The Swap
Page 1
DEDICATION
For Maggie Doyne and Margaret Riley King
EPIGRAPH
Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU
CONTENTS
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
5 Months Later
3 Years Later
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for The Swap
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
ELLIE
IT’S SUNNY AND IT’S SUMMER and the three of us are sitting on the scratchy cement edge of the Riverside Swim Club pool, dangling our feet into the deep end. And by the three of us, I mean me (Ellie O’Brien), Sassy Gaines (my formerly best friend since forever), and Aspen Bishop (who moved here from California one month ago and apparently has taken my place). If you’d like to picture us, let me tell you this: Sassy and Aspen are side by side, dressed in pop-orange string bikinis with crisscross backs, “matchy-matchy” (as they like to say), long, sleek, and shiny yellow-blond hair framing their faces. They could pass for sisters—perfect features, perfectly straight teeth, pale-pink glossy lips glimmering in the sunshine.
In case you are wondering? My dark-red hair is wet and slicked back into a ponytail. I have a little bit of sunblock on my nose. I’m wearing my black, front-zip, short-sleeve Roxy Surfer Girl half wetsuit. My mom got it for me. I love it so much.
“So, Ellie?” Sassy flutter kicks her pink toenails, spraying water into the air. “What’s going on with that one-piece?” She giggles. “Is that, like, sporty chic?”
They are both looking at me. Leaning back on their arms, smiling.
Aspen raises an eyebrow. “Are you, like, planning on riding some waves in your boy shorts?”
The two of them make the same face and burst out laughing.
I can feel my cheeks getting redder and redder.
“Oh, um, well . . . ,” I begin, then stop. I force myself to smile. I feel my heart kind of drop.
Aspen whispers something into Sassy’s ear and they both instantly giggle.
“Um, no offense, but—” Sassy stares at me and shakes her head. “We’re going into seventh grade! There are some basic rules. Duuuuuhhhhh! Some people seriously need to work on their style.”
Aspen chimes in. “Ellie,” she begins, pausing to cringe, “not to be rude or anything, but your freckles are, like, seriously out of control! Maybe you should think about using just a little bit of foundation or concealer?”
“Totally!” Sassy agrees. “But don’t get the cheap cakey kind that clogs your pores! No. Ewww! That would be gross.”
Um, yeah.
Welcome to my life.
More?
Sure—
Sassy: “Um, no offense, but, guys, seriously, wheelie backpacks at the pool is so not okay!”
Aspen: “Not to be rude or anything, but why is that girl looking at me? I mean, sorry I’m hotter than you, okay?”
It doesn’t feel good to listen, even when it’s not about you. I am getting the worst feeling inside. I stare ahead across the pool and watch The Prince do a backflip off the diving board. The Prince is with a whole mess of other boys, but he’s the only one with completely wild dark, wavy hair and tie-dye-blue eyes. He is definitely the only one with six-pack abs.
The Prince (as Sassy calls him) is Jack Malloy, and Jack Malloy is one year older than we are, and Jack Malloy is in eighth grade, and Jack Malloy is pretty much the most popular boy at Thatcher Middle School. He is handsome and mysteriously quiet and good at everything, including but not limited to every sport he plays and/or just looking cute and not saying a word. Yeah. He does that very well too.
Fact: Sassy is in love with Jack Malloy. Like, seriously obsessed! And she’s not shy about letting everyone know it. She went all boy crazy at the beginning of the summer. It’s kind of annoying and kind of weird. When The Prince is anywhere near us, she starts acting all different and, like, literally bats her eyelashes and acts suddenly super sweet and super fake. As soon as he’s out of hearing range, she goes right back to being the Queen of Mean. This didn’t used to bug me as much, but for some reason, ever since Aspen moved here at the beginning of the summer, the mean stuff Sassy says has started getting meaner. She usually blurts something out, then rolls her eyes and laughs really, really loud. “We’re just joking, Ellie!” she’ll say afterward. “We’re just messing around.”
As I tell you this, I know it sounds so stupid that I’m even friends with her, that I actually desperately want her to like me again (I do, I really do), but that’s Sassy. She is just that type of girl who you just want to like you. Do you know what I mean? You want her to like you and put her big prettiest-girl-in-the-school stamp of approval right across your forehead so everybody else can see—
You are liked!
You are loved!
You are cool!
Sassy Gaines says so!
But it is on this day, today, under the hot summer sun and the blue sky and right here at the pool as the three of us watch—but are pretending not to watch—shirtless six-pack JACK I-have-no-idea-how-hot-I-am MALLOY, that Sassy says this:
“Ellie,” she starts. She looks at me, smiling, running her fingers through her loose hair and tossing her head back. “It’s not that big a deal. There’s just an incredibly awkward time in life where your nose is too big for your face, and you happen to be in it.”
