Marilyn Kaye - Out of Sight, Out of Mind

There were other experiences. Two stood out- that time in the fourth grade when she saw a classmate get hit by a car in front of the school and then felt herself lying on the street, frightened and in pain and hearing the sound of the ambulance. And another time, just three years ago, when she became a boy -a skinny, nerdy, whiny boy named Martin, younger than her, who had lived across the street. Nobody in the neighborhood liked Martin, and his mother was always complaining to other mothers about the way their kids treated him. But then one day she saw him surrounded by bigger boys, who were pushing him back and forth and laughing at him, and she felt sorry for him…

That was the last one. Because by then, she'd figured it out. Feeling too much-that was the problem. When she felt bad for someone else, that was when it happened. Now, at the age of 13, she knew the words: sympathy, compassion, pity. Those were the emotions that triggered the bizarre bodysnatching, that transported her into other people and made her feel what they were feeling.

Once she understood, she knew what she had to do to prevent it from happening again. She had to stop feeling these emotions. If she didn't care about someone, she wouldn't become that person.

So she stopped caring. It wasn't easy, and often she had to struggle, but it was worth it so that she never had to suffer the experience again. At first, she just tried to block the feelings of sympathy, but then she realized it would be useful to actually fight them. She focused on behavior that would work contrary to compassion-mockery, ridicule, creative insults. And in the process she discovered a strange truth-people admired her meanness, or else they were just frightened of her. In any case, it worked to her advantage.

And now she had a fabulous life. She was the Queen of Mean and she ruled the school--or at least the eighth grade, though she felt pretty sure that her fame extended to the younger grades. She was never alone; classmates sought her approval and she was held in awe. She knew there were people who claimed to hate her, but she had no doubt that what they really wanted was to be her.

After a few deep breaths, another splash of water on the face, and a quick makeup repair, she was ready to go back to the cafeteria and pick up where she'd left off. And she made it through the day without feeling sorry for anyone again.

But later that night, in her beautiful pink and white bedroom, lying in her four-poster bed under a lacy canopy, Amanda thought about the strange event of the day and wondered how it had come to pass. Why had she felt a glimmer of pity for Tracey Devon? True, Tracey was pathetic, but she wasn't a victim like Mrs. Blakely or the girl who had been hit by the car.

What did she know about Tracey anyway? Not much. She knew that Tracey was one of those "gifted" kids who attended a special class at Meadowbrook. Which was sort of hard to believe, because she didn't strike Amanda as being any kind of genius. They'd gone to the same elementary school, and Tracey had been in Amanda's second-grade class. They hadn't been best friends-she was just another classmate-but there had been nothing especially awful about her. Tracey had been okay back then.

In fact, she had been almost famous. Everyone in town was talking about Tracey's family that year-her mother had just given birth to septuplets, seven identical baby girls. They were on TV, on the news. The "Devon Seven"-that's what the reporters called them. The babies were in commercials, and they posed for ads, and every year after that a TV news program included a special segment showing them on their birthday. The Devon Seven were famous.

But not Tracey Devon. She wasn't on those special TV shows. That wasn't surprising, in Amanda's opinion. Who would want to see a nerd like Tracey on TV?

Amanda realized then what really annoyed her- the fact that Tracey didn't have to be a nerd. She didn't have to dress so badly or act so nervous. Why didn't she stand up for herself? Why did she take all the abuse that everyone heaped on her? She was more than a nerd-she was a wimp, never fighting back, not even trying. She was a total, complete, absolute loser…

Amanda was aware of beads of sweat forming on her forehead. She was getting all worked up again. This wouldn't do at all. She couldn't let Tracey bother her. Everyone else just ignored her, so why couldn't Amanda?

She had to calm down or she'd never get to sleep.

She did sleep finally. When she next opened her eyes, there was sunlight pouring in the window… which was odd, because her mother always woke her up when she came in to open the shutters on Amanda's windows. But there was no one else in the room…

She blinked. Where was her canopy? Why was she looking at a ceiling? Had she fallen off her bed? Because this didn't feel like her bed-it was harder. As her eyes began to focus, the first real stirrings of fear began. She noticed the chest of drawers in front of her. It was yellow, not pink. And what were those flowered curtains doing at the sides of her window? No… not her window. Not her room.

She sat up suddenly, and that was when she noticed her hands. What had happened to her manicure-the nice rosy polish? Whose stubby, bitten fingernails were these?

Her heart was pounding furiously, but her body moved in slow motion. Lifting legs that weren't her legs. Putting feet onto the floor, experiencing the new sensation of a carpet instead of a fluffy rug. Walking toward a mirror that hung above the unfamiliar chest of drawers. Looking in the mirror and seeing… Tracey Devon.

THE REFLECTION STARED BACK at her, frozen and uncomprehending. The same pale freckled face, greasy hair, and thin lips that she'd scorned the day before in the cafeteria. The scrawny body, barely concealed by a thin, babyish nightgown covered in faded pink flowers. There was no question about it-Amanda Beeson was Tracey Devon.

Her body couldn't move, but her insides were shaking. Amanda closed her eyes. Think of who you really are, she commanded herself. Amanda Beeson, five foot two, 110 pounds, light brown hair, blue eyes, turned-up nose. Amanda Beeson, the coolest girl at Meadowbrook Middle School, the Queen of Mean. Frantically, she tried to remember what she'd worn to bed the previous night: an extra-large T-shirt with "I heart New York" written on it that her father had brought back for her from his last business trip. When she had the image firmly imprinted in her mind, she opened her eyes again. The shock she was feeling was still visible on the face of Tracey Devon.

The silence of the room was broken by a series of harsh beeps. It took Amanda a moment to realize that the noises were coming from an alarm clock on the nightstand. She turned it off and sat down on the bed.

Stay calm, she told herself. You know what's happening. It's happened before and it will pass. She was actually more angry than frightened. Curse that Tracey Devon for demanding pity! If Amanda had disliked the girl before, she positively hated her now. Hate, hate, hate, she repeated silently.

Surely you couldn't feel sympathy for someone you hated. If she concentrated on her real feelings for Tracey, she'd get out of Tracey's body and back into her own.

But it was hard to focus on hate when what she was really feeling at the moment was hunger. It occurred to her that maybe her hunger was making her too weak to get back into herself. She could do something about that.

Moving awkwardly on unfamiliar feet, she went to the door and out into the hallway. So this was Tracey's house-or at least, the upstairs part of it. She heard voices coming from another room and edged along the wall to peek in and see what was going on inside.