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She tosses something onto my lap—the bedazzled rubber gloves from Gran—then stands up and yawns. “Clean up the kitchen before you turn in, will you, please, honey? And make sure to scrub the spaghetti pot with an SOS pad. The sauce burned the bottom and it’s all caked on.” She closes the door behind her.

On the floor, where Mom’s feet just were, is a balled-up Kleenex she probably used to wipe someone’s runny nose. As I stare at the crumpled tissue, I swear to God, I start to hate that little wad, the way it’s tilted up to look at me. Its crevices resemble a horrible face with slitty eyes—and it appears to be mocking me.

I slip my hands into the gloves and pick up the snotty tissue. Then I take it over to the trash can and rip it up into tiny snotty little pieces. When there’s nothing left that is large enough to rip, I drop it into the garbage and push it down with my foot.

I pace around the room like a caged I-don’t-know-what. Animal. I’d say leopard but I’m probably more like one of those monkeys who lopes along sideways as if one of his legs is turned the wrong way. Doesn’t matter. The point is, I can’t take my life any more.

Standing in the glow from my lamp, I stare down at the gloves. This is it, then? This is what I was meant for? To be someone’s slave girl, to be ordinary, to never have my needs met? Furious at my mother, I watch the way the jewels flash and spark in the light.

Then something strange happens. And it could very well be my anger shooting out through my hands, or the ugly color of my destiny winking at me, but for a second, a half-second even, all the gemstones flash green. And then it ends. Back to plain old, plain old.

Kind of like me.

I can’t do dishes right now. I can’t. I’d throw the plates on the floor and roll around on them just to feel the china pierce my skin. I feel like I’m trapped—I can’t even play music in my own room. I stare at my Stanford letter for
a minute, but not even Mortimer Wolf can cheer me up right now.

I have to leave. Go. I have to be anywhere but here. I yank open my window and tear a few leaves off the rosebush growing over the sill. Even through the gloves, a thorn pricks me. Then, with a quick glance to make sure Michaela is still asleep, I climb outside, drop quietly onto the grass and start to run.

I don’t know how long. I don’t know how hard. I don’t even know where I am. Past my school, I know that much. Past Laura Belanger’s house near the old theater. Past the little store where my Mom once bought white Birkenstocks, which kills me a bit. I mean, who buys white Birkenstocks? Mom just isn’t into making a personal statement with her outer self. If anything, the appalling state of her clothing and sandals and her unpolished toenails
is
her statement. As if she’s saying, “Here I am. I dare you to judge me.” The trouble is, jerks like the sales guy that day do judge her. I could tell from the way he packed the white sandals in the box and smiled—more to himself than to her—and said, “Well. You know what works best for you.”

Jerk.

At some point it begins to rain. Hard. My skin is wet beneath my shirt and water trickles into the gloves to pool at my fingertips in a way I can only describe as disgusting. The train underpass looms ahead in the darkness and I start to run for cover beneath the bridge, but my waterlogged shoes make for a slippery climb up the
embankment. I stumble a few times, scraping my knees, before setting myself in the dirt and listening to the drum of rain on the steel girders overhead, and the sound of the odd car tearing through puddles down below.

It makes no sense, this life. I mean, who decides which kid gets sent into which family, which house, which body? Who did I wrong to wind up assistant caregiver to so many needy kids? And what about Joules? Was there a lineup for her position in life?

Then you have the self-centered ones who don’t waste a minute of their time worrying about what the rest are going through because none of it is happening to them. About 90 percent of my school is made up of these morons.

You know what I think? Morons like these, whether they’re rich or poor, beautiful or toadish,
they’re
the lucky ones. They get to float through life under the illusion that the world is a reasonable place.

Me? No luck at all.

I look down at the road below, watching cars splash through the puddles. A dark SUV zooms past, but it’s hard to tell if it’s black or navy blue. Or if it has a dented front end. I wonder if the driver’s been stopped at one of the roadblocks and how guilt-inducing it would be right now to be the owner of a black sport utility vehicle. You’d feel like the eyes of the entire county were upon you.

