The Swap

by Megan Shull

  “Screw you,” I say, but he can barely hear me, because I can barely speak.

  “Don’t be a girl,” Stryker says, laughing. “Get up!”

  If I was a girl, I’d burst into tears.

  No way am I going to cry.

  We don’t quit, and we don’t whine.

  “Meow,” says Stryker. He thinks this is hilarious. “Meow, meeeeeeeeeeeeow. Let’s go, Sally!” He’s standing over me now. My brothers love to do this. They call me Sally, or Nancy, or Mary, or Pansy, Wuss, or Baby, or Butter—as in you’re as soft as butter, or even worse, Butter Baby.

  “Come on, Butter Baby! Don’t be soft! You’re a tough guy. Let’s go! Get up!”

  I want to elbow his face in, but by the time I stumble to my feet and stand, Stryker’s already upstairs. He’s gone. Somehow I make my way up the stairs too. I slip past The Captain (reading the paper), past Stryker, Jett, and Gunner (watching hockey), and hide out in the upstairs bathroom, where I almost puke, it hurts so bad.

  “Oh, you’re nails, buddy,” Stryker yells up after me.

  Then I hear him outside the door. “Hey, you okay, bud?”

  I don’t answer.

  “You’re gonna rock a nice shiner, Jacko!”

  I stay in the bathroom splashing my face with cold water until I can’t feel my eye anymore. Pretty quickly it starts getting a little bit swollen and purple. I stare at myself in the mirror for a good long while.

  There’s no blood.

  Nails, I think, and sort of smile. Honestly? I’m kind of proud. I got a black eye, and it’s my first, and it won’t be my last.

  7

  ELLIE

  AS SOON AS I WAKE up on the first day of school, I begin tearing through my closet trying to find something, anything, to wear that doesn’t make me look like I still sleep with my teddy bear (I do). No matter what I try on, I just look in the mirror and think I look dumb. I strip it off and try something else again. But I feel like I look terrible in everything. Plus I hear Sassy’s voice, a running fashion-commentary in my head:

  That yellow shirt? Ughhh, gross! You look like a walking highlighter!

  Flared jeans? So. Not. Okay.

  Leggings? Leggings are not pants!

  When it comes to fashion, I have no clue. I mean, when did this suddenly become such a huge deal? Nobody cared about this stuff before we got to Thatcher. I have no idea how you’re supposed to look stylish and cool. Before this summer, I never even cared. But now, suddenly, one hour before I am officially in seventh grade, I care. I care, and I hate that I care. Do you know what I mean? And did I even mention my hair? No, I think I did not. Not a good situation happening up there.

  I finally settle on my favorite T-shirt and jeans, tie my messy, red, crazy hair back into a ponytail, and give up.

  Downstairs, my mom is in much too good a mood for the first day of school.

  “Morning, sunshine!” she sings.

  “I have no clothes!” I say. I sit down at the kitchen table. “Seriously, I have, like, nothing to wear! Can we please, please, pleeeeeeease go shopping? Pretty please?”

  “Ellie,” says my mom. She’s standing by the stove, and I can tell by the way she says my name I’m about to get some sort of lecture. “I’m not going to argue with you this morning, but really, sweetheart, you sound a little bit ridiculous. If you went through all your clothes on your floor, you’d probably find loads of cute outfits you don’t even know you have!”

  “Oh, forget it,” I say.

  But she’s not done.

  “Also, Ellie, if this needing new clothes business is about a certain someone, I don’t think you need to change your clothes, I think you need to think about changing your friends.”

  “Oh my gosh, Mom,” I say. “Forget it!”

  My mom places a plate full of my favorite homemade waffles with maple syrup and melted butter in front of me. “Let’s focus on the positive.” Her smile grows. “Can you believe it? Seventh grade!”

  I push the plate away. “Whatever. I’m not hungry.”

  “Don’t be silly and don’t be rude. Please, Ellie. You need to eat, it’s not good to go all day without breakfast. Do you want to take a bagel and eat it on the bus?”

