I head to my turquoise and green room, close the door and lock it. Falling on the bed, I dig out the American Express and flip it around just the way Jim Monroe did.
Then I stop and read the name.
Ayla Anne Monroe.
My middle name is Anne. Taking some bizarre comfort in that, I turn over, curl my arms around one of the pillows, and close my eyes.
When I wake up from this, I’ll be back on Rolling Rock Road. I’ll be Annie Nutter again, awake, alive, and without my own Sky’s-the-Limit AmEx, conniving dad, and miserable mom.
It’s been fun, but I’m kind of looking forward to being home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Meeees Ayla!” Thump. Thump. Thump.
What is that sound?
“You will be late for school! Get up, Miss Ayla!”
No. This is not possible. I slide under the comforter, blocking out all light, but not all sound.
Thump. Thumpthumpthump.
Jeez, she could lead the drum line in band.
“Get up now, Miss Ayla!” The doorknob jiggles furiously. “Mr. Trent is almost ready to leave.”
Oh, my God. Nothing has changed. Not the room, not my clothes, not the maid screaming at the door. I am still Ayla Monroe. And I have got to figure out why. Or how. Or … how long it’s going to last. I have to figure out something, or I’m going to lose my mind.
“I’m sick,” I call out in a groggy morning voice.
Stumbling out of bed, I find my footing—my still-purple-with-crystalline-teardrop footing—and get to the door.
“What is the matter, Miss Ayla?” There’s no sympathy in the question. Just a lot of disbelief because Ayla probably lies on a regular basis and no doubt is a lot better at it than this Ayla is.
“Stomach,” I say, adding a dramatic moan. “My … my … monthly visitor.” I cringe as I channel one of my mom’s most pathetic expressions, and hope it works.
“Miss Ay—”
“You are not skipping school.”
Mom! I fiddle with the lock and whip the door open to face my mother, who somehow manages to look pretty darn put together this early. Full makeup, hair styled, top-of-the-line clothes.
“I need to talk to you, Mom,” I plead, looking past Loras, who’s waiting to dive into the room, basket at the ready. “I have to ask you something. Privately.”
For a minute Mom softens, and I see a flicker of the woman I know in her eyes as she looks at me. That caring look, the one she has when she strokes my hair even though she knows I hate to have my hair touched.
“Are you okay?” she asks, the first real glimmer of concern I’ve seen since I arrived here.
“Actually, no. I’m not.”
She studies me for a moment, her expression unsure. “I have to say … you don’t seem like yourself.”
“You have no idea.” I grab her wrist to pull her in, my decision made. I’m going to tell her everything. She’s my mom. She has to believe me. I’ve never lied to her in my life.
Not in my other life, at least. And, of course, I can’t speak for Ayla, who seems to have a less than stellar track record for things like that.
“Come in here and talk to me.”
“Into your room? Since when?”
“Since … since this new me. I’m a new me,” I insist. Because I am. And I’m going to tell her. “I need to tell you something. I need to ask you something.” Like who the heck am I and how did I get here?
She still doesn’t move. “What’s wrong, Ayla?”
“Nothing’s wrong, technically.” Because I kind of like this life. But it’s not mine. “It’s … complicated. Please.”
“Go, Emily.” Jim Monroe’s voice startles me from around the corner, followed one second later by his stern expression. “Your daughter is reaching out for you, and you’re standing there like the ice queen we all know you are.”
Her eyes narrow at him. “Don’t tell me you slept in your own bed for a change.”
He ignores the comment and waves toward me. “Go talk to her. She needs you. It’s obvious. She’s calling out for help, and you are her mother. Talk to her.”
I feel viselike pressure on my temples, a feeling I’ve never had before but somehow I know is familiar. Like both of these people have a hand on my head and they’re squeezing until my skull cracks.
Mom shifts a frosty look my way. “I can’t. I’m late for a meeting.”
