Freaky Monday (9 page)

When I got
to the parking lot, I turned to wait for Hadley.

And I gotta say—usually you never get to see yourself except on the occasional family video or some random filming of a piano recital, which inevitably is a wooden, false representation of what you really look like. I studied myself and wondered if Ms. Pitt made
my
body move differently or if that was
really
what I looked like. Did I stand like that? Walk like that? It was almost like when you get into those really bizarre moods and stare at your reflection, almost asking out loud, like in a bad after-school special,
Who am I? Who am I
really? Is that…me? Well, I got to do that through another myopic and potentially warped lens. I realized Hadley—I—wasn't nearly as tragic-looking as maybe I had feared. Sure, I was no Tatum—frankly, who was? Overall, the effect wasn't disastrous. I had to bottle this revelation.

“Did I hear right? Is she okay?” I asked breathlessly.

“Tatum is going to be fine. She's going to investigate some community colleges now and it doesn't seem as bleak,” Hadley said with a grin.

“Oh, thank goodness. I'm so relieved. Thank you. Because if anyone is unequipped to deal with things going wrong, it's Tatum. I mean—the streetlights see her coming and they practically turn green on cue,” I said.

“Oh, I wouldn't be so sure,” Hadley responded. “Maybe that's what
you
see, but I doubt Tatum feels that. You may think Tatum has everything, but maybe today has taught you that no one's perfect.”

“Maybe there's just perfect students. Like 4.9 GPA–Cindy Pang, for instance.”

Hadley shook her head. “Again…no one is perfect. No one.” She paused and studied me. “You really need to figure that one out, don't you?”

I was stunned.

“In fact,
perfectionism is slow death
,” Hadley said slowly with Ms. Pitt's distinct earth mother delivery.

“Who said that?” I asked.

“Someone very, very smart.”

I looked down at the ground and realized tears were kinda sorta welling in my eyes. Okay, today
was
an emotional day and I was potentially losing my mind, but what
Ms. Pitt said rang true. I have been knocking myself out and slaving over homework and obsessing over being perfect at school because I feel so inadequate compared to my sister's perfection. But perhaps Ms. Pitt was right—there ain't no such thing.

And then Ms. Pitt's wisdom boomeranged right back to me! She wasn't so innocent on this one, either. “Sounds like you could learn a lot from yourself,” I said.

“How's that?”

“You're telling me not to obsess about perfection, blah blah blah—”

“Blah blah blah?”

“Hear me out,” I said. “You
yourself
are guilty of trying to be this perfect teacher. You know—the most prepared, the most involved, the most beloved…. blah blah blah…” I savored the words. “And, as they say, ‘
perfection is a slow death
.'”

Hadley grinned at me as the thought took form, and I could tell it was resonating. “Okay…you're an honor student for a reason. And it's
not
just because you study entirely too much.”

“Let's hope you still feel that way even if the school board totally boots your butt to the curb,” I joked.

“With Mr. Wells, anything is possible….” Hadley said.

“Including…slow dancing with him tonight?” I said, at once laughing and gagging over the thought.

“Slow dance with Mr. Wells? Are you pathologically
insane
?” Hadley asked.

“But there's the I-Hate-Mondays Dance tonight, remember? Look, before I wouldn't have given a rip, either, but you gotta go—
Zane specifically asked if I'd be there
! Do you know what that means to me?” I asked, and I think I was actually vibrating.

“I have some idea,” Hadley said. “It's somewhere on the scale in between needing oxygen and electricity.”

“Because maybe…just maybe…Zane
did
send me that Secret Admirer Candy-Gram. And maybe…just maybe…he
is
interested in me and not just in my sister,” I said with near-pride in my voice. I'm not sure I believed it but I could try.

“Okay. I'll do it. For you, I'll do it,” Hadley said. “But I really think we should focus on this teeny-tiny obstacle called
switching us back
.”

“Yeah…Maybe we should head on down and enroll at the Switch Our Bodies Back School.” I paused and realized maybe that sounded a bit harsh. But my nerves were frayed.

We both jumped when Mr. Hudson drove up in his sad old Chevy and honked the horn. “Lucky I carry jumper
cables.” He leaned out of his car window, seeming a little uncertain of his role. That made two of us….