  “Sure.” I shrug.

  My mom sits down at the table across from me. “Your attitude needs a little bit of work,” she says, smiling. “Sweetheart, really, I promise you, you are going to make friends today, I just know it, and everything is going to turn out much better than you think.”

  “Sure, whatever,” I answer.

  I cannot possibly begin to explain how much I am dreading going back to school today. At the door, before I leave, my mom tucks the bagel into my backpack and gives me a hug. “Honey, really, try to not take everything so seriously.” She closes her eyes and takes this huge deep breath. When she opens her eyes, she exhales, cups my cheeks, and kisses my forehead.

  “Ellie, I wish you’d realize even a teensy bit how amazing you are.” She looks at me like she’s so positive. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

  I’m standing half inside the door and half outside the door.

  My mom reaches out and moves the hair out of my eyes like she always does. “Don’t forget soccer, okay? I’ll pick you up right after school.”

  “I’m not playing soccer,” I announce. I decided this right that second. I already have to see Sassy and Aspen at school. . . . I cannot possibly face having to deal with them at soccer too.

  “Nonsense,” says my mom. “Ellie, you can’t just quit things when the going gets tough. If you want something, you have to work for it. You can’t give up. You’ve always had so much fun at soccer.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not really fun right now,” I say. “And I’m not playing. I’m just not!” I turn and start marching down the driveway toward the bus stop.

  This does not discourage my mom. She follows me. She follows me right down the driveway in her lavender kimono bathrobe and fluffy bunny slippers.

  “Ellie,” she calls after me, “I’ll pick you up at three by the back near the gym. And I expect you to clean your room this weekend. Seriously, Ellie, I can’t even step foot in there. . . .

  “And, Ellie!”

  I stop and turn back. My mom is holding her cup of coffee in the air as if she’s toasting me. I’m pretty sure she’s smiling as she hollers out, “You can do it, honey! You so got this!”

  8

  JACK

  IT’S PRACTICALLY A KNOWN FACT—ALMOST a solid rule—that Malloy men do not speak to each other until breakfast. That means that, during our five a.m. bed check (hospital corners, sheets tucked in, perfectly smooth blanket), our three-mile still-dark-out run, our strength and conditioning session in The Cage, more often than not, nobody says a word. It’s work. And we do it.

  “Effort is a measure of a man,” my dad likes to say.

  And breakfast? No junk food. No Lucky Charms. No Froot Loops. No Cocoa Puffs. Only whole grains, lean proteins, greens, fruit, and nuts. Welcome to the Malloy training table: fruit, egg-white omelets, oatmeal, and my dad’s famous morning smoothie (fish oil, peanut butter, almond milk, spinach, blueberries, wheatgrass, raw eggs, and frozen banana). Yep.

  “Food is for fuel and performance, for power, not pleasure. Your body is a temple,” says The Captain. “You don’t take Pop-Tarts into a temple, do you?”

  I would if I could! That’s what I wish I had the guts to say back.

  The Captain leaves for work right after our room inspection. After six a.m., the four of us are on “honor code.” In some ways it’s kind of nice. At least I’m not walking around on eggshells, trying not to be yelled at. With my brothers, I can hold my own. I fend for myself.

  After I shower and throw on some jeans, a belt, and a blue polo shirt, I head downstairs and make my lunch (peanut butter, grape jelly, banana slices, whole wheat bread #snackofchampions) and join my brothers at the kitchen table. Today is the first day of school, and Gunner, Jett, and Stryker are al
l grinding my gears. Saint Joe’s doesn’t start till next week, so they get to eat and go back to sleep. Why Thatcher bothers to have one day of school before the weekend is beyond me. But whatever. It is what it is.

  As soon as Jett sits down, he starts chirping at me. “Are you gonna start wheeling today, or are you gonna just stay home all year, playing Call of Duty by yourself?”

  To my brothers, “wheeling” means getting all the girls that you can.

  I drink my green smoothie and eat my oatmeal and take it.

