And the next thing I knew, I was being released.

 

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised . . . that they were releasing me, I mean. They’d completed every test under the sun that they could conceivably do on me. The strangest part was that, well . . . I’d passed them all.

 

And these were mainly physical tests. Let’s just say that I’ve never performed well in tests of my physical endurance. I’ve never exactly aced PE. I’ve always been the last person chosen for teams in volleyball and basketball. I’ve always made a point to play outfield in softball, so that in the unlikely event a ball ever did come my way, I had plenty of room to get out of the way. I was crafty about coming up with excuses as to why I had to sit out from bowling or swimming or even Rollerblading. I’ve just never liked physical exertion. I prefer reading. Or playing video games.

 

So naturally some of the results from my tests astonished even me. I mean, I was required to run on a treadmill for ten minutes straight – and I could actually do it . . . even after having been in a coma for over a month! In my old body, I wouldn’t have lasted more than a minute, maybe two, at a slow jog. I’d have hyperventilated, or worse.

 

Nikki Howard, however, had kept her body in superb condition. It wasn’t actually hard to see why, since fattening foods upset her stomach, and anything processed seemed to taste like chalk on her tongue, forcing me to radically alter my former diet of chips and sweets in favour of healthy stuff I wouldn’t have touched before in a million years, like fish and vegetables. Which my new stomach found comforting and my new tongue found delicious.

 

I know. I was kind of depressed about it too.

 

The thing was, Nikki could run, swim, even jump rope for up to half an hour at a time before even starting to feel tired.

 

What’s more, in her body, it was even pleasurable to do these things. For the first time, I got what they meant when they talked in PE about runner’s high. I felt GOOD after exercising. Finally, I got it . . . about the whole exercise-being-fun thing.

 

Too bad I’d had to get a whole new body before I did so.

 

Once I’d passed all the tests Dr Holcombe sent Dr Higgins to do on me, he signed my release papers and said I could go home . . . but that I would of course need to come in for more tests from time to time, as well as periodic check-ups.

 

Even though I’d been unconscious during most of my stay with them, the staff lined up to say goodbye to me on my way out . . . only I had to leave down the service elevator of course, because once Nikki’s publicist, Kelly – who had arrived to pick me up and take me to my first assignment, a photo op with Robert Stark himself, to show the world that Nikki Howard might have amnesia, but she was fine! Just fine! – had issued her press release about Nikki Howard’s amnesia, the front lobby to the hospital had been jammed with press, eager to get a shot of Nikki leaving the place.

 

I shook hands with Dr Holcombe, Dr Higgins and the rest of the doctors and nurses and orderlies who had cared for me. Dr Higgins and a few of the nurses broke protocol and hugged me, accidentally squashing Cosabella a little in the process, then laughing about it.

 

I stopped laughing when it came time to hug Mom and Dad goodbye though. Because they were not taking the whole letting-their-baby-go-even-though-they-had-no-choice-in-the-matter thing well. In fact, they had already insisted on issuing me a Stark-brand cellphone, on which I was to check in with them three times a day (and on which they’d be calling me approximately every five minutes, judging from the look on Mom’s face).

 

They weren’t the only ones who were worried. I’d never lived away from them – except for a few weeks each summer, when Frida and I had worked as counsellors at sleep-away camp. I was trying to put on a brave face about it, but I was basically terrified – and also the tiniest bit angry. I know they hadn’t had any choice and all, but really . . .

 

A supermodel? For Stark Enterprises?

 

Frida I wasn’t so worried about missing. She and I had already shared a ‘special moment’ alone in my hospital room while I’d been packing my (admittedly few) things to leave.

 

‘God,’ she’d said. ‘I can’t believe you had Nikki Howard’s entire closet to choose from, and what you’ve got on is what you picked. Those Skechers are so pathetic. If you wear them to school, I’m going to die of embarrassment.’

 

‘Frida,’ I’d snapped, particularly stung by her tone, because I was already so worried about everything else. ‘No one knows I’m even related to you any more, OK? So you don’t have to worry. And could you give me a small break? I’m stressed enough as it is, I don’t need you ragging on me about my fashion choices.’

 

‘Oh, please tell me again,’ Frida had mock-begged, ‘about how you don’t know how to handle it because you’re so beautiful now . . . ’

 

‘What I don’t know how to handle,’ I’d said, through gritted teeth, ‘is the fact that my own sister tried out for cheerleading.’

 

‘I didn’t just try out for cheerleading,’ Frida had bragged. ‘I made the squad.’

