very convenient. I splashed a little water on my perfect skin….

  Wait, what was that? A mole on my jaw with a fine blond hair curling out of it?

  Guess nobody’s perfect after all.

  Close enough, though. I noticed a lot of cleansers and creams around the bathroom sink but I had no idea what to do with them, so I didn’t bother.

  I grabbed the book bag I found hanging off the doorknob, put on a jacket, and went downstairs. This was one fancy house. A big chandelier dangled over my head, and everything was pure white. I mean white white. In my house this white rug would have stayed clean for about two seconds before someone dropped a piece of toast with blackberry jam and ruined it forever.

  Scarlet’s mother stood at the sink drinking juice, while a man in a suit and a teenage boy munched pastries at the kitchen island.

  “Scarlet, why are you dressed like that?” her mother asked. “Is there a volunteer project today?”

  She was right — I hardly ever saw Scarlet in such plain clothes. “Um, I’m in a casual mood.” I grabbed a cinnamon roll off a plate and took a bite.

  “Hey!” the boy grunted, as if they were all for him.

  “Scarlet?” Her mother looked surprised. I guessed Scarlet was not a big cinnamon roll fan.

  “What?” I shrugged. “I’m hungry.”

  Scarlet’s mother nodded at the man in the suit — I figured he was Steve — reminding me to say something to him. “Good morning, Steve,” I said. “Thank you for dinner last night.”

  “My pleasure, Scarlet.”

  I turned to the boy. He had crumbs stuck in his braces. “Good morning … Ben?”

  “Yes, that’s B-E-N,” the boy snarked. “What’s wrong, the plastic seep into your brain?”

  “What plastic?” I asked.

  Ben shook his head and laughed. Whatever. None of this mattered to me. Ben and Steve, whoever they were, were Scarlet’s problem. I hoped I’d never have to lay eyes on them again.

  “Okay, well, I’m going to school.” I snatched another cinnamon roll and left.

  It was time to find my body.

  The morning after my birthday, I woke up to a blur.

  I rubbed my eyes. Still blurry.

  I turned on the light but that didn’t help. My hand hit something on the nightstand. A pair of glasses.

  Why did I have glasses on my nightstand? I had perfect vision. I did not wear glasses.

  I put them on, just to see what would happen.

  My eyesight cleared up right away.

  I guess this is a dream, I thought. But it felt so real.

  That’s when I looked down at my feet. And saw the toes.

  There was hair on my toes.

  I screamed. And screamed again.

  And again.

  I paused. Had I woken up from the nightmare yet?

  I looked down at my feet.

  Hair on my toes!

  Then I realized, Those aren’t my toes.

  They were way too stubby. And the nails weren’t Cotton Candy Pink. I’d painted them the night before my birthday — two coats.

  But if they weren’t my toes, then whose toes were they? And what were they doing on my feet?

  These aren’t my feet, I thought, sliding my hand over the thick ankles. Not my legs either.

  And who had picked out these bulky flannel pajamas? I leaned down and peered at them through the glasses. Cowboys. The pajamas were decorated with little cowboys and lassos.

  I’d woken up as some kind of flannel-wearing miniature Yeti.

  The door burst open and a woman I didn’t know ran in. Probably freaked out by the screaming.

  “Honey! What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” the woman asked.

  “Who are you?” I cried.

  The woman sat down on the bed.

  “Get away from me!” I shouted.

  The woman reached out to stroke my hair. “Shhh … it’s okay, Lavender. You’re having a bad dream.”

  I knocked her hand away. I didn’t want some stranger touching my hair. Then I touched my hair, and it felt funny.

  Thick. Coarse. Greasy.

  My hair actually felt dirty!

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” I shrieked.

  “Lavender, honey, that’s what happens when you don’t wash it enough,” the woman said.

  I pressed myself against the headboard. This wasn’t my beautiful bedroom. This room was much smaller. And dark. And messy. Clothes — horrible clothes I would never wear in a million years — carpeted the floor.

