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“Besides, we
Pogues
don’t even get zits. Or didn’t Emory tell you that?”
    The woman cleared her throat. “It’s just that you look like my—well, I suppose it’s not important. . . . Now, you poor thing, your ice cream is melting. Let’s get you a bowl for that, shall we?”
    Willa blinked. This sudden generosity really caught her off guard. The staff wasn’t usually very friendly. They seemed to follow her parents’ lead and treat her as if she were on some sort of permanent probation.
    “I’m Andrea Melon,” the woman continued as she scooped Willa’s ice cream into a large bowl. “But you can call me Andy. I just started working for your family today.”
    “It’s, uh, nice to meet you,” Willa said.
    She was about to ask Andy why she’d been so spooked, when she heard footsteps in the hall. Willa’s heart started to thump again. She’d better not push her luck. It might be Emory. She, Ben and Jerry had to get up to her room.
    “Listen, I know you’re busy—what with my mom’s guests and all,” she said, reaching across the table to grab her ice cream. “So I’ll just get out of your way, okay?”
    The older woman placed her hand on Willa’s arm for a split second. It felt warm and reassuring.
    “You’re not in my way at all, dear,” she said. “But you do what you like. It’s such a pretty day out. I’m sure you have lots of fun things planned.”
    There were voices attached to the footsteps now.
    Willa had to go. Immediately.
    She held up her free hand in a light wave. “See ya.”
    Andy turned and winked at her, the skin around her eyes wrinkling sweetly.
    Willa slipped up the back stairs, narrowly avoiding Emory. As she climbed the steps, she thought of Andy’s comment—
I’m sure you have lots of fun things planned.
    Sure I do,
Willa thought as she opened the door to her bedroom. The air felt thick and stale.
What’s more fun than spending a little quality time at MySpace with Ben and Jerry?

5
    So Clean You Can See Yourself
    —Formula 409 All-Purpose Cleaner
1977 Ad Slogan
    Laura stepped inside the blue bedroom and stared at the wide plank floors. They were hand-painted; the tiny blue and yellow flowers matched the blue-trimmed walls. The sun streamed over the rich whitewashed furniture and, in the back of the room, a sky-blue window seat was piled high with plush cushions. Emory had mentioned something about the Pogues’ having a daughter. This must be her room.
    As far as assignments went, she could do worse. Her mother had gotten stuck with the rest of the staff serving the Pogues’ lunch guests, while she was here to unpack an obscenely large trunk. It was boring, but she was alone; she could work at her own pace.
    She scratched her neck. If only her uniform didn’t
itch
so much. She’d probably get a rash.
    At least she’d been wrong about one thing: The uniforms hadn’t smelled. They just felt as though they were made of straw.
    Laura allowed herself to imagine, for just a few seconds, what life would be like if this were
her
room. She pictured herself relaxing on the window seat, doing some light reading, or finishing a paper at the elegant six-drawer desk. If this were her room, she’d never have to think about money—not ever. And she could use any shower in the house without worrying about having to scrub it later on
(Scrubbing Bubbles is the best on soap scum. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise)
.
    If this were her room, she’d be leaving for college in just a few weeks.
    “Whoever lives here has a perfect life,” Laura informed the empty room. Her voice caught a little in her throat.
    Her eyes drifted over to the bed. It was covered with throw pillows, each with a different motivational slogan embroidered on it— YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO RICH OR TOO THIN!, LOOKING GOOD IS FEELING GOOD! and YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT!
    “This Pogue kid must be a real—” Laura said, and then froze. There was a picture on the bedside table in a thick silver frame.
    It was