The rain intensifies, battering the metal bridge overhead like zillions of tiny hammers, forcing a small car to pull under the bridge and stop. A driver hoping to wait out the barrage. I watch as a girl gets out the passenger side. She leaves her door open and trots to the back of the car to dig for something in the trunk.

Music from inside the car echoes off the bridge structure and my stomach sinks as I realize what song is playing. “Rockabye” by Nigel Adams. His latest single and the title track from his new CD. Rumor is he wrote it for his daughter. His Jujube.

I hold my sodden T-shirt away from my body and shake it, trying not to imagine Nigel singing it to her at this very moment. How easy she has it. I stare down at Gran’s crazy, rain-filled African gloves and think about the stack of dishes that awaits me at home. What awaits Joules Adams tonight? A phone call from Will—one that doesn’t get cut off by a mother with military rules? Or maybe she’s with Will right now. Maybe they’re enjoying The Kiss—Part Two.

And she called me lucky.

The ground beneath me starts to rumble as a train approaches. The sound of it roaring past overhead is violent. I clap my hands over my ears and try to ignore the grit raining down upon my head. The train is impossibly long. I need to distract myself from the roaring in my ears. Think. Think about something. Someone.

Will Sherwood.

I close my eyes and imagine the impossible.

I would give anything—
anything
—to have swapped places with Joules in that music room. To stand so close to Will I can feel his breath on my eyelashes, in my hair. I would give anything to have him lean over me and kiss me the way he kissed her.

I would give anything to switch lives with Joules Adams.

I
wake up to the sun shining in my eyes. I’ve never known a morning so bright. I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow, hoping to catch a few more minutes of sleep before the twins start howling and yowling for their morning bottles. My pillow—it feels fatter than usual. Softer, too. I hoist myself up on my elbows and stare down at it. My pillowcase is black and a feather is poking through it.

I don’t own a black pillowcase. Or a feather pillow.

I look up, confused. The sun doesn’t normally stream in my bedroom window, either. This window must be facing east.

Which means I’m not in my room.

Which means I’m not at home, and let me tell you, there is nothing freakier than waking up in a place you didn’t go to sleep in.

There is no corkboard with a Stanford letter pinned to it. There’s no dresser with a missing leg being held up by two encyclopedias until Mom finds time to take me shopping for a new one. And most of all, there’s no army cot in the corner. No bruised and frightened child who is too traumatized to speak.

I’m in a room I’ve never seen in my life. It’s totally
amazing, with one wall covered in distressed black leather, the other walls papered in hot pink. A chandelier made of black and purple crystals hangs from the ceiling, and a black, glittery fishing net canopies the bed.

It is the weirdest, most fantastic bedroom I could ever imagine. I must be dreaming. I reach up and slap my cheeks, pull my eyes open. No, I’m very much awake. Not only that, I have a nose ring.

But what on earth am I doing here? I climb out of the bed and pull the hairy, gray Yeti covers up like Mom taught me (some habits just stay with you). Then, because I’m wearing nothing but boy shorts and a camisole—someone else’s boy shorts and camisole, which weirds me out beyond belief—I reach for a piece of clothing hanging from a hook marked “ROBE.” Only in place of a robe there’s a long military coat, vintage, with silver buttons down the front and epaulets decorated with gold stars.

If I had to guess, I’d say I’m in the bedroom of a seriously flamboyant soldier. Or the soldier’s flamboyant sister, and thanks to her he has nothing to wear while battling on the front lines.

I don’t know where I am or how I got here. But it’s almost 7 a.m., and if I don’t get home quick, my mother is going to kill me.

Slowly, silently, I open the door and peer out into the hall, which is the exact same hall as we have only this one is paneled in wood. Come to think of it, the bedroom I woke up in is the same as mine at home. This house is the same model as ours, just so much cooler.