 

I’d gaped at her. I go into a coma for a month, and my own sister becomes a member of the Walking Dead (only not literally, like me)? Her assimilation was almost complete! She was just one spray-tan away!

 

‘No,’ I’d said, refusing to look at her. ‘You’re just saying that to get a rise out of me. I don’t believe you.’

 

‘Believe it,’ Frida had informed me. ‘Just because you hate our school and have zero school spirit, Em, doesn’t mean I do. And don’t think your showing up there as Nikki Howard is going to intimidate me. Because it’s done. I’m on the squad.’

 

‘Frida.’ I hadn’t known how to explain it to her . . . especially since Mom had already tried so many times, and evidently failed. ‘Cheerleading is . . . well, it’s evil.’

 

‘Cheerleading is a SPORT, Em,’ Frida had shot back. ‘If I wanted to try out for the basketball team, would you be giving me a hard time?’

 

‘Well,’ I’d admitted, ‘no. Because you don’t have to wear a skirt and HALTER TOP when you play it.’

 

‘Look, I have news for you, Em.’ Frida had looked more serious than I’d ever seen her. ‘Cheerleading is something I’ve been wanting to try for my whole life. I was really lucky to make the team . . . even if it’s only JV – and I don’t intend to let you or Mom spoil it. I know I’m not pretty and little like the other girls on the squad . . . I know they only let me on because I’m a good spotter and I can hold up my end of a pyramid. I can’t do a back handspring or even that great a cartwheel. But I’m going to work hard, and take TAHS to the tumbling championships this year. And then both you and Mom will be sorry you looked down on something that brings so much pleasure to so many people. Especially me.’

 

I’d just stared at her. Until she’d added, ‘And if I’m not mistaken, in some of the ad campaigns Nikki Howard’s contracted for, and that you’re going to be doing now, you’re going to be wearing a lot less than a halter top – hello, Victoria’s Secret model. And you can walk in there and tell the art director how sexist his ad campaign is, but guess what? They’ll just hire some other girl to replace you. So you better get over yourself.’

 

At which point she’d turned on her heel and stalked from my room, right past Mom and Dad.

 

‘What’s eating her?’ Dad had wanted to know.

 

But I hadn’t told him. I had bigger things to worry about than Frida – who had lately more than proved she could take care of herself – just then. I was minutes away from officially starting my new life as Nikki Howard on the outside, and Em Watts on the inside.

 

I hadn’t exactly been given any guidelines of course, as to just how I was supposed to accomplish this. Dr Holcombe and his team were scientists, not social workers, and they had no idea what to tell me about being Nikki Howard. Their job was over: I was alive.

 

Granted, I was living someone else’s life. But what I did with that life, apparently, was up to me . . . and Stark Enterprises.

 

Still, I was really, really hoping that I wouldn’t screw it up for my family. And myself.

 

Standing in front of Mom, Dad and Frida now, I wiped the nervous sweat off my hands – Cosabella’s fur was proving excellent for this – and said awkwardly, ‘Well. So. I’ll come by as soon as I have a night off.’ The truth was, I didn’t want to commit to a particular night for dinner with my parents in front of Mr Phillips, who was standing right there, watching. I figured Stark Enterprises knew enough about my personal business.

 

But Mom didn’t catch on. I probably should have just told my parents about Nikki’s computer. But the truth is they’re both so untech savvy, they’d probably think spyware is something you eat with.

 

‘Friday for sure, no excuses,’ Mom said firmly, standing on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. She’d never had to stand on tiptoe to kiss me before. ‘We’ll go to Peking Duck House on Mott Street. That was always your favourite.’

 

I rolled my eyes in Mr Phillips’s direction. He was tapping on his Blackberry. Interesting that he didn’t carry a Stark-brand handheld personal organizer.

 

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you.’ But not on this Stark-brand cellphone I wouldn’t.

 

‘Friday,’ Dad said, giving me a squeeze that caused Cosabella to grunt in protest as she was squashed. ‘You heard your mother.’

 

‘Call us as soon as you get there,’ Mom said, fussing with my jacket. ‘I wish you had a warmer coat than this. I should have brought you something from home.’

 

‘Mom,’ I said.

 

‘Surely Nikki has warmer coats than this,’ she said, picking at the slim jacket I’d plucked from Nikki’s closet. ‘Promise you’ll find something warmer to wear tomorrow.’

 

‘Mom,’ I said.

 

‘It’s November,’ Mom said. ‘Here, take my scarf at least.’