  “Everything is okay, Lavender,” the woman said. “Want some breakfast? I made French toast and scrapple.”

  Scrapple? What was scrapple? And who was this strange, squat woman? Had Mom hired a new cleaning lady? Why did she keep calling me Lavender?

  A mirror hung, crooked, on the wall across the room. I walked over to it and stared at my reflection.

  Staring back at me was a short, dark-haired girl wearing glasses.

  I straightened the mirror. This had to be some kind of trick.

  The girl in the mirror wasn’t me. She was Lavender Schmitz.

  “Better get a move on, Lav,” the woman said. “You’ll be late for school.” She left, closing the door behind her.

  I sat down on the bed and touched my stubby little polish-free toes. This had to be a terrible dream. There was no way I could be Lavender Schmitz. Ever. In a million years.

  I gave myself the hardest pinch I could stand. If this was a dream, I wanted to wake up NOW.

  PINCH!

  OW!

  It didn’t work. No matter how hard I pinched myself, I still had those stubby toes.

  I was Lavender.

  But how?

  I thought back. Back to the day before. My thirteenth birthday.

  Had something unusual happened? Had I committed some terrible crime?

  What could I possibly have done that would be this bad?

  And where was Lavender? Was she in my body? In my clothes? In my room?

  I searched the room for something decent to wear, straightening things up as I went. It was hard enough to find something clean. I settled on a brown skirt and some flats. Ugh. That shade of brown did nothing for Lavender’s complexion. But then, what would?

  I crept out to the hall and down the stairs. I heard some noise in the kitchen — Lavender’s family eating breakfast. No time to deal with them now, I decided. I had to get to school and find Lavender. I had to straighten this out, and fast. What if I got stuck this way?

  I couldn’t imagine anything worse.

  Must find Scarlet. Must fi
nd Scarlet.

  “Hi, Scarlet!” people called to me as I walked down the eighth-grade hall.

  “Uh, hi,” I said.

  It felt strange saying hi to so many people. They knew me but I didn’t know them. I didn’t even know some of their names. I’d never bothered to learn many people’s names, since I rarely needed to use them. Some had seeped into my brain through osmosis.

  I headed for my locker and spun the combination.

  “Scarlet, what are you doing at Lavender’s locker?” Kelsey Tan asked.

  Shoot. I wasn’t even sure which locker was Scarlet’s. And I didn’t know her combination. What was I supposed to do? I tried to think of what Scarlet would say.

  I tossed my hair. “Oh, gosh, what an airhead I am! What am I doing here? I got lost for a second, even though I’ve been going to school here for two whole years. What’s an empty-headed girlbot to do?”

  Kelsey looked at me funny and reflexively reached for her cell phone. Maybe she thought she should call the police, or a doctor. I couldn’t blame her. My imitation of Scarlet was extremely unconvincing.

  But then Kelsey laughed, as if I’d just told the funniest joke ever. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go to our lockers.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But first I really have to pee.” What would Kelsey say when I stood stupidly at Scarlet’s locker, unable to remember the combination? I hurried to the girls’ bathroom to hide.

  I walked in and checked the mirror. Still Scarlet.

  “There you are!”

  The voice — eerily familiar — came from a bathroom stall. I peeked under the door and saw two chunky legs — my good old legs! — and my one pair of “nice” shoes, the blue flats Mom had made me wear to my cousin’s wedding.

  The stall door burst open and out walked … me. It was really weird to look down at myself from above.

  “Wow, I’m short,” I said.

  “You sure are,” Scarlet snapped. “Now give me my body back!”

  “Gladly,” I said. “Tell me how.”

  “I don’t know how! You tell me! What did you do, cast a spell on me or something, you —” She stopped, taking me in. “How could you dress me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “You have to wear boots with those jeans or they look all wrong. And I work out in that T-shirt. It’s not for school!”