Fairfax and them said something about it taking awhile to get into someone else's memories and personality. Hours, at least, usually after a good night's sleep. Certainly Carlos and Mike weren't acting like they had Eva and Jessica's "upstairs" stuff.
But you're sure you've got Stephanie's memories already, and you're pretty sure you have her personality. At least, you feel the impatience that you imagine she'd feel, and a vexation at the way you're scoping yourself out in this mirror.
But as for memories: You remember the texts that brought her—you—up to this complex. Eva had asked if you could go out this evening; you'd said you could for a little while, and would Marc be willing to help move some furniture if you could find a truck to transport it in? Eva had said she had a truck you could use and what it was for? You reminded her you needed to find a place to store some of your grandmother's old furniture, and then she offered Carlos's unit, and Will's truck, and it all came together really fast.
You remember trying to borrow Will's truck yesterday. You thought you could swing that—he's been trying to hang around with you lately—but he'd begged off, which was fine. You weren't that happy with him after the way he ran out on Bailey at that party.
You remember the drive up here, wondering if maybe you should mention that party to him, and mention Bailey, and maybe figure out what his deal is. You hope he hasn't got a crush on you. But the kid's probably dopey enough to. Someone—was it Eva?—mentioned that he's on the rebound, or something. Lisa Yarborough had been hanging out with him over the summer. Lisa's a sweet girl and exactly the kind to adopt lost puppy dogs, so it would have served her right if Will had latched onto her. But apparently she got tired of it—even Lisa's patience isn't infinite—and so it sounds like Will has lately been on the look out for another leg to awkwardly hump. His experience with Lisa has probably fooled him into thinking he can punch above his weight.
Dumb kid. Bailey would have been perfect for him.
And you remember sitting on the hood of Will's truck just a little while ago, legs bent under you as you texted Almida about the squad lineup. That's another classmate who can't see the obvious. You don't need to bring any more people onto the squad, and you don't want to. Look at Anita, she let Hannah Westrick join the girls' varsity soccer squad late and now everything there is going to hell. You've got a good basketball team now, and bringing someone else in might be like dropping a steel ball into a steam turbine.
All of these memories come in small, overlapping waves. You flinch a little as each one hits you, but your face—you're still regarding yourself in the mirror—doesn't show any reaction. At the end, once you've reconciled yourself to these opinions, and to the mass of vaguer impressions behind them—like that of Will Prescott as a well-meaning doofus who might get his feet under him one day, not that you'll be watching to see that he does—you arch your eyebrows at your reflection, as though to ask yourself, "And is that all, and was it worth it?" then turn to hunt for your clothes.
Dumbass could have at least folded them up. Quickly you pull on the panties ...
And your native personality barges to the fore again. You shut your eyes and suck on a lip as you shift them to get comfortable. You'd always preferred boxers to briefs—it was less hideous when the bullies got your pants off if you were wearing boxers. But with Stephanie's underthings, it's almost as good as going commando. Just with a little pinch where you can enjoy the feeling.
The bra is next, and you marvel at how you don't even have to think how to get it on. Just snap it on, twist it around, tuck yourself in. The feeling is instantly familiar and habitual.
That, more than anything else, convinces you you've got the "upstairs" stuff to pull off an impersonation.
Even before you pick up the Levis you know they're going to be tight around the hips—not because Stephanie is carrying any excess weight down there, but just because they're form-fitting. So you tug and stretch and pull them tight to button them. They flow up over your pelvis and hug the curve of your abdomen. The plaid work shirt is soft—so broken in that the cotton feels almost like silk. You button it up—not until you're halfway up do your fingers remind you that it's a boy's shirt, with the buttons on the ... wrong side? right side? Your lips twist a little. Depends on the chest of the person wearing it, you reflect. It's a hand-me-down from Kayjay—that's Kevin Joseph, Stephanie's older brother, the one off at college in North Carolina. The golden child, adored by parents and siblings alike. The shirt keeps Stephanie feeling close to him.
You rake your fingers through your hair, loosening the curls, then sit to pull on the socks and the banged-up tennis shoes saved for grunt work. The latter you quickly double-knot. After pulling on the windbreaker, you spring up and over to the mirror again.
There she is. There's the girl you were fantasizing about not an hour ago. Form-fitting jeans; sloppy, casual plaid shirt; tousled hair, which you tug at lightly, to straighten the curls. Flinty green eyes and lips faintly curved back to show the tips of your teeth.
You flash a canine at yourself, and harden your brow. Yeah, that's your game face. All this time you thought Stephanie was scowling at you, but now you know she was just looking at you. This is what she shows when she's actually mad. You snicker at yourself as you straighten up and put your shoulders back.
Because there's business to be done. You snatch the phone from off the floor, where it had fallen and spun, and shove it back into your shirt pocket. You kick the door handle up with one foot, and a few energetic skips—the kind to set up a jump shot—take you to the other bay.
Beta-Will, now dressed, is sitting on the edge of the desk, looking like a scarecrow that someone folded up wrong and tossed into a corner. He does a double-take at you, and you can tell by his expression that he doesn't know whether to laugh or dive behind the desk.
You don't give him time to decide. "Come on, we got some more furniture to move."
"Nice look, man," he sneers.
"Who do you think you're talking to?" Your hands automatically go to your hips.
"It looks like I'm talking to Stephanie Wyatt, but I can tell it's you," he says. He waggles the cell phone. "Been checking texts, too, so—"
"Yeah, okay. Oh, any come in since I woke you up?"
"Fairfax is asking how things are going." He shies away. "I haven't replied."
"Well, don't. I'll take care of it later. But we got a table and some chairs we still need to bring in." You grab the handle of the dolly, and pull it along behind.
You're halfway to the front door when something heavy drops onto the dolly with a bang. You wheel around. Beta-Will is crouching on it, grinning at you. "Get off," you snap. "You're not five years old, and this isn't a grocery cart."
"Jeez, sorry." He leaps off. "Do you gotta be in character with me, Stephanie bro?"
You stop dead in your tracks. He's got a horrible whine in his voice when he tries to be clever, but lowers his eyes as you stare coldly back at him.
But he's right. That was instinctive, what you said. Stephanie's instincts. But it's not because you were mad at him. You just don't have the patience to let him fuck around.
You can't keep from making a sarcastic reply, though. "On the way back I'll buy you ice cream. Will that make you happy?"
"Really?"
"No. Let's just get the furniture moved."
Still, you resolve to be nicer to your beta. Trouble is, Stephanie can try to be nice all she wants, but when you talk like her it still comes out in ways that, after the fact, don't sound so nice. "I'll take this in," you tell him when you've got the dining room table on the cart. "You bring in the chairs. Don't try to carry more than two at a time, I don't want them banged up." From the dirty look he gives you, you realize you misjudged the tenor of the instruction. You bite your tongue and haul the cart into the storage unit.
When you've got everything packed away—it really does fill up Carlos's gym space, and you study the results with a grimace before giving up—you put out the lights and pull down the doors. "What happens now?" Beta-Will asks as he hustles along behind you to the truck.
"Gotta check messages." You swing into the passenger side of the cab, buckle yourself in, and prop both feet up on the console. You set your jaw and text Fairfax on your old phone. all set, got stephanie fine, on way home
His answer is almost immediate: come meet us to talk
You don't need to talk. You can tell just by the memories at your fingertips, and the way you were pushing Beta-Will around, that no one in a million years could bust your Stephanie impersonation. And you know that they will be expecting her home soon.
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