 

She wrapped her scarf around my neck.

 

‘Mom,’ I said as she twined the woolly scarf around my neck tightly enough to strangle me. ‘I’m just getting straight into a limo and then out again when I get there, I don’t need—’

 

‘Don’t forget to call,’ Mom said, hugging me again. Then she let me go as suddenly as if she’d had to force herself.

 

Both Cosabella and I felt a little bruised by the time we got to Frida, to whom I said awkwardly, ‘So. See you in school tomorrow?’ Mr Phillips had succeeded in securing me a place at Tribeca Alternative, and I’d gotten permission to start there whenever my schedule permitted. Which I was hoping was going to be tomorrow.

 

Frida shrugged. ‘Yeah. Whatever,’ she said. We gave one another wary pats on the back – although hers was more on my waist because she was so much shorter than I was – and then I turned around, barely able to see due to the sudden tears in my eyes. I think it was the scarf that did it.

 

That’s when a red-headed woman in a bright green skirt suit, with one of those headsets in her ears, stepped forward and, escorted by two armed security guards, took me by the arm and began steering me into the elevator, going, ‘Yeah, yeah, we got her,’ into the mouthpiece. ‘We’re on our way. ETA to Stark Corporate, fifteen minutes.’

 

One of the security guards stabbed the B button for basement, and then, as the elevator doors slid shut on the tearfully smiling faces of my family, the woman in the green skirt suit turned to me and said, switching off her Stark-brand headset and smiling in a very fake way, ‘Nikki, darling.’ She smelt of expensive perfume. ‘I’m so glad you’re feeling better. I was so worried! Oh, right, I forgot, you don’t remember me. Kelly Foster-Fielding.’ She held out her hand to shake mine in a grip so firm I thought my own would be crushed. ‘I’m your publicist. How are you feeling, honey?’

 

I blinked at her. Did she really not know, or was this a put-on for the security guards? Did Stark Enterprises not tell her? I mean, that I wasn’t really Nikki Howard?

 

But Kelly didn’t even wait for a response from me. Instead, she whipped a Blackberry from her oversized tote and, pressing buttons on it so quickly her thumbs were a blur, went, ‘I’ll be trying to give you a little breathing room this week so you can ease back without getting completely slammed – and I get the school thing, I really do – but there are a few people I haven’t been able to put off. COSMO wants you for its January cover and won’t take no for an answer. I’m telling you, Nik, this amnesia thing is pure gold, since they want to do a piece on you too. But I’m not promising them anything, because I’ve also got requests for both covers and pieces from Vogue, Elle and People – well, we can scratch People, I don’t know who they think you are, an American Idol winner? But this is the big news: Larry King. Right? You and Larry, dishing the dirt? I’m trying to put them off until you’ve actually got something to hock. It’s a complete waste otherwise. Listen, I’m fielding offers from three publishers for a book deal . . . a roman-à-clef, tell-all, how-I-overcame-losing-my-identity . . . whatever you want, they don’t care. They’ll hire a ghostwriter, all you have to do is let them slap your photo on the cover –’

 

The elevator doors slid open and, taking my arm again, Kelly dragged me quickly towards the waiting ink-black stretch limo, while both the security guards flanked us. We’d barely gone two feet before half a dozen paparazzi leaped out from the shadows and, shouting Nikki’s name, began to snap pictures of me, their long telephoto lenses so close they would have jabbed me in the eye if the security guards, saying calmly, ‘All right, guys, let the ladies through,’ hadn’t shoved them out of the way and guided us into the waiting car.

 

Once we were safely inside the cool leather interior of the limo, and the door had been shut behind us and the car was on its way, Kelly went on, as if she hadn’t even been interrupted, ‘Anyway, all of this is great news. If we can time the release of the book so it coincides with the release of the new clothing and beauty lines – sister, you can’t PAY for that kind of publicity. And they’ll be paying US! Oh, and of course all the usual places want you: the morning news shows and Ellen and Oprah and The View and so on. I’m holding them off as best I can, but you’re going to have to do one of them –’

 

I, meanwhile, was collapsed against the seat opposite her, completely stunned by the incident that had just taken place, Cosabella clutched to my chest, her little heart fluttering against mine. I didn’t know which had shocked me more – the paparazzi, what Kelly had just said, or the fact that Brandon Stark was sitting across from me, his arms folded over his chest. He appeared to be fuming about something, if the curl of his lip was any indication.

 

‘Um,’ I said tentatively. ‘Hi?’

