Megan Hart - Switch

"I help out once in a while, if she's got a big job."

Denny grimaced at his empty cup, but didn't move to pour

more. "What's she up to? She stil with the same guy?"

Questions my dad never asked. I was the only part of my

mother my dad needed to know about. He'd never said as

much, but I knew it.

"Leo? Yes."

"And that kid, how old's he now?"

"Arty's seven." I had to laugh for a second. "Wow. Yeah.

He just turned seven."

"You tel her I said hi, okay?"

"Sure."

We chatted for a while after that. The party got louder.

Stela reigned over it like a queen, even if she was claiming

Stela reigned over it like a queen, even if she was claiming

to stil be only twenty-nine. When it came time to open the

gifts, I thought about slipping out, but forced myself to

stay.

Stela sat in the big rocking chair in the living room, her

presents arranged at her feet and her closest girlfriend

beside her getting ready to write down the name of every

gift and its giver. Stela opened gift cards, packages of

bath salts, certificates for spa treatments. Sweaters.

Slippers. A new silk robe someone had brought from a

trip to Japan. She oohed and aahed over each gift

appropriately.

By the time she got to mine, my stomach had begun to eat

itself. The harsh sting of acid rose in my throat, burning.

My heart thudded sickly. I had to turn away to pop

another couple antacids and sip from a glass of ginger ale,

even though I knew the soda would ruin the effects of the

medicine.

It's sily to hold on to the past, but we al do it. I was

almost ten the first year I'd been invited to Stela's birthday

party. The paint had been barely dry in their new house.

Gretchen and Steven were living one week with their

mother and one week with my dad and Stela. I, of course,

mother and one week with my dad and Stela. I, of course,

lived ful-time with my mom and saw my dad on an

occasional weekend or holiday, a practice he'd only

started after leaving his first wife.

I'd picked out Stela's present myself that year, using my

alowance to pay for it. I'd bought her a silky red tank top

with a lacy hem. It was the sort of shirt my mom would've

loved and wore often, and she said nothing when she

helped me fold it and wrap it in some pretty paper that had

come free in the mail to solicit money for a charity.

I'd been so proud of that present. I'd been sure Stela,

who wasn't nearly as pretty as my mom but who tried

hard, anyway, would open it and put it on right away.

Then she'd smile at me, and my dad would smile at me,

and we'd al be happy.

Instead, she'd opened the box and puled out the shirt. Her

gaze had gone immediately to my father's, but men don't

know anything about fashion beyond what they like and

what they don't. She didn't put it on. She fingered the red

satiny fabric and peeked at the label, her eyes going a little

wider at what she saw. Then she put the shirt back in the

box with a thank-you even a nine-year-old could tel was

forced. I never saw her wear it, but I did find it in the

forced. I never saw her wear it, but I did find it in the

garage a few years later, in the box of rags my dad used

for cleaning his cars.

I wasn't nine years old any longer. I wasn't even a teen in

too-thick eyeliner and a too-short skirt. I'd learned how to

dress and how to speak, but part of me would always be

my mother's daughter, at least in Stela's eyes.

"Oh, Paige, what a thoughtful gift." Stela lifted out the box of paper and opened it to pul out the pen. She wiggled it

so the tiny tassel danced. "Very pretty. Thank you."

I let out a long, silent sigh. "You're welcome."

"Where do you find such pretty things?" Stela continued.

She turned to face her audience. "Paige always finds the

prettiest things."

That was it. Bels didn't ring, little birdies didn't fly around

on rainbow glitter wings. She'd said thank-you, and I

thought she meant it. That was al.

I stil managed to slip away before the party was over. My

dad caught me at the door. He insisted on hugging me.

"Thanks for coming." I'm sure he meant it, too.

"Thanks for coming." I'm sure he meant it, too.

I doubt there's anyone who does not have a complicated

relationship with his or her parents, so I'm not saying I'm

special or anything. Considering the circumstances of my

birth, I'm lucky to have any sort of relationship with my

dad. For the most part, at least, it's an honest relationship.

Except of course when honesty is too painful.

"Of course I'd come," I told him. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Of course you would," my dad said. "Wel, I'm glad you did. How's the new place?"

"It's great." With his arm stil around me, I wanted to

squirm away. "It's a very nice place."

"And the new job?"

The job I'd had for almost six months didn't feel so new

anymore. "It's great, too. I like my boss a lot."

"Good. You're up on Union Deposit Road, right?"

"Progress," I told him. "Just off Progress."

"Oh, right. Wel, hey, maybe I should swing by some day

"Oh, right. Wel, hey, maybe I should swing by some day

and take you to lunch at the Cracker Barrel, what do you

say?"

"Sure, Dad." I smiled, not expecting him to ever folow

through. "Just cal me."

He kissed my cheek and hugged me again, making a show

of making me his daughter. It was nice, in that way we

both knew was shalow but served its purpose.

The moment I got in my car and the door to the house

shut, my every muscle relaxed. I blew out another series of

long, slow breaths and lifted my arms to let my pits air out.