A meeting? With her lawyer? Behind her, over her shoulder, I catch Jim’s glance, and I don’t mean to, but somehow I feel like we’re communicating silently. And by the way Mom closes her eyes, I can tell she thinks so, too.
But Jim notches a brow and nods at me. He likes this approach; he thinks I’m holding up my end of the bargain. I’m not, but there’s no way to explain that to either of them.
“Get dressed and go to school, Ayla,” Mom says, stepping away. “Your theatrics won’t work with me. Save them for your dad.”
“Mom, seriously, please.” I am so not going to school until I get some answers. “I can’t go to school.”
“You’re not sick,” she says.
“I … didn’t do my homework.”
She almost smiles. “You’ll figure it out.”
“No, I had this paper. For English lit, and, Mom, I cannot go to school without writing it. I just need to miss first period. Then, maybe …”
Jim clears his throat. Subtle he’s not. “Let her do her homework, Emily, and then you can drive her in an hour late. Would that work, Ayla?”
“Um, yeah. That’d be a start.”
“It’s settled, then.” Jim pivots and heads back down the hall.
For a minute, Mom fights for composure she doesn’t really have, then she strides toward the steps without a word. Loras just stands there, unsure what to do next.
I start to close my door, but don’t want to slam it in her face. “I have homework to do, Loras. Can you come back later? Please?”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Tillie is right,” she says in a hushed whisper. “You are a witch.”
“I think she meant bitch.”
Loras shakes her head. “She meant witch. Go do your work, Miss Ayla. I’ll come back later.”
Oh, great, so now the help thinks I’m a witch. Well, whatever. I have to find out what I am before I can set anyone else straight. So the minute I’m alone, I lock the door and head to the computer.
I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for, though. Can you Google “woke up and I’m a different person”?
Like I’m on autopilot, I log on to Facebook and type my email as my user name and theoisabrat for my password.
No such account exists.
Goose bumps cascade up my spine. Why wouldn’t Annie Nutter have a Facebook page? I mean, even if … I’m here? Wherever I am.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, and I realize there’s a lump growing in my throat.
If Annie Nutter doesn’t have a Facebook page, does she even exist?
Very slowly I type Ay and an email address pops into the box, giving me hope that I can get onto Ayla’s page easily and navigate from there. But the hope is dashed when the password box stays blank. Dang. How will I ever know her password?
I try trentisatool, but it doesn’t work. Because Ayla isn’t Annie and she doesn’t think like I do. How does she think? I close my eyes and channel my inner Ayla. She loves clothes, makeup, shoes, and … Ryder.
I type Rydersgirl.
Access denied.
Ryderswoman. Ryderschick. Rydersbabe. Nothing. The goose bumps have turned to a fine sheen of sweat, and I know I’m going to have to give up this attempt soon. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and just let my fingers move the way they always do when logging in to Facebook. Without thinking.
TheAlist.
I’m in.
I skip the news feed and profile and slide up to the search box, type Lizzie Kauffman into the box and then click on my best friend’s name and the group pictur
e I instantly recognize from last summer.
I’m in that picture, I know it! I can’t read her page, of course—we’re not friends—but I click on her profile picture to enlarge it. There were five of us, inseparable that day at Lake Erie. Sarah, Mia, Jessica, Lizzie, and …
I’m not in that picture, though. I squint at the girl standing where I remember I was, a dishwater blonde with angular features that are kind of familiar, but I can’t quite place her.
Why isn’t that me?
“I remember that picture,” I whine under my breath. “Why am I not in it?” We were by the canoes, wet and screaming and happy and … Who is that girl?
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. “That’s Nickel-ass.” What is Courtney Nicholas doing in my place?
I remember I had one hand on Lizzie’s shoulder, and the other was giving a thumbs-up to Lizzie’s mom, who’d taken the bunch of us to the lake that day. Courtney isn’t giving anyone the thumbs-up, but it’s definitely her. On a really bad hair day.
The lump in my throat is bigger, closing things up and forcing tears to my eyes.