I feel the tears coming from deep inside, starting in my stomach, charging up my throat. I swallow hard. I swear, I wish right this second that I could just disappear or that I could click my bare ankles like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz and vanish into thin air. I drop my eyes and stare into the crystal-clear water. I imagine myself plunking in feetfirst, holding my breath, sinking, and sitting cross-legged at the bottom—Sassy and I used to do that all the time, in this very pool, for about a billion summers.
Except I don’t jump in.
And I don’t disappear.
I’m here, and I have the worst feeling wash over me.
“Oh my goooosh, Ellie!” Sassy exclaims, looking me up and down and scrunching up her nose.
I look back at her, like, what?
>
“Ohmygoooooooooooooooshhhhh!” Both Sassy and Aspen fall back onto their shared beach towel, their faces to the sky, laughing so hard they can barely speak.
“Honestly, Ellie,” Sassy cries. “Your—” She stops, she’s pointing down. She can’t talk, she’s giggling so hard.
“Oh my gosh, stop!” Aspen wipes the tears coming out of her eyes, careful to keep her black mascara from smudging.
My whole entire body just feels like it’s shutting down. The only thing I want to do is leave. But I can’t even get up. I can’t even move. I don’t say a word. I don’t know what to do. I look off in the distance across the crowded pool: The Prince, his blue shorts hanging low on his hips, leaping off the board, effortlessly tucking into a somersault with two and a half twists, a ball of muscle flying through the air, entering the water with barely a splash. A second later he pops back up, whipping his wet dark hair out of his eyes, flashing a quiet smile at his fans. The boys on the side are just going nuts. “Dude! You killed it, man!” I hear one shout.
And I’m thinking how boys are so lucky they don’t have to deal with this stuff, when—
“Ellie!” I hear.
I look back at Sassy and brace myself.
“Oh my gosh!” she shrieks. “I have honestly never laughed so hard! I’m dying! Oh. My. God!”
I can feel everyone watching now. Even the boys across the pool look up at us.
“Ellie, your legs—” Sassy squeals in an even louder voice, snorting back giggles. Then she finally spits it out, “Orangutan-man legs!”
Wait, what?
I force a smile and glance down. I never really noticed it before, the soft red hair growing out of my legs. My head just, like, totally becomes hot—
What am I even supposed to say?
I can barely breathe.
I look at Sassy, rolling on her towel in her tiny string bikini, holding her flat stomach as if her muscles hurt from laughing. I sort of fake laugh too. I play along. I mean, what else can I do? That’s just how she is. She has that effect on people. When Sassy is talking, she doesn’t really care how you feel. She just says rude things to your face and it’s sort of an expected fact that for some reason (probably because she is so pretty and popular and she can go up and talk to any boy in the entire school), you sit there and take it.
But inside? Between you and me? Laughing actually makes me feel even worse, because there isn’t really anything funny about being insulted by your best friend since kindergarten, who has apparently decided you aren’t her best friend anymore, two days before the start of seventh grade.
Nothing really funny about it at all.
2
JACK
“YES, SIR,” I SAY.
I’m talking to my father, and this is how you have to talk to my father.
“Yes, sir, what?” he asks.
“Yes, sir, I understand,” I answer, trying not to look at him but trying to seem like I am, because you can’t really get away with no eye contact when talking with The Captain. I answer with a quick glance but keep my eyes straight ahead, staring through the windshield of the truck into the glare of the oncoming headlights and the pitch-black darkness.
We’re on our way to hockey—I play year-round. I’m on the Boston Junior Bruins. I made the team last April. I’m the first eighth grader to ever make the roster, the youngest player in franchise history. It’s pretty unbelievable. Our first game is Monday night. I have a lot to prove. I have to compete for every shift of every game. I can’t take a minute off. I don’t want anyone to think I haven’t earned my spot—that I got here just because of who my brothers are. I always have to prove myself. It’s about battling. I go 100 percent, 100 percent of the time. If you really want something, working hard for it shouldn’t ever be a problem.
My dad isn’t speaking. He hasn’t said anything in at least ten miles of driving through the dark. In The Captain’s world, this means my answer was not acceptable. I need to try again.
“I will be more respectful of your time by being on time?” I say. I try to remember what it is he’s been lecturing me about, what he told me I needed to fix. What I did wrong. I honestly don’t really know what I did this time. He was in a bad mood before I even tossed my hockey bag in the back of his truck and hopped up into the front seat beside him.
Let me tell you, there’s nothing worse than when my dad gives you the silent treatment. Even though it’s dark, I feel his eyes on me.
I search my brain for the right words. “I’m sorry?” I try again.
Nothing.
The Captain reaches for the radio and turns it on. He likes classical music. I think it calms him down.