“Excuse me…ladies,” Mr. Hudson fumbled. “Just wondering if everything's okay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I responded. “It's cool.”

He nodded. “And Tatum is…”

“Fine. She's fine now,” Hadley said.

“Terrific. Well done, Hadley. Then…might I suggest I take everyone home? You, too, Carol. It's been a long day and you look like you could use a chauffeur.”

Aw!
Mr. Hudson was so cute! I hoped the object of his affection was picking up on it.

“That's very kind of you,
Randy
,” I said meaningfully. Did the top of his ears turn pink?

“Plus, I have to prepare for tomorrow's class now if I'm going to go to that dance tonight,” Mr. Hudson said.

“Right. That terrifically important dance,” Hadley said. And I think she meant it.

Hadley climbed out
of the car when we drove up to her house.
My
house.

On her way out, she whispered to me, “So…the family will be home now, yes?”

I guess she had reason to be nervous about walking into a house she'd barely ever been to before. At least I knew Ms. Pitt lived alone. The worst that could happen when I walked into her place would be her cats would use their feline senses and freak out because I wasn't truly their owner and maybe attack with a giant hairball.

“Mom should be home at least. She's probably back from ceramics.”

“Are you some kind of mind reader? How do you know all this stuff?” Mr. Hudson asked incredulously.

“Oh…Mo—I mean,
Mrs. Fox
was, uh, in a class of mine. A ceramics class, that is. She made a duck,” I stammered. “I made a bowl.” Mr. Hudson nodded as if this
made some sort of sense.

“See you tonight,” Hadley said.

“See you tonight,” I joined, and again, we did our little fist-bump. With that, Hadley walked slowly up the path, almost as if she were approaching a haunted house. On some level, that made sense…. Maybe we were ghosts? Something supernatural
had
to be afoot.

Mr. Hudson pulled away. “And you live on Virginia Drive, don't you, Carol?” he asked.

“Sounds good.” I smiled back at him. “And thanks for being a chauffeur today. Totally cool of you.”

“My pleasure.” We drove in pleasant silence and he pulled onto Virginia Drive. He scanned the houses and looked to me for confirmation. Like I knew which one was Ms. Pitt's house? “Here you go,” he said, pulling up to a house. “Your blue bungalow. It is cozy, just as you described.” At least somebody knew where to go….

“Right. Cool. Well, thanks again,” I said, and tore out of the car, fumbling through Ms. Pitt's purse for her keys. I could sense Mr. Hudson wanted some final connection but that was waaaay out of the question for my thirteen-year-old self! I had never even kissed a boy before, and my first kiss sure wasn't going to be with some forty-year-old man—how gross can you get?!

“I'll see you tonight, Carol. You will be there?” he
called out the window. I didn't respond immediately and Mr. Hudson looked a bit worried. “At the dance, I mean?”

“I'll be there, Mr. Hudson,” I said. I mean, I had to see if Zane was into
me
…if I ever got back to being me, that is!

His eyes warmed again. “All right. And it's Randy, remember? So I'll see you then. Hey, and if you need a ride tonight—”

“That's cool. I'm good. Thanks,” I said over my shoulder. “See you there. Bye!” I went up to the cozy blue bungalow and wondered if this was truly Ms. Pitt's house. Why hadn't I asked her for the address? My mind wasn't working…. I tried to put a key in the door. It didn't fit. So I tried another key. Nothing.

Mr. Hudson hadn't budged. He was smiling but seemed a bit suspicious, watching me fumble with the keys. How long could I keep this charade up? It was exhausting!

I noticed another blue bungalow across the street. In fact, there were some smallish, funky sculptures in the front lawn that screamed Ms. Pitt. She would have those wind chimes up, all right, and they'd be tinkling in the wind. I crossed the street and said on the way to an increasingly befuddled Mr. Hudson, “Just kidding!” He smiled again.

I knew intuitively this was her house. And, like the shoe fitting Cinderella's foot, the key slid into place. At last! I gave one final wave and Mr. Hudson tooted his horn and drove off. Man oh man, does that guy have it bad for me. Or Ms. Pitt. You know what I mean….