It’s then I remember I’m in bare feet. I tug on a pair of tall rubber boots I saw on the floor and creep along
the black shag carpet toward a foyer that should offer up a front door. My breath catches in my throat as I realize that the walls in the dim hallway are covered with framed photos of none other than Nigel Adams, next to famous people like David Bowie and Mick Jagger and Cher, and the Lucky One herself, Joules.

My heart thumps so loudly I can hear it. I’m in Joules’s hallway.

I’m in Joules’s house.

My hand flies up to my nose. I’m in Joules’s nose ring—and I don’t even have a pierced nose!

I have to go. Any second now she’ll come out and see me. Have me arrested, scream for her dad’s security—maybe even a team of guard dogs. Though, I have to say, this does not seem like the kind of house a rocker guy with a new CD would live in. More like the lovely house the rocker guy would buy for his mother once he makes it big, so she no longer has to live in a rusty trailer.

I pass a big mirror and stop. Even out of the corner of my eye, even in a dead soldier’s overcoat, something doesn’t look right. I stare at myself and nearly faint.

It isn’t me in the glass.

It’s Joules Freaking Adams.

I
bolt through a living room darkened by closed curtains, scattered with old pizza boxes and empty beer cans, and out the front door. I’m completely disoriented. There are houses that look like mine on one side of the street, but the other side drops off to a gorgeous view. Wait—I’m on Skyline; that’s where I am! It’s where all the kids—well, not
all
the kids—come to park and make out until the cops shine their flashlights in the windows and tell them to get moving.

It means I’m not that far from home. Just across State College Boulevard and I’m there.

Whoever I am.

I run. In clunky boots and coat that comes to my ankles, I run all the way to Highcliffe Court, where I race along the side of the house to my ground-floor bedroom window, still open from when I snuck out last night. I poke my head—Joules’s head!—inside and nearly throw up when I see myself asleep in my bed.

I climb in through the window, cross the room and shake my own shoulder. I watch, choking back vomit as I see my body turn around to face me, open its eyes and gasp.

I clamp my hand over the Andrea body’s mouth and say, “Are you Joules?”

“Yes! Who the frig are you?” she says once she gets free, and I cover her mouth again. I can’t afford to have Mom race in here, not until I figure out how to undo whatever has happened.

“I’m Andrea. And don’t yell—we have to fix this before anyone wakes up.”

She rips my hand off her—my!—face and her hands roam over my body, stopping at my chest. “Oh no,” she wails. “What’s going on?”

I can’t help it—does that mean …? Yes! Joules’s magnificent breasts grace my usually unimpressive chest. I touch them a moment—through the coat they feel like oversized dinner rolls, but still, it’s a sickening thrill.

“Where were you last night?” I ask. “I don’t remember anything—”

“I don’t get it,” she wails. “What’s going on? How is this possible? This isn’t possible!”

“What were you doing last night?”

She ignores the question. “Ohhh, why is this happening? I want to go home. I want to be me! What did you do to me?”

“I don’t know. You’re me. I’m you …”

Joules as Andrea jumps out of bed, looks in the mirror and screams purple murder. Sure enough, about three seconds later, my mother bursts through the door.

“What on this sweet, green earth is going on in here?” She looks at me. “Who are you and what are you doing in my daughter’s room?” When I don’t answer, she marches over to me and motions toward the window.
“You climbed in from outside?”

I grab her hands. “Mom, it’s me. Andrea.”

She pulls her hands away. “What are you talking about?” She turns to Joules. “Andrea, what is she talking about?”

It isn’t until now that I realize what I’ve gone and done. My wish last night.

Sitting beneath the train.

I wished I had Joules’s life.

Stupidest thing ever!

Seriously.

Oh my God.

Look what I’ve done!