 

He looked pointedly away. Kelly, meanwhile, continued her rapid-fire speech, which I could barely follow. In her mid-to-late thirties, with her bright red hair cut into a pageboy that perfectly framed her pale, expertly made-up face, she seemed as put together as any woman I had ever seen. There wasn’t so much as a single snag in her misty black tights, and the heels of her patent-leather pumps had to be four inches at least. I had no idea how she walked, let alone how she’d run from the photographers back there.

 

‘I’ll admit, Oprah’s not exactly your target demographic,’ Kelly went on. ‘But it can’t hurt. Nêmcová did it after that whole tsunami business, if that’s how we want to model this. But it doesn’t matter, because – big news. Are you ready for this? Sports Illustrated called.’

 

I could tell by the way she’d said it that I was supposed to react somehow. But I didn’t know what to say. I hate Sports Illustrated. It’s all about . . . well, sports.

 

‘That’s great,’ I said. Wow. This modelling thing was going to be a bit harder than I’d thought. ‘Right?’

 

‘Nikki!’ Kelly looked as if she was about to throw her Blackberry at me. ‘You’ve only been after me for two years to get you SI. Well, they finally called. And they want you. For the next swimsuit issue. Could you DIE?’

 

She accompanied the word DIE with a shove to my shoulder. I slumped over on to the seat. What I really wanted to say was, ‘Actually, yeah. I could die. In fact, I already did.’

 

But what I said instead was, ‘Wow. That’s great. Thanks.’

 

Kelly looked at me for a full second. Then she went, ‘You could summon up a little bit more excitement for me, couldn’t you? Just a little bit? It’s SI, honey. There’s a chance you could end up on the cover. In fact, I know you will. I can feel it in my bones – Brandon, no, no more Red Bull, you’re cranky enough.’

 

Brandon slammed the limo’s refrigerator door and sank back into his seat, looking churlish.

 

‘So?’ Kelly looked at me expectantly. ‘Aren’t you excited?’

 

‘I’m super excited,’ I said. Though the truth was, all I felt was a growing dread. ‘So . . . I’m going to have to pose for this in a bathing suit?’

 

‘A bathing suit.’ Kelly laughed. ‘God, you really do have amnesia. It’s called a swimsuit, honey. OK? And, oh my God, what have you done to your nails?’

 

She seized both my hands and sat there looking down in horror at my fingernails. Or I guess I should say Nikki Howard’s fingernails, which I’d bitten down almost to the quick.

 

‘I – I guess I bit them a little,’ I said in a small voice.

 

‘A little?’ The next thing I knew, Kelly had flung my hands back into my lap and put her headpiece back on. ‘Yes, Doreen? Hi, it’s Kelly. We’re going to need some emergency nail tips. Yes, I know it’s last minute, but what am I supposed to do, I just saw them. Hideous. No, I know she’s never had problems before, but we’re dealing with a whole new ball game here. You would not believe . . . great. See you then, hon.’

 

Kelly hung up, then looked at me in a very disapproving way. ‘You’re only hurting yourself, Nik,’ she said to me, shaking her head. ‘You’re only hurting yourself.’

 

Inexplicably, my eyes filled up with tears.

 

I know! I was crying, over FINGERNAILS.

 

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry. But I don’t understand anything. I thought I was going to a photo shoot. What do my fingernails have to do with anything?’

 

‘You’re going to take part in a photo shoot with Mr Stark,’ Kelly said sharply. ‘For a profile Vanity Fair is doing on him. You’re the face of the new Stark – the young, vibrant Stark – so of course he wants you in the shoot. You and Brandon, of course.’

 

Brandon’s scowl had, if anything, only deepened at the sight of my tears.

 

‘But,’ I said. I couldn’t believe I was crying. I really couldn’t. I don’t cry. I mean, except over important things, like Christopher thinking I’m dead.

 

This whole time, through this whole thing, I’d never once cried . . . except about Christopher. Not over the loss of my former body. Not over the loss of my former life. Not even over the loss of my former self.

 

Because up until that moment, I hadn’t felt as if I’d lost my former self.

 

All it took, apparently, was one publicist yelling at me about my fingernails, however, to make me realize how very, very lost my former self really was.

 

It wasn’t just the fingernails of course. Part of it was what had happened just before the fingernail abuse. The whole thing where I’d had to say goodbye to my parents, and how I’d left things with my sister – why hadn’t I just been more supportive about the cheerleader thing? In retrospect, it wasn’t that big a deal. Maybe cheerleading is a sport. They have gymnastics in the Olympics after all – and then I’d come out of the hospital and been besieged by photographers, all screaming someone else’s name, but pointing their cameras at me, and gotten into a limo with a guy who couldn’t have been meaner to me and a publicist who seemed to think everything I did and said was wrong . . .