I turned on a light and I know it sounds like the most fundamentally “duh” realization, but I was amazed Ms. Pitt had a house. Or more specifically, that she had a life separate from school at all! Didn't she just pull out a cot or something from behind her desk and camp out at school? Where did teachers go at night? Did they have normal lives or did they lead a life of secrets? Did they get Netflix and maybe—just maybe—furtively love slasher movies? Did they drink wine? Did they argue with their husbands? Did they like being a teacher?

I took a step into Ms. Pitt's pleasant little house and soaked up her environs. I never before would have told you that purple walls work, but Ms. Pitt had selected a soft mauvey tone that soothed. The artwork that plastered the walls was decidedly amateurish but still charming somehow. A beautiful gray cat meowed and jumped off the couch to greet me. “Hey, girl…or guy…hey, cat,” I said, and bent down to pet the kitty.

But the cat stopped midtracks and gave a serious scowl. He yowled and hissed, turned around and trotted
off. Darn those intuitive cats—that's why I preferred simple, sloppy dogs. A golden retriever would have zero clue to our mistaken identity and come bounding up, I was positive. I've said it once and I'll say it again: You don't see cats leading the blind.

“Hiss to you, too, then,” I said to the cat who cowered in the corner. “We'll see if I feed
you
in the morning.” Then I wondered about tomorrow morning. Oh, dear, would I wake up in Ms. Pitt's body?! Not another day of this…. Somehow we
had
to get switched back!

Soaking in Ms. Pitt's environment temporarily distracted me. I intently studied the zillion framed pictures on the walls, including some choice shots of Ms. Pitt when she was a little girl—it was so clearly her same cherubic face. She was truly adorable with scruffy ponytails and a somewhat serious pout. There was a definite trace of sadness in the pictures, though, and I found my heart hurt a bit thinking about what she had said about her own upbringing and her parents' lack of interest in her.

I was amazed to see a shot of a twentysomething Ms. Pitt on the slopes at Vail, looking like a veritable ski bunny. Who knew? In one picture, she was surrounded by friends, all of whom looked like they biked to work and drank nothing but green healthy goo. They were on the beach, all smiling, all suntanned. It looked like Ms.
Pitt was the lone single person in a sea of couples.
That must be hard
, I thought, and I recognized that same low-grade sadness even in the shots where her smile was big. It was always sort of there with Ms. Pitt, like a little rain cloud.

A frame was decorated with little apples and read
SCHOOL DAYS
across the top. In the picture, Ms. Pitt looked to be about thirteen years old—probably exactly the age I am now—and she had a small, shy smile on her lips. But in this shot, she didn't look sad; she looked like her soul was softly singing. She had her arm around another woman, probably her teacher. The teacher was clutching her strongly and you felt the pride in this woman's embrace, her Momma Bear protectiveness.

Underneath the photo it read:
MISS MULLIGAN
&
ME
.

I inched closer toward the photo, studying all the details. Ms. Pitt was rather average looking and a bit awkward but you felt her spirit soaring and a smile aching to be fully released. I could sense that with Miss Mulligan's encouragement, Ms. Pitt had felt important for the first time.

I just want to be a Miss Mulligan for someone else.

I heard Ms. Pitt's words reverberate in my brain and instantly I felt terrible. I knew how badly she wanted to chair the English department, how much she wanted to
be like Miss Mulligan and help others. And I felt a thunderous ache that I had most likely let her down. Granted, what did I know about being a teacher or chairing an English department? But by leaving midway through the interview itself and being focused on Tatum and myself and not on Ms. Pitt's interests…well, I had probably dropped the ball.

Big-time.

Then again, I had really tried to defend her and get her the position, but leaving could not have sent a good message to the school board. I felt terrible.

I wandered around her house, inspecting every nook and cranny. Her fridge was predictably stocked with organic this and tofu that and I wondered how she subsisted on that stuff. Yuck. Surely she must crave some Red Vines or Dr Pepper or something occasionally! Besides, isn't sugar from sugar cane a natural source? I consider sugar a health food.

