Free Switch by Tish Cohen

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