I'd be sore tomorrow in places I hadn't realized I'd

clenched. I was already getting a headache. I'd made it

through another big family event without anything going

wrong.

Chapter 08

Some consider the body a temple. As such, it must be

cared for appropriately so it may be used in the manner for

which it was meant.

Beginning tomorrow, you wil eat oatmeal for breakfast.

Sweeten it however you like.

Today, you wil consume three fewer cups of coffee,

replacing them with water.

Today, you wil extend your regular workout by fifteen

minutes.

Today, you will focus a conscious effort on your

cigarette smoking. You may smoke one cigarette only

once every two hours. You will do nothing else while

you smoke it. You will concentrate on my instructions.

You will think of the word discipline each and every

time you light up.

Finaly, you wil record your efforts in your journal and

describe your thoughts and feelings in detail, particularly

your thoughts on what "discipline" means to you.

your thoughts on what "discipline" means to you.

"Do this in memory of me, and go in peace to love and

serve the Lord," I murmured, mocking. "Wow."

The second note had been nestled amongst a scant handful

of bils and charity requests, and it had slipped into my

hand as though it had been written just for me. I hadn't

meant to open it, but something about the smooth, sleek

paper and lack of glue on the flap had been too tempting

to pass up. Hey, it had been delivered to me, hadn't it?

Even though the number on the front stil said 114, not

414, and even though I knew better, I'd read it anyway.

I stil had no clue what the hel it was, or meant. I turned it

over and over in my hands, then read it again. I closed the

card and stared at it, but I couldn't decipher its meaning.

Unless it had none. Maybe it was some sort of crazy new

diet or self-help plan. I'd heard of a new plan that hooked

members up with mentors. Sort of like a 12-step program

for food addicts, it was supposed to help to have a buddy.

It was the only scenario I came up with, but it didn't feel

right.

I lifted the card again, looking closer for clues. I caressed

the paper. It had the same rough edge, like someone had

the paper. It had the same rough edge, like someone had

cut one large sheet of paper into smaler sizes. No

signature, and delivered twice in a row to the wrong

person. Some buddy.

I kept the card safely in my hand. My fingers curved

around it and my thumb caressed the thick paper. I looked

at it again, the single sentence.

Discipline?

I stil didn't get it. I tucked the card back into its envelope,

restraining myself from sniffing the ink. I wasn't the only

person standing at the mailboxes, and I didn't want to

attract that sort of attention. I found the mailbox for 114

and studied it, too. The brass numbers were stylishly

weathered but not worn. There wasn't realy any mistaking

a one for a four or vice versa, even if the number on the

card itself were smudged.

"Excuse me." The woman next to me gave me a smile

meant to look apologetic but only looked annoyed. "I need

to get to my box."

"Oh. Sorry." I folded closed the note and tucked it quickly into the slot for 114, wondering if by some luck it

into the slot for 114, wondering if by some luck it

belonged to her.

She used her key to open a different box, though, and

puled out a thick sheaf of mail. Then she bent and looked

through the hole to the office behind it, but the mail carrier

had already moved down the row to the end. She

straightened as she closed and locked her box, then riffled

through her mail with a disgusted sniff.

"Nothing ever comes when it's supposed to." She didn't

say it to me, but I nodded anyway.

"I wish my bils wouldn't come."

She turned and gave me an up-and-down look as her

mouth twitched into a grimace masquerading as another

smile. Her gaze took in my coat, the same cut and color as

hers but not as nice, my legs, clad in nude hose, and finaly

settled on my shoes. They were the only part of me that

seemed worth her approval, but she raised a brow anyway

and just tossed off a fake little laugh as she stuffed her mail

into her Kate Spade bag and turned on her matching

pumps.

Bitch.

Bitch.

Oh, I knew what discipline meant to me, al right.

Discipline was what kept me from popping her in the back

of the head with the heel of my barely-passing-inspection

shoes. It's what kept my chin high and my mouth fixed in a

pleasant smile instead of turning down at the corners so the

tears would stay burning behind my eyes instead of

slipping out.

Discipline, or maybe it was pride. Or stubbornness.

Whatever it was, I had enough to spare.

I waited until she'd gone before I crossed the lobby and

pushed through the revolving door. Outside, gray and

overcast skies echoed my mood, and the breeze brought

the scent of cigarettes to me. I looked automaticaly,

wondering if I'd see someone pondering discipline.

"Ari," I said, surprised. "Hi."

Miriam's grandson tossed his butt into the sand-filed can

and shrugged his coat higher around his neck. "Hey,

Paige."

"I didn't know you lived here."

He grinned. "I don't. Just dropped off something for my

grandma, you know?"

I didn't know, but I nodded. "Tel her I said helo."

"Stop by the shop and tel her yourself," he suggested with a sweetly dipping smile.

It was nice to be flirted with, albeit without much heat. "I'l

do that. Have a good day."

"You, too."

I looked back as I crossed the aley to the parking garage,

and Ari was stil looking. Maybe there was a little heat,

after al. And what woman didn't like to be appreciated? I

had a much bigger smile on my face than I had before, and

it lasted me al the way to work.

I wasn't even close to being late, but I might as wel have