Switched

Part One: The Switch

   
Chapter 1

   
Chapter 2

   
Chapter 3

   
Chapter 4

   
Chapter 5

   
Chapter 6

Part Two: The Murderer

   
Chapter 7

   
Chapter 8

   
Chapter 9

   
Chapter 10

   
Chapter 11

   
Chapter 12

   
Chapter 13

   
Chapter 14

   
Chapter 15

   
Chapter 16

   
Chapter 17

   
Chapter 18

Part Three: The Reunion

   
Chapter 19

   
Chapter 20

   
Chapter 21

   
Chapter 22

   
Chapter 23

   
Chapter 24

   
Chapter 25

   
Chapter 26

   
Chapter 27

About the Author

M
y name is Nicole Darwin and I'm a loser.

At least, that's the way I feel these days. Even the beautiful spring weather we've been having—the red and yellow tulips bobbing in the soft, warm breezes, the fresh smell of newly cut grass—can't cheer me up.

My life is the worst.

I tore a fingernail while getting dressed for school this morning and burst into tears. That's how messed up I am.

My fingernails are long and perfect. Sometimes I polish them rose red, sometimes a lilac purple. Some of the girls tease me about them. But I think they're pretty.

I don't know. I just like the way they look.

I think I'm pretty good looking. I'm not a knockout beauty or anything. But I'm okay. I have straight, dark brown hair, which I wear long, swept back over my shoulders. And I have really good skin, very creamy and pale.

Everyone tells me my eyes are my best feature. They're very light brown and very expressive. My boyfriend, David, says my eyes are mysterious. He says he can stare right into them and not have a single clue about what I'm thinking.

David is right about that. He usually doesn't have a clue about what I'm thinking.

He's a nice guy, but he mostly thinks about himself.

Besides, how could he know what I'm thinking? I always have such weird thoughts.

I wonder if everyone has weird thoughts like me.

Mom says I'd be beautiful if I'd smile more. She says that my hangdog expression pulls down my whole face.

She also thinks I should cut my hair short. “Why do you need so much hair?” she asks, shaking her head. Her hair is cropped nearly as short as a man's. “Think of all the hours you spend washing it and caring for it.”

Mom is full of advice.

Sometimes she can be a real pain. She'll see that I'm unhappy, that I'm depressed about something. But that doesn't stop her from unloading more advice.

Does she really think I want to be just like her?

She and Dad are so boring. It's pitiful to watch them at the dinner table every night, struggling to think of something to say to each other.

When I get married, I hope I don't sit around talking about how hot it is outside and whether or not to buy a new kind of weed killer.

It's so depressing!

My parents are always in my face. I'm not the only one who notices it. My friends at Shadyside High agree with me. They all have a lot more freedom than I do.

They can take the car and drive around at night and visit friends and stuff. They don't have to tell their parents everywhere they're going and when they'll be back, the way I do.

After all, we're seniors. We're practically adults.

I don't see why I have to call and check in with my parents if I'm away more than a couple of hours or if I'm going to be later than I said.

I can take care of myself. They've got to learn to give me some space.

I could go on and on about Mom and Dad. But they're not the only reason I've been feeling really messed up these days.

I've had a few problems in school. I don't know if it's spring fever or what.

I should have written my biology report. But I didn't.

Mr. Frost made such a big deal of it. He made me feel like a criminal. Like I'd killed someone or something.

He called me in after school for one of our “private chats.” That's what he calls them. He and I have had several “chats.” But I don't know how you can call it a chat if it's just one person giving another person a hard time.

“You should have written your paper, Nicole.” That's how Mr. Frost started the “chat.”

I call him Frosty. Because he's big and round like a snowman.

“You should have written your paper, Nicole.”

“I know,” I replied, trying not to yawn in his face.

He waved a chubby hand, brushing away a fly that kept circling his face. First fly of spring, I thought.

“Why didn't you write it?” he demanded. He spoke in a soft, gentle voice that got softer the angrier he became.

I shrugged. “Don't know.”

I really didn't know. I had planned to write it. I even did most of the research. I just never got around to it.

“You have to have some kind of excuse, Nicole,” Frosty said, his voice growing even quieter.

I glanced out the window. The guys on the Tigers baseball team were doing warm-up drills on the practice field. Clouds lifted away from the sun, and the room filled with light.