“Jack.” My dad finally speaks. “I don’t want to hear ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s inexcusable behavior. I won’t tolerate it. How many times do I have to tell you? Actions speak louder than words. If you want to be a man, you need to get things done. You need to be accountable.” He looks over at me.
What I want to say is: Nothing I do is ever good enough. But of course I don’t say that. I’m not crazy.
“Jack?” My dad sounds mad. “Jack!” he repeats. “Have you not been listening to anything I’ve said?”
Exactly! I think to myself but obviously don’t say, because I value my life and I don’t want my dad to pull the truck over and chew me out for the next fifteen minutes. Instead, I just keep my mouth shut and think about how much fun I had today.
Today was one of the last days of summer, and it was perfect. Me, Owen, Sammy, Demaryius, Dominic, Brayden, Trey—we just chilled at the pool all day and swam and did crazy backflips off the diving board and ate nothing but hot dogs and greasy French fries from the snack bar. The night before, we were all at Owen’s for a sleepover and played video games on his sixty-inch flat-screen TV in his man-cave basement paradise.
Now summer is over.
I press my head up against the truck’s window and close my eyes. I just try and, like, breathe and not fight with The Captain. Not say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Not screw up.
School is going to start in two days, and if I’m not careful my dad might yank me out of Thatcher and make me go to Saint Joe’s. Saint Joe’s is where all three of my older brothers go, and at Saint Joe’s you have to wear a collared dress shirt, a striped necktie, and a navy-blue blazer. No jeans. No girls. No thanks. The only reason The Captain is letting me go to Thatcher is because it fits better with my hockey schedule.
No one loves playing hockey as much as I do.
Hockey is the one thing The Captain and I agree on.
Hockey is my life. My brothers and I all play. It’s just how it is—we all got handed a stick when we were, like, two years old. As soon as I could walk, I was put up on skates, pulling my dad on the ice with an inner-tube tire around my waist. All three of my brothers have already committed to Boston College.
I’ve always been the youngest on my team because my dad wants me to work harder and get better and tougher. There’s nothing I’d rather do than play hockey the rest of my life. And there is a plan. I write it down every single night (only after I complete exactly two hundred push-ups, two hundred sit-ups, and recite the prayer to St. Sebastian seven times). This is what I do. This is who I am. I write it in the red-covered spiral notebook I keep tucked under my mattress. My mom told me to do it. She said—“If you believe it, you can achieve it.” She told me to write down my goals. And I have ever since.
I write the same three things. Every single night.
Play for Boston College.
Get drafted in the first round of the NHL.
Sign an NHL contract.
And you might think it’s weird to have a secret notebook filled with the same three sentences written down every day since I was ten years old, but whatever. It’s my dream, and I don’t really give a crap if anyone thinks I’m weird about it. I’ve worked my whole life to take the next step. I’m still young. I still have a lot to work on. When I go to bed, I see myself signing my letter of
intent to play for Boston College. I see myself getting drafted, slipping an NHL jersey over my head. I see myself doing everything. In my mind, I’ve already done it. I just have to go out and do it. Put in the work. Be unstoppable. My dad tells me all the time, “The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one is watching.”
3
ELLIE
I’M STANDING ON THE CEMENT steps of the Riverside Sportsplex, my shin guards still on, my pink Thunderbirds soccer bag hanging from my shoulders. I’m sweaty and sticky and my hair is pulled back tight in a ponytail, like I always wear it. I’m standing here waiting for my mom to get me, when Claire walks up. She’s smiling, but only for a second.
“Hey,” she says to me. “I just want to say, like, I’m really sorry to hear about everything that happened.”
“Um, what do you mean?” I ask. I’m looking over Claire’s shoulder and watching Sassy and Aspen skipping across the parking lot all the way to Sassy’s mom’s minivan. We have just finished the first day of tryouts for the Thunderbirds thirteen-and-under indoor travel team. Sassy and Aspen are leaning into each other, arms looped, and shrieking with laughter like they are in on some big joke that none of us are cool enough to possibly ever get. Usually Sassy’s mom gives me a ride too. But ever since Sassy’s been acting like I don’t exist, their car is suddenly “full.” As in—“Oh, sorry, Ellie, we’re, like . . .” Sassy will pause to glance at Aspen, sharing an entire sentence without saying a word—“We’re, like, yeah, we’re not going straight home.”
I turn back to Claire. She has a funny look on her face, and my heart starts to hurt right then. Right that second. It’s so weird, isn’t it? How your heart can hurt. How your heart sort of knows more than you know.
“Oh, forget it, nothing.” Claire looks at me as if she is really embarrassed, like she wasn’t supposed to say anything. She quickly tries to change the subject. “Hey, so are you excited for school tomorrow?”
“Wait, what were you going to say?” I spot my mom’s car turning into the Sportsplex and try rushing things. “You can tell me,” I say. My voice sounds so soft, and in the gap of quietness I force a shaky smile.