The House Swap


 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 
 For Fay, Jeff, Barnaby, Bruno, and Ziggy—my home away from home.
 
 
 
 Epigraph
 The family—that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to.
 —Dodie Smith
 
 
 Part One
 Home
 
 
 Chapter One
 Allie
 IS AT CRINGLE COTTAGE, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
 “I knew it! Middle child syndrome is officially a thing. I sent my parents an article about it that I found on the Good Parents Make Great Kids website. They haven’t read it.” (from my diary)
 The fingerprint in the talcum powder I sprinkled on the handle of my desk drawer this morning proves it—someone has been going through my stuff. I read about the talcum powder technique in a book called Think Like a Spy that I found in the school library. Ms. Leonard said I could keep it for the summer, even though I already had the maximum number of books checked out. I take a picture with my phone and zoom in on the print, but I can’t tell if it is a loop or a whorl. Think Like a Spy says that there are three main types of fingerprint patterns: the loop, the whorl, and the arch. I have an arch print—it’s the rarest kind. Only 5 percent of the population has it, so the arch is the worst type of print to have if you are a criminal. I don’t plan on being a criminal. I want to be a spy. I doubt having arch fingerprints is a barrier to becoming a spy. 
 My sister, Willow, has a loop print. I know that because I took her fingerprints last week. I suggested that we make a handprint painting of Chickpea, Nestle, and Nugget to decorate their henhouse. I could tell that Mum was surprised that I’d volunteered to do something with my little sister for a change—surprised and pleased because Willow is a lot of work. Willow pressed her palm onto a plate covered with white paint and pushed it down on a pale blue piece of paper to make the chicken’s body; then she painted a yellow beak at the side of her thumbprint, added a red crest on the top of the thumbprint, and drew tiny eyes, legs, and feet with a black marker. She was very proud of it. The picture’s not on the wall of the Chick-Inn yet because Willow’s taking it around the village to show everyone, whether they want to see it or not.
 I’m not sure how I’m going to get my brother’s prints, but I’ll think of something. It will be just my luck if Max has a loop print too. He probably does because it’s the most common type. His prints will be much bigger than Willow’s, though, so it should be easy to tell them apart. I took Mum’s and Dad’s prints too—they’re both whorls. I wonder if you are more likely to marry someone who has the same fingerprint type as you. Maybe I should try to get Toby South’s prints when we get back to school. How would I even do that? Imagine if he caught me trying to get his prints from his locker. I’d die. Even dogs have prints—not on their paws, though, on their noses. Bear didn’t seem to mind me taking his nose print at all. I think he liked the taste of the food coloring I used to do it. He kept licking it off, so it took a long time to get a clear print.
 I can’t decide who the number one suspect for snooping around in my desk drawer is—Max or Willow. They both have reasons to go through my stuff. Max to find something he could use to embarrass or blackmail me with, like my diary—as if I’d ever risk keeping my diary in our house with a brother like him. And Willow because she is a thief, which my parents don’t seem concerned about for some reason.
 “Well, she didn’t actually take anything,” Dad said after I caught Willow trying to crack the combination lock on my money box.
 “Only because she couldn’t get it open! Why aren’t you and Mum worried about this? Did you even read that article I gave you?”
 After I found the calligraphy set that I got for my birthday under Willow’s pillow a few weeks earlier, I printed out an article called “Is My Child a Kleptomaniac?” from the Good Parents Make Great Kids website and presented it to my mum and dad.
 “Actually, I did read it, and it said that it’s a completely normal phase for a six-year-old,” Dad said. “Relax. Also, did you sign me up for newsletters from that website? I keep getting random emails from them.”
 I don’t think it’s a completely normal phase, and I hate it when people tell me to relax. Maybe I could relax if my parents paid a bit more attention to what my brother and sister get up to. Maybe then I wouldn’t have had to sign them up for the Good Parents Make Great Kids newsletter. Mum and Dad believe in free-range parenting, which is good for our chickens but not for my siblings.
 As well as their generally casual approach to parenting, Mum and Dad didn’t seem to give much thought to naming their kids. I guess Allegra is slightly better than Willow, but weirdly, the name suits her. I don’t know what name would suit me, but it is definitely not Allegra. Fifty babies born in England last year were named Allegra, which is fifty too many, if you ask me. Thank goodness everyone calls me Allie. Well, everyone except Max, because he knows that I hate being called Allegra. I asked Mum what on earth they were thinking when they gave me that name.
 “Allegra is a gorgeous name, Allie,” she said, looking offended. “It was always top of our list, wasn’t