“Casey! Thank God. Yes, it’s me. What the hell is going on?”
Relief pours over me. At least I know where she is, that’s she safe. And that I still exist.
“I was just calling you. Well, me,” Rachel says sounding out of breath.
“I don’t know what’s going on. This is so strange,” I say as I twist Rachel’s gold wedding band and notice her ragged cuticles—chewing on them has been a bad habit of hers since middle school.
“I totally freaked out when I woke up in your bed this morning. Nice sheets, by the way.” She forces a laugh. My laugh. “What are they, like five-thousand-thread count?”
“Two thousand . . . and on that note, flannel sheets? And what’s with this cotton nightgown that looks like my mom’s? Really, Rachel?” I pull the nightgown over my head and start looking for something else—anything else—to put on. I run my hands over the rows of bland cardigan sweaters, the stacks of Gap jeans, the shoe tree filled with slip-on tennis shoes, and debate putting that terrible nightgown back on.
“Well, I nearly had a heart attack when I woke up without any clothes on. Is that how you always sleep? I can’t remember the last time I did that . . .” Rachel trails off.
Maybe that’s why John’s so damn cranky. Between that and the nightgown that looks like Ebenezer Scrooge should be wearing it.
I settle on a pair of workout pants and a T-shirt. Maybe I’ll try to get Rachel on one of those makeover shows after we get this all figured out and switch back. If we switch back. But first we need to figure out how we got here in the first place.
“We need to figure out—”
Rachel cuts me off. “Why we’re trapped in a bad Freaky Friday remake.”
“Exactly . . . You’re Jamie Lee Curtis by the way.”
“At this point, I’ll be anyone if it means I can get my life back.”
“Just one thing,” I say, picturing John with his running shoes in hand.
“What?”
I open the closet door and listen for more calls for Mom. “I don’t know how to ask you this, but how do I convince John to take care of these kids so I can leave the house?”
“Oh God, the kids. I haven’t even asked about them. How are they?”
“They’re fine, I guess,” I answer.
“You guess? It’s seven thirty in the morning. What have you been doing?”
“Oh you know, the usual. Sleeping in. Relaxing. Realizing I’m in another person’s body!”
“I need to come over there and help. They need me in the mornings. You don’t understand. It’s pretty chaotic.”
“You can’t come over here and help. You’re not you, remember? And anyway, what could possibly be so chaotic?”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, John’s going to have to handle it. What’s his deal anyway? Why does he act like you have to do everything?”
She sighs. “Careful. Don’t remind me how it is. I may not want to switch back.”
CHAPTER 6
* * *
rachel
I fling the front door open and I’m staring at myself. It’s me, but it’s not me. My dark hair is swept back in a neat ponytail, my cheeks flush—is that blush?—my eyelids covered in eye shadow. “Is this really happening—is that you inside my body?”
“We have to talk about this inside my apartment.” Casey pushes past me. “All I need is my nosy neighbor calling Perez Hilton about this.”
“Please tell me we’re about to wake up from this dream.” I place my hands on my new, nonexistent hips.
“I wish I could. But I just woke up at your house with a baby’s diaper in my face. This is real. Shitty-diaper real.” Casey slumps down on her white pillowless sofa and kicks off a pair of my running shoes that I haven’t worn in months. I cringe as I notice the way the Lycra pants Casey’s wearing are clinging to my thighs.
“How is she?” I self-consciously feel Casey’s thighs, but they’re now slim and toned, no doubt due to her daily workouts.
“Who?”
“Charlotte!”
“She has a clean diaper,” Casey answers, clearly distracted, running her finger over her midcentury modern coffee table, inspecting her finger afterward. “What does my housekeeper think I’m paying her for? There’s dust all over this.”
“Yeah, I really hate it when that happens.” I grimace, thinking about the laundry piled high next to the washing machine. Casey has a big dose of reality coming her way when she gets back to my house.
“This is insane. I’m a guest in my own home. What is happening?” Casey paces across her white stain-free rug.
I could never have a white rug in my house.
“I woke up this morning to total silence. No one was calling for me . . .”
“That’s because they were calling for me!” Casey laughs. “Your house is Grand Central Station in the morning. I haven’t even had coffee yet!”
I walk into Casey’s sprawling kitchen, a giant island in the middle with two sinks in it—two sinks—and open the Sub-Zero refrigerator searching for coffee.