“Where am I?” The question is a croak now, and I feel the first tear meander down my cheek, when I blink and realize that the answer is obvious.
I’m here. In this house. In this family. In this world I don’t know but somehow seem to understand. Before I leave Facebook, I hit the friend request and send it to Lizzie.
Maybe …
But she never accepts people she doesn’t know.
I Google a few things—including Courtney Nicholas, but she doesn’t have a Facebook page—and even try digging up my dad’s RadioShack location, but his name isn’t listed as an employee. I try Mom’s real estate website. No such URL. Even Theo Nutter doesn’t show up on Facebook.
It’s like we never existed.
I return to Ayla’s page, and there I am. Dozens of pictures. Backstage at a concert, on a yacht, toasting champagne glasses with Jade and Bliss, a link to a video called “My Slammin’ Sweet Sixteen Party at Edge in SoBe.”
Ayla had her sweet sixteen at a nightclub in South Beach? I had mine at the Moose Lodge in Lawrenceville because my dad had a customer who belonged and we got it for a discount.
So why am I complaining? This glorious, glamorous life is so much better.
I click on the video and watch as my face comes into focus. There’s loud music—a live band. Holy God, it’s Never Shout Never. Christofer Drew played at my party?
The camera is jumpy, but I can see I’m in a sparkly pink minidress, and I look like I’m about to walk the red carpet at the People’s Choice Awards. Mesmerized, I turn the sound up.
“So what day is it, Ayla?” It’s Jimbo’s voice, so he must be working the video cam.
I look right at him and give him a snotty look like he is all things stupid and annoying. “August twelfth, Daddy.”
So Ayla and Annie have the same birthday.
“Do you love your party?”
On the screen, Ayla just laughs, throaty and sexy, and, really, who laughs like that? “Yeah, except I really wanted to fly everyone to St. Bart’s instead of going down the street to SoBe,” she says.
Holy crap, what a bitch.
She turns from the camera as someone approaches. It’s Ryder, looking damn good. He reaches for her, and she accepts his hug, but pulls back to give him a less than affectionate look.
“Where the hell’s my drink?”
I hate that girl.
The band starts the next song, and there’s a lot of screaming. Christofer Drew—ohmigod Lizzie would die!—gets up to the microphone.
“Where’s the birthday girl? I need some help on this one,” Chris says.
I watch in silence as Ayla takes the stage, lets Never Shout Never sing happy freaking birthday to her, and everyone toasts with champagne.
So, okay, that didn’t happen at the Moose Lodge.
What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just appreciate being here, wherever the hell I am? Life’s great, and who cares if I’m a bitch? I don’t have to act like Ayla Monroe to live like Ayla Monroe.
But a little tendril of confusion wraps around my heart. Why am I changed on the outside but not on the inside?
What if I were the daughter of Jim and Emily Monroe? Who knows if I would still be me? Wouldn’t I have the same soul?
As the Walmart conversation with my mom replays in my head, I clutch my chest, where I always imagine my soul resides. Is that what happened, somehow?
Little sparks flash behind my eyes, and all of the answers to the questions of the last few days are right there. I am Ayla Monroe … but somehow, some way, I’ve got Annie Nutter’s soul. Now I just have to figure out a way to make these two coexist.
Holding that thought, I shower, dress—I go with Jade’s suggestion for all Dior—and apply a little makeup to my pretty face.
No, this totally doesn’t suck.
I open the door and head downstairs to find Mom. Maybe I won’t tell her just yet. Or maybe I’ll ask some questions, find out a little about her history, like when she married Jimbo and why.
Tillie is in the kitchen. “Good morning, Miss Ayla.” She hands me a crystal bowl of yogurt, and as I reach for it, I smile.
“I’m not a witch,” I whisper. “And thank you.”
“Then, why do you say ‘thank you’ after sixteen years of being the world’s biggest brat?”
“Because I’ve changed.”
That earns me some more intense scrutiny, as though she can figure out what happened by looking into my eyes. “True,” she says. “Something is different.”