  “That tarp is absolutely disgusting,” says Stryker.

  “Huh?” I say.

  “That shirt, it’s brutal.” Gunner shakes his head, half grinning. “No swag, bro. How can you expect to wheel with that thing on your back? Maybe mix in some style, bud.”

  Jett chimes in. “Pretty grungy, if you ask me.”

  All three of them are laughing.

  “Whatever, man.” I laugh too. You can’t give them too much attention or they won’t stop.

  “Just kidding, little man.” Gunner shoots me a wink. “Don’t get rattled. You look good, bud. You’re rockin’ that shiner like a boss!”

  “Whatever,” I repeat.

  Jett takes off his sweaty hat and slams it down on my head. “Dude, cover up that salad, or cut your mop!”

  Jett and Gunner share a smile, and they both get this crazy look in their eyes.

  I can tell what they’re thinking.

  “Nobody is touching my hair,” I tell them, and I’m not kidding. It took me an entire year to grow it out from the last time The Captain made me cut it.

  Stryker stands and burps loudly. “Great grub sesh, boys!”

  Jett puts the plates in the dishwasher. “Just keep yourself in check, little man,” he tells me. “And don’t be a donkey.”

  Gunner gets up too. “Naptime,” he says, yawning, then snaking his arm under my chin and wrapping me in a choke hold. “Be a man, Jacko, and stay out of trouble.”

  9

  ELLIE

  AFTER I GET OFF THE bus and step into the Land of Thatcher, things go downhill fast. I am in first period for entirely ten seconds before I have a terrible feeling in my stomach. And it’s not, like, butterflies. It’s worse. And it’s not just that I get the last seat in the back next to Henry Hodges, who is making farting noises. It’s more that I catch a look from Sassy (front row, third desk by the windows), dressed in a tight-fitting black spaghetti-strap top, and the look she gives me does not say, “Ellie! Yay! We’re in the same class!”

  No, if this look could talk it would be more like, “Ewww, nice outfit . . . hahahaha! Not!”

  I watch her, and her glittery eye shadow and her black mascara-painted curly eyelashes stare me down. She starts at my sneakers, and I feel her eyes move right up my body until they reach my face, at which time she turns to Aspen, seated (surprise!) next to her, and whispers something. Then the two of them burst out laughing.

  I look around the room, first at Ms. González, who is writing something on the board, and then toward the door, still open because the bell hasn’t rung yet, and I imagine myself leaping up from my seat and sprinting straight down the almost-empty Thatcher hallway, past all the bright orange lockers, out the emergency exit door. Maybe I could run to the main office, call my mom, beg her to pick me up, beg her to let me homeschool, or just . . . gosh, anything but be here now. Anything but be me.

  Every class of my day is pretty much a repeated loop of this exact scene. Me walking into class, Sassy (plus whoever she’s sitting with who is not me) sneers, rolls her eyes, then bursts out laughing. At lunch, after I wander into the crowded cafeteria looking lost, I am in line with my melted-cheese bagel and my yogurt, almost to the cash register, when I hear her.

  Sassy.

  I look over my shoulder and see her by the soda machines in the corner, holding court like some sort of celebrity, obviously talking just loud enough for me to hear her.

  “No offense,” she starts, then pauses to flip back her golden hair, as if she’s a famous actress waiting for her gathered audience to turn toward her (they do). Then she says it (drumroll, please): “Gotta love it when people don’t even, like, brush their hair! Eww. Embarrassing.” (Hahahahaaa!)

  Sassy stops again and looks up just long enough for her entire tribe of girls (Aspen by her side) to turn toward me and give me the death stare. “Not to be rude, but seriously, people, sneakers with jeans is so not okay. It’s hideous!” (Hahahaha!) “Just sayin’!”

  In chorus, the one class I absolutely love, Mr. Pratt puts me right next to Sassy. One song in, she leans over, whispering into my ear, “Some people should probably just mouth the words.” She pauses for a beat, overwhelmed by giggles. “Off-key much?”