My breath comes in ragged puffs and I try to control it before I pass out. I mean, if you think about it, I was upset last night. And not just any kind of upset—I was climbing out of my window upset, running through the rain upset, seeing crazy faces in balled-up Kleenex upset. And you’ve got to admit, it’s at upset times like these that people do really idiotic things, right?

Right?

“It’s true,” I say, my voice—Joules’s voice!—shaking. “I’m Andrea, Mom! You have to believe me.”

“This is ridiculous.”

I can’t even blame her for not believing me. Who would? “I can prove it! My training bra. You said it was worn by thirteen girls other than me. You said it to that reporter. Remember?”

She glares at Joules. “Andrea, escort your friend out. Now!”

“No. Wait!” I say. “I’ll think of something else …”

It’s at this moment that I realize something about my room is different. Michaela. She’s not in her cot. “Wait. Where’s Michaela?”

“I’ve got her in my roo—” Mom stops, suspicious. “What do you know about her?”

“I told you, Mom, it’s me!”

“Andrea.” She turns to Joules. “You weren’t to talk about Michaela to anyone. I thought you understood the importance of that.”

“I’m not Andrea!” Joules wails, waving her arms toward her—my!—body.

Mom starts nodding her head real fast the way she does when she thinks she’s onto some hot clue. “Are you girls high? Is that what’s going on here—you’re strung out on, what, on crack cocaine?”

Joules is still running her hands over my Andrea body in horror and doesn’t answer. I can see Mom getting ready to call in the feds.

“No!” I squawk. “No one’s high on anything. We’re telling you the truth.”

“Well, whatever’s going on, I don’t like it. It’s barely seven-thirty in the morning and my daughter is entertaining a stranger dressed like a dead soldier.” She eyes the coat with suspicion, as if I’m about to try to hawk stolen goods I have hanging from the lining. “Off you go, then. And I’ll thank you to use the front door rather than stomp through my roses in those clunky rain boots.”

I look stupidly at Joules for help, as if she might have an answer for us.

Mom stands firm. “On you go. Or I’ll call the police and you can explain to
them
what you’re doing here.
Whatever you wish.”

Wish.

Something occurs to me.

I brought all of this on. I wished for Joules’s life last night, in the rain, under the bridge. So it makes sense that if I wished it into being, I can unwish it just as easily. I take Joules by the shoulder of my favorite nightgown and pull her to her feet. Into her ear, I hiss, “Throw on some sneakers and a sweatshirt and follow me. I think I know how to fix this thing.”

“I heard that!” says Mom, blocking the window. “Andrea, you’re not going anywhere right now …”

Joules throws on a hoodie and takes my Chucks in her hands. Together, we race to the front door and outside, tearing down the street as Mom—appalled by our total disregard for her orders—hurls threats in our wake.

One thing is sure. If I survive this screwup, if I ever get myself back into my body, I am so done for.

I can’t run like myself. Either Joules is a smoker or her lung capacity is ridiculously small. Besides that, I’ve got her breasts heaving up and down and throwing me off balance. By the time we get to the bridge, I’m clear out of breath—no kidding. I stop and lean over my knees and try hard not to die.

Joules stops alongside me—the run was no problem for her—and I motion for her to follow me up the concrete embankment.

“What the hell happened?” she shrieks at the top, her
head nearly hitting the underside of the bridge. “How is it possible that you’re me and I’m …” a small sound escapes her throat, “you?”

I pull her down to sitting. “I might have made a sort of really stupid wish last night.”

“You wished this?”

I shrug and run my hands through the bits of gravel by my side. “Not a real wish, no. I mean, yes, I did, but I didn’t think it would actually come true. That I’d actually wake up in your room—”

“So this is all your doing! You did this to me. Us.”

“Sort of.”

“You wished you were me and then you slept in my bed?” She looks enraged at this. Like she might hit me. It might not be a problem taking a punch from Joules, but I’ve spent a lifetime lifting small children and collapsing and un-collapsing rusty strollers. Those arms she’s inside of are strong.