“It certainly is.” I spoon the yogurt and slide it into my mouth, watching Tillie clean with competence and speed. Maybe she can shed some light on this world.
“So, how long have you worked for us?”
She frowns at me. “It’s not strawberry, Miss Ayla. I don’t need a lecture on what you eat and don’t eat. I have been with this family long enough to know what’s what.”
Yeah? Too bad I haven’t. “Where’s Mom?” I ask.
“She left for an appointment.”
Disappointment pulls at me. “She was going to take me to school.”
“There’s a limo on the way, Miss Ayla. You’ll get to school.”
A limo? Yes I will get there, and in style, it seems.
I swallow any questions along with my yogurt. Stop fighting the tide, Ayla. It’s time to embrace every limo-filled moment of this new life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When the stretch pulls up to the entrance of Crap Academy, there are a few kids dotting the lawns and circular drive. But my eye is drawn to the fountain in the middle, where Charlie Zelinsky is sitting on the stone wall, oboe case at his feet, phone in his hand, geektastic fedora low over his face. He looks up as the car slows and the driver gets out to open my door.
I’m not quite ready to leave the luxury that is my very first limo ride. But I’m comforted knowing it won’t be my last. Evidently Jimbo keeps this monster stretch on 24/7 call, with Marcel, a gray-haired grandfatherly type, as the driver. I slide out, and Charlie watches, tipping back his hat, then sliding some off-brand aviators down his nose to pin me with a long stare.
He probably hates me. All the invisibles hate the popular kids; that’s the law of nature. They hate us, and they want to be us.
Us. That didn’t take long to embrace, I think with a wry smile.
Confident in my school status for the first time in my life, I square my shoulders, nod my thanks to Marcel as he holds the door for me, and head toward the steps, planning to cruise right by the nobody who caused me such grief in English lit.
But Charlie surprises me, holding up his hand with an easy smile. Despite my desire to glide by like school royalty without so much as a sideways glance, I hesitate. It’s the smile, I think. There’s something about his smile that’s genuine. And, jeez, kinda cute.
I mean, he might be a geek, but in my old life he’d be the object of my late-night
if-only-I-had-a-boyfriend sessions with Lizzie. Of course, my standards were much lower then.
“Brighton read our stuff on symbolism to the class,” he says.
Great. Now there’s no doubt that one of us had to know what we were talking about on that assignment. Something tells me that Charlie didn’t hog all the credit, further eroding my position as a Queen Bee who doesn’t care about grades.
“Cool.” My brain wants me to move on, but my legs are like lead. No, worse than lead. They’re on their way over to him. “So, I take it we got an A.”
Why did I say that? Ayla wouldn’t care what her grade is.
His smile widens, revealing really straight teeth and one dimple. One lone dimple that kind of grabs my heart, it’s so cute.
No, Ayla. Not cute. Invisible.
“Which might balance out the fact that you’re going to fail chem,” he teases.
“I am not,” I shoot back. “And how the heck would you know, anyway? I didn’t see you in my chem class.”
“And you won’t. I’m taking advanced physics.”
Nerd alert! “Of course you are,” I say, inexplicably drawn to him. “That’s why you offered chem tutoring.”
He shrugs and raises his head enough that I can really see his face under the brim. “Only if you need it.”
“Why do you wear that stupid hat?”
“Why do you wear those stupid shoes?”
I look down at the booties, admiring the buckles. “Sorry, but there’s nothing stupid about these shoes.”
“There’s nothing stupid about this hat.”
“Just the person who bought it.”
His smile disappears. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Oh, sensitive, is he? “Sorry,” I say, softening the tension with a smile. The fact is, I’m still held like a magnet two feet away from him.
Of course, if a boy had talked to me this long and this casually in my old life, I wouldn’t have dreamed of walking away. So, chalk this social faux pas up as a noobie mistake, because I’m not used to the fact that every boy in Crap wants to talk to me.
Still, I don’t move, and neither does he.