Free Dead Girl Walking by Linda Joy Singleton

defying gravity and deserving of applause. But were they real or surgically enhanced?
    Upon closer inspection, I found faint shadows of twin scars. And while they looked natural, when I touched them they felt hard and unyielding, like if I did jumping jacks, they wouldn’t bounce with me.
    Leah looked amazing with or without clothes; tight butt, zero cellulite on firm thighs, and long, athletic legs. A tiny diamond glittered from her pierced belly button, and further down I saw proof that Leah was a natural blonde. The small puff of blonde hair curled in a unique shape. I knew some girls shaved down there, but shaving it into a heart? Now that was just … weird.
    Whoa, Leah, what other secrets have you been hiding?
    As I stood naked, staring into the mirror, the enormous reality of my changed life crashed into me. I was looking at myself … except I wasn’t myself … not anymore.
    Maybe never again.
    Ohmygod! Leah freaking Montgomery! That was her, now me, in the reflection: breathing, feeling, living in this body.
    And all because I had a crummy sense of direction.
    Don’t panic , I told myself just as I was doing that very thing. Hyperventilating would solve nothing. I had to solve this problem—my entire future depended on it. In math, every problem has an answer; X always equals something. And my self-help books stated that there was a solution to every problem. But I didn’t know of any books that offered advice for this situation.
    Thinking logically … I’d gotten into this body, so there had to be a way out. But even if I found it, how could I make sure Leah and I returned to our own bodies? What if I ended up in a worse body—like someone in prison or really old with wrinkles? Leah and I needed to swap back with each other. Only I didn’t know where she was, or even if she was alive. What if she was gone forever?
    The pale ghost in the mirror reflected terror.
    I sucked in deep breaths and released them slowly, struggling not to lose whatever remained of me. I wasn’t sure I could hold it together any longer, and was raveling at the edges of despair—when I noticed something in the mirror that gave me new hope.
    On the dresser behind me.
    A phone.

    No uppity switchboard witch stopped me from making this call.
    As I waited for a ring, excited/scared/hopeful thoughts scattered through my head. How would my parents react when they heard my voice? What did they think happened to me? Did the triplets miss me? Who was feeding our cat while I was gone?
    It was almost noon. Dad would be at his job, but Mom should be home preparing triple lunches (unless she was running errands or meeting with her Moms & Multiples playgroup.)
    If Mom answered, she’d be so relieved to know I was okay that she’d start crying, and she wasn’t the crying type at all. My father was the emotional one, although he always hid it by saying he had allergies. If he answered, he’d want to rush right over and take me home. Mom knew how reckless Dad got behind the wheel when he was in a hurry, so she wouldn’t let him drive alone. But then who would watch the triplets? Probably Dilly McCurry, who lived next door and often babysat when I wasn’t around.
    All these things whirled through my head while I waited for the first ring.
    Pick up! I thought, amazed that calling home could be so terrifying. I mean, I was just calling Mom and Dad. So why was my heart racing? My family loved me unconditionally, and they’d support me no matter what.
    Another ring. My palms started to sweat.
    Had one of the triplets tossed the phone in the toilet again?
    Another ring. Maybe this phone wasn’t working right. Or I’d dialed wrong. Lately I had the worst luck with phones. I should hang up and try again—
    “Hello?” a woman answered abruptly, in a voice I didn’t recognize.
    “Um … I must have dialed wrong,” I said, ready to hang up and try again.
    “Whom were you trying to reach?”
    “My par … uh … the Bordens. Sorry to