“You slept in mine,” I say. “What’s the difference?”

She grimaces. “Just, nothing. I want to be me again. I want to BE ME AGAIN!”

A couple of joggers below on the sidewalk stop and look up. I pinch Joules in the arm—careful not to leave a bruise. “Just chill out, would you? All I have to do is make the wish again. Then we’re both back to normal, right?”

“I don’t know, idiot! All I know is you’re some kind of freaklady witchperson!”

Ignoring her, I close my eyes and try to get more specific about what, exactly, happened last night. I sit taller, look at Joules. “I know! A train went overhead. When the
bridge was rattling like it would fall down and crush me, that’s when I made the wish.”

“Seriously? Is that all it will take—a train going overhead?”

Her confidence in me might be a bit premature. It’s not as if I know what I’m doing. “Yes. Definitely.”

She seems convinced. Which, of course, terrifies me because I have no idea if I’m right. “Okay,” she says. “When does the train come?”

“I don’t know, it’s not like I have a schedule! But soon. It’s almost rush hour, so one has to come soon.”

“Good. We’ll wait.” She’s calmer now. “Did you brush my teeth this morning? You have to floss twice a day. It’s what I do.” She almost smiles. “I do have a boyfriend to consider. I never know when I might get kissed.” Suddenly she appears worried. “Wait. Will didn’t come over last night, did he? You haven’t, like, done anything with him, have you?”

As if. I haven’t done anything with any boy in my entire life. “I wish.”

“Wait,” she says, sitting forward. “I was with Will.”

“What?”

“You wanted to know where I was around ten o’clock. We were in his car. And do you want to know something weird?”

“Not really.”

“We were talking about you.”

This is hardly believable. “No way.”

“He asked me something about you, I don’t remember what. And I kind of flipped out on him.”

“Over me?”

She shrugs. “I get all jealous over crazy stuff. Stuff that doesn’t have a hope in hell of happening.”

“Like Will Sherwood actually liking Andrea Birch,” I say, not so much to her as to myself because it makes me realize I am not the only one who sees me as a loser no one would ever look at twice. People like Joules see me that way too. I stare at the face I’ve had since birth and feel pretty damned sorry for Joules for being stuck inside it. She’s kind of selfish but she doesn’t really deserve to be me, for even a second.

“Wait! I just remembered …” A look of horror washes over her face—which has paled to near-white—and she claps a hand to her mouth. “Oh God.”

“What?”

She forces the hand into her lap and shakes her head. “No. It’s nothing. Forget it.”

I’m about to press her further but just then the ground begins to rumble. I grab her forearms and she pulls away. As the train draws nearer, I shout, “Hold on to me. Just in case. So we don’t switch into someone else. Or something else.”

She relents. We sit facing one another, hand in hand, and as the train thunders overhead, as grit and bits of trash swirl all around us and our hair whips in our faces, I call out, “Make a wish with me, Joules! Wish us back to normal again! NOW!”

I close my eyes and, as hard as I can, wish myself back into my body.

Grit hits my face and the roar up above is deafening. Tiny rocks patter down on top of us and sting our arms,
legs, cheeks. Part of me wants to run out from under the bridge before I wind up with a concussion, but I need to stay put if I want this wish to work. I imagine my house. My bed. My closet full of lame clothes Mom picks up at The Clean Earth over on Harbor Boulevard, clothes I would love to pull on right now. All I can think of at this moment is getting back home. Getting back to Mom, Dad and the Ks. Even Brayden. I would give anything to clean toddler vomit off the rug in the front hall. To be given a list of things to buy at the pharmacy at lunch instead of trying out for a fashion show. Just, please, give me back my life.

As quickly as it started, the rumbling stops. I can hear traffic again. Birds. The clash of a garbage truck and the roar of a bus.

I open my eyes to find myself staring back. Which is absolutely not what I want to see. It means I’m still Joules and Joules is still me.