Her closet was as unsurprising as her refrigerator. There was a heap of peasant skirts and various tops—linens and organic wraps. Her shoes were all sensible and I said aloud, “Hello, Grandma.” It's not as if I teeter around all day on high heels, but these shoes were ridiculous. She was in her mid-thirties, not mid-sixties!

I mean, if the retro Volkswagen Beetle was a wardrobe,
this would be it: small and sparse, vaguely hippie and comfortable, no-nonsense. It killed me, because Ms. Pitt truly was an attractive woman but she looked like she barely gave a second thought to her clothes or bothered with her hair. She didn't show off—or even just accentuate—her slim figure. She kept herself hidden under mountains and layers of fabric. She wasn't buttoned up, she was drowning.

In Ms. Pitt's office was a treasure trove. She had stacks and stacks of papers and books, mostly on the topic of teaching (also, her literature collection was thorough, I will say, which was no surprise). And everything was well-worn and obviously had been read—she had everything from classics to modern fiction to history and beyond, absolutely everything under the sun. There were also such titles as
Teach Like Your Hair's on Fire
and
Teaching Outside the Box: How to Grab Your Students by Their Brains
and
Teaching to Change Lives: 7 Proven Ways to Make Your Teaching Come Alive
. And that was just the first stack.

More shocking was all the school paperwork. Many, many trees died for this cause. (Come to think of it, how could a staunch environmentalist like Ms. Pitt agree to be a teacher? They were the biggest wasters of paper of all! Then I remembered Ms. Pitt said she would only use recycled paper—I had completely forgotten she had started
that trend at Burroughs Junior High.)

I just couldn't believe all the files and papers. And I suppose it all had to be graded! I couldn't imagine how much time that would take.

Ms. Pitt even had an “idea corkboard” that was littered with random thoughts about how to teach, inspiring quotes, and pictures. At the center of the idea corkboard was another picture of Miss Mulligan. I got the distinct feeling Miss Mulligan was at the center of much of Ms. Pitt's personal philosophy….

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a “Student of the Year” folder! Being a Student of the Year was this big deal and whoever won that title got to come on the stage before a packed school auditorium and have their praises sung by teachers, faculty, and fellow students. It was the stuff of junior high legend, and the title would obviously be great to someday put on a transcript to Stanford….

I snagged it greedily and tore it open. Of course there was a recommendation for Cindy Pang, the academic virtuoso. Cindy must have come out of the womb knowing fractions and being able to spell “extraordinary.” Which was what she was. She was also most likely going to any college of her choice.

I flipped another paper and was shocked to see
my name
!

HADLEY FOX
.

I couldn't believe it! Had Ms. Pitt actually recommended
me
?!

My eyes tore over the page, drinking it in. I felt my pulse race and my throat got dry. I felt so voyeuristic and remotely evil…. I knew I shouldn't be reading this but it was impossible to stop, like finding a friend's diary carelessly left open. What are you supposed to do, look away? As if!

Hadley Fox is a delight. She is one of those rare students who takes her academics and thoughts seriously. She will do whatever it takes to not only get it right, but to make right better.

I beamed to myself on that one and felt my self-esteem swell. Maybe Ms. Pitt WAS paying attention! Maybe she DID know her stuff! Why couldn't I see it before? She was clearly seeing me! I read on.

Hadley works as hard as any student I've ever come in contact with in my nine years of teaching, but—

My heart froze. “But” was
never
good.

—but Hadley needs to broaden her scope if she is to truly blossom. Hadley is by far my best student. She is always prepared and under her cool exterior, she's tremendously sensitive and thoughtful. Yet I wish I got to see
MORE
of Hadley. Not just the straight-A student,
but Hadley the human being. She seems resistant to let anyone in. Even her friends are not as important to her as her grades.

I stopped reading and let this thump around in my heart. Its truth seared me and it stung. It stung bad. I kept reading:

I realized in filling out this application for Student of the Year I write easily about Hadley's academic achievements but knew little about who she was. She is not the most well-rounded. To succeed in life, one must achieve a balance, and Hadley Fox, I am forced to report, is sorely lacking on that front.

I cannot recommend Hadley at this time.

My heart skipped a beat.

I cannot recommend Hadley…

Bye-bye.

I sat down on Ms. Pitt's floor and began to softly cry.