 

This photo shoot was going to be a disaster. I could already tell.

 

‘I can’t do this,’ I said, trying to hold back my tears. I didn’t mean I couldn’t do the Nikki Howard thing. Obviously I couldn’t do that.

 

And I definitely couldn’t do this, what Kelly wanted me to do. Because suddenly, I’d remembered something. Something really important. And that was Lulu asking me if I knew what a Manolo tip was. And I realized I didn’t. I had no idea. Modelling, easy? How could I have been so arrogant? Why hadn’t I read Frida’s issues of COSMOgirl! more carefully?

 

‘I – I don’t remember how to do this!’ I wailed.

 

‘Well, you’d better damned well remember how,’ Kelly said in a hard voice. ‘Because your future is riding on it. Not to mention mine . . . and about thirty make-up artists, stylists, art directors, photographers, lighting technicians and personal assistants, all of whom are waiting for you . . . and that’s not including whoever they’re bringing in to cater. You’d better get over whatever it is you’re going through, missy. People’s jobs are depending on it. We’ve been plenty patient this past month while you’ve been going through whatever it is you’ve been going through, but it’s time to get back to work. Brandon, I told you, you leave that Red Bull alone. You know how you get.’

 

‘We’re here,’ Brandon said, pointing out of the window. ‘And we’ve got company.’

 

Kelly turned her head to look out of the window. Then she swore, and turned on her Stark-brand headpiece.

 

‘Yeah, Rico?’ she barked. ‘Get security outside 520 Madison. We’ve got protestors. Again.’

 

I had no idea what she and Brandon were talking about. The truth was, I didn’t really care. I was still trying to absorb what Kelly had just told me. I’d had no idea so many people depended on Nikki Howard for their livelihood. Sure, I’d known it was important to Stark Enterprises that she continue as the Face of Stark.

 

But I hadn’t even begun to comprehend just what that entailed.

 

Until now.

 

Two million dollars? That was how much they’d paid for my brain transplant to keep Nikki alive? I was starting to think they’d gotten off cheap . . .

 

Then Kelly was saying, ‘Go. Go, go, go, go,’ and she was shoving me out of the limo . . .

 

. . . and into the arms of a waiting security guard, who was trying to shield me from the hordes of protestors gathered in front of the entrance to the massive Madison Avenue skyscraper we’d just pulled up in front of.

 

‘Hey,’ I heard someone scream ‘it’s her!’

 

A second later, my shoulder was seized and I was spun around to face a woman holding a sign on a stick that said, Stark Enterprises Kills!

 

‘It’s NIKKI HOWARD!’ the woman – who I now saw was wearing combat fatigues and a beret – blew a whistle, and all the other protestors surged towards me. The minute they saw me, their faces contorted with anger.

 

‘How do you justify being the public face of an organization that is putting the small-business owner out of work?’ a man in overalls screamed at me, while a woman pushing a baby in a stroller yelled, ‘You’re what’s wrong with America!’

 

I actually thought this was a little harsh, and not just because I wasn’t who they thought I was. Well, technically.

 

But I didn’t get a chance to tell them this, because the burly security guard was already hustling me away from the hands that were reaching out, trying to clutch me. He more or less barrelled through the crowd, using his elbow as a battering ram, until we’d ducked through a revolving door, into a vast, green-marble lobby, where we were joined a few seconds later by Brandon Stark and Kelly Foster-Fielding.

 

‘Good Lord,’ Kelly said, brushing herself off like a cat thats fur has been ruffled. ‘They get worse every day.’

 

‘Good to see you, Miss Howard,’ the burly security guard who’d shielded me from the protesters’ wrath said with a nod to me. ‘Been a while.’

 

I smiled at him tremulously, my tears forgotten in my shock over what had just happened. ‘Th-thanks . . . ’

 

‘Martin,’ he said to me with a toothy grin. ‘You really did lose your memory, just like they said on the news!’

 

I was about to assure him I really had, when Kelly grabbed my arm and said, ‘Enough chit-chat, people, we’re running late as it is. Let’s go.’

 

And then I was being dragged towards an elevator. And I realized I was about to meet Mr Robert Stark himself.

 

Which was a relief. Because I realized I had a thing or two I wanted to say to him.