Switch by Tish Cohen Page B

Adams in a kitchen in the suburbs is like seeing a grizzly in a meerkat cage at the zoo. He’s all giant limbs and hunched shoulders peeking through the holes of a T-shirt that may or may not have survived a shark attack. The Plexiglas stool beneath him doesn’t look up to the job of supporting such a man, but he doesn’t appear concerned as he leans against the island, sips from his coffee and flips through the
L.A. Times.
    “No,” I say, entering the kitchen. It’s an icy place with stainless-steel countertops that would come in handy should you wish to dissect a frog or, say, a Clydesdale. Same configuration as mine at home, but these cabinets are shiny like lacquered fingernails, and the fridge and stove appear big enough for restaurant use. A cigarette burns in a saucer beside him. I pull the dead soldier coat shut to hide my bare legs and smile sweetly. “I just popped over to a friend’s house before school to ask a question. You know, about homework.”
    Now he looks up. Stares at me a moment, then starts laughing his head off like I’ve told the greatest joke on earth. “That’s a good one, baby cakes,” he chokes out in an English accent. Funny, I didn’t realize he was British. Stupid of me, considering he’s dressed in Union Jack pants in Bray’s poster. When he settles down, he returns to his paper and cigarette. “You almost had me there.”
    I should be relieved. At least I don’t have to suffer this man’s wrath. But instead I’m mildly offended on behalf of Joules. Is it so uncool that she cares a tiny bit about her schoolwork?
    “Croissants are ready.” He nods toward the counter. “I made chocolate, your favorite.”
    It isn’t until now that I realize I’m starving. Normally I don’t eat breakfast, I can’t stomach any food before eleven in the morning. Either Joules has a faster metabolism or switching bodies with another person is seriously taxing on the system. Inside a glass cake stand, atop a decorative napkin, are five or six croissants all drizzled with chocolate and icing sugar. When I lift off the lid, the room is filled with a scent that nearly brings me to my knees. And when I pick one up, it’s soft and warm. I bite into it. So buttery, so sweet and light and soft. The little pastry is gastronomic perfection.
    “Turned out perfect this time,” he says. “The pastry rose up like air. I think I’ve finally nailed the butter–flour ratio.”
    Impossible to imagine this craggy rock star all aproned up and sifting icing sugar atop his baking. “Seriously? You made this yourself?”
    He laughs again and looks at me like I’m, well, me. “Are you mad, girlie? I make these for you nearly once a week.”
    I have to be more careful. Whatever Nigel does is normal—no matter how abnormal it may be—otherwise he’ll start to suspect something is up. “No, I just meant that this batch is so much better than usual. Way lighter and, um, flour-ier.”
    “Exactly what I said.”
    I take another bite. “You might have a decent future after all.”
    This seems to satisfy him. He smirks at my bad joke and returns to his paper.
    I need a glass of cold milk to go with the croissant, but where do they keep the glasses? A check of cupboardafter cupboard reveals everything but, and I make a mental note to ask Joules for some sort of household map.
    “Looking for something, Jujube?”
    “I couldn’t find my, um, my special glass. You know, that one I love …”
    “All the glasses are the same. Don’t know what you’re on about.”
    Yes, but where are they? “Umm, Nigel?”
    He looks up. “What do we say about calling me by my first name?”
    “That you don’t like it?”
    “Got that right. You know your dad prefers the society-dictated alternative that makes him sound as old as he really is.” He turns the page. “You calling me Nigel bursts the love bubble your dad lives in. And I don’t like it outside the bubble. It’s cold and cruel out there. No place for a