“I don't really have an excuse,” I confessed.

We were both standing. He leaned his back against
the chalkboard behind his desk. I stood on the other side of the desk, my arms crossed.

I wore a black tank top and dark denim jeans. Black to match my mood.

The night before, I'd thought about painting my nails black. But I was on the phone for an hour with my best friend, Lucy Kramer, and I didn't get around to it.

“Well, what are we going to do about this?” Mr. Frost asked softly. “I don't want to fail you, Nicole. It would keep you from graduating.”

Those words woke me up.
No way
I wasn't graduating this spring. I was counting the days till I was out of there.

“Uh . . . maybe I could hand it in late,” I suggested. “It wouldn't take me long to write it, Mr. Frost. I've done all the research. Really.”

I had been tugging tensely at a strand of dark brown hair. I brushed it back behind my shoulder.

Frosty pressed his lips together and gazed at me thoughtfully. He rubbed two or three of his chins.

“I've done all the work,” I repeated. “Please let me write it. I know it'll be really good.”

He kept me in suspense a few moments longer. Then he said, “If you hand it in Monday, I'll accept it.”

“But today is Friday!” I blurted out.

“I know, Nicole. Spend the weekend on it. If I give you longer, it isn't fair to the others in the class. Do a good job. I'm counting on you.”

He opened a notebook on his desk and started leafing through it. I took that to mean the “chat” was over.

I muttered “Thank you” and stomped from the classroom.

I felt really steamed. I guess I was more angry at myself than at Frosty. I mean, it wasn't his fault that I had messed up the assignment.

Nicole, why do you always make things so hard for yourself?

I couldn't answer my own question.

I'm going to have to work twenty hours a day to get that paper written, I told myself. That meant I had to tell David that I couldn't go to the dance club with him Saturday night.

This didn't make me happy at all.

David had been acting pretty weird lately. He had broken a couple of dates. He seemed sort of distant. As if he had something on his mind.

Which wasn't like David. He's a pretty laid-back, go-with-the-flow kind of guy. He's not an airhead or anything. He's just real easygoing.

Anyway, with David acting so strange, I really wanted to go out with him Saturday night. Maybe find out what was stressing him out. But there was no way I could go out Saturday night—
and
get the paper written.

To my surprise, David was waiting for me outside the science lab. “What are
you
doing here?” I greeted him.

“Waiting for you,” he replied. David is a man of few words. He seldom says a whole sentence. He thinks it's kind of cute and appealing.

So do I.

I reached my face up to kiss him. He's very tall, nearly a foot taller than me.

He pulled back.

I gazed up at him. Tried to read his expression. He has these big, brown soulful puppy-dog eyes. He turned them away from me.

What's his problem?
I wondered.

I decided I'd better just come right out and tell him that Saturday night was off.

But he beat me to it. “I . . . can't go out Saturday night,” he said, still gazing down the empty hall.

“Excuse me? Why not?” I demanded, unable to hide my surprise.

He hesitated. We had been walking slowly side by side to my locker. But he stopped. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “Just can't,” he muttered.

“David, what's going on?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from getting too shrill. “What's happening Saturday night?”

He shrugged. “Made other plans,” he said. His expression changed. Now he looked really embarrassed. “Listen, Nicole . . .”

I waited for him to go on. But he didn't.

I felt a stab of dread in my chest. I suddenly felt cold all over. “Are you . . . breaking up with me?” I asked.

The words didn't sound real. They didn't sound as if they were coming from me.

I had counted on David. Things had been tough for me. Real tough. I needed David. I needed him to keep me on a steady course.

I was so depressed. So low. I didn't need more bad news.

“Well? Are you?” I demanded.

He nodded. Those brown, soulful eyes locked on mine. “Yeah. I guess.”

“But—
why
?” I cried. I couldn't keep my cool. I was just so shocked.

“It's too much,” he replied.

Typical David answer. What did
that
mean?

I grabbed his arm. “I don't get it,” I said. “At least tell me why, David. I really don't get it.”

“It's just too much,” he repeated.

I saw that my fingernails were digging into his skin.

He pulled out of my grasp. He backed away.

“David—!” I cried.

“Listen, I'll call you later or something,” he said. He started backing down the long hall. “Okay? Call you later. Sorry. Sorry, Nicole.”

He turned and hurried away, taking long strides.