  By eighth period, my last period of the day, I have decided I really can’t take this anymore. I honestly hate my life. This has actually been the worst week ever. Today is Friday—how am I going to even make it through the weekend to Monday? I already said I’d go to Claire’s birthday sleepover. I supposedly have soccer tryouts. I have an entire Sassy Gaines–filled weekend, and I still have one more class with her—gym.

  Walking into the girls’ locker room, I am secretly praying the universe will strike me down with some sort of awful feverish sickness that forces me to stay in bed all weekend. Chicken pox? Strep throat? Appendicitis? Could I fake getting my period?

  Probably not.

  In what might be my only good luck so far today, there is an empty bathroom stall. I slip inside, hang my three-thousand-pound backpack from the hook of the flimsy metal door, and fish out my Thatcher-issued blue-and-orange shorts and T-shirt. At least I don’t have to change right out in the open, in front of all the other girls.

  Gym. I can get through gym, right? I’m faster than Sassy and probably more coordinated than she is. I picture myself accidentally throwing a softball at her face. Then I switch it up—a basketball, a soccer ball, a floor-hockey puck. In each scenario, I will admit to you that I actually picture her with a bloody nose. Sorry, not sorry.

  And look, have you ever tried to change in one of those tiny bathroom stalls? There’s not a lot of space to move around, and I’m literally, like, slipping off my jeans—balancing on top of my shoes, trying to not touch my socks to the gross sticky floor—when I hear Sassy’s voice right outside the door.

  Right away my heart starts pounding, and I stand frozen in my yellow daisy-speckled underwear, clutching my gym clothes against my chest, staring at my legs, terrified that she might somehow see me. “Eww, shave your legs!” I can just hear her say.

  With every ounce of quiet I have in me, I step into the Thatcher gym shorts, slip the orange T-shirt over my head, and peer out the thin gap of space between the metal door and the side of the stall. Sassy is with this girl Tori, who I don’t really know that well because she’s cooler and prettier and just—

  Not someone who would ever hang out with me.

  The two of them have already changed and are standing in front of the mirror, fixing their hair and makeup. Why? For gym?!! For gym with other girls.

  Exactly.

  This is what I hear—

  Sassy: I can’t believe I got put into Mr. Tate’s class. He spits when he talks.

  Tori: That’s just gross!

  Sassy: I know, right? Oh, and Ms. Dennison? Apparently she gives, like, a ton of homework. So annoying. Doesn’t she know I have a life? Hold this.

  Tori: Hold what?

  Sassy: My hair thingie. Here. I feel so naked without a hair tie!

  Tori: Ohmigod, can I just say I hate you because your hair is sooooo super soft!

  Sassy: I know! It’s my new hair straightener. [Sassy smiles at herself in the mirror.] What would I do if you weren’t in my gym class? And seriously, how are we not going to be in social studies together this year? Who am I going to sit next to and talk to in the middle of class?

  Tori: OMG, seriously! Why are you sooooo pretty! You look amaaaazing!

  Sassy: Awwww
w, thanks, babe. Oh my god, I hope Ellie stops following me around and gets the hint!

  Tori: I know, seriously!

  Sassy: Like, do I have to walk up to her and say it to her face?

  Tori: I know, right?

  Sassy: Yeah, like, ummm, hello? Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Bye!

  Tori: Hahahaha. Seriously. Back off.

  Sassy: Totes. I mean, not to be rude, but she is just too—

  Tori: Babyish?

  Sassy: Yes! Totally babyish! She wears such horrid clothes. And her hair? Hello? She’s worn the same dumb center-parted ponytail since kindergarten! She doesn’t even own a blow dryer or a flat iron!

  Tori: Didn’t you tell me she still has, like, her American Girl dolls on her bookcase?

  Sassy: Can you say embarrassing!

  Tori: Can you even imagine her talking to a boy? Ha!

  Sassy: I know! Right? Hahahaha! I seriously can’t even picture it. It would be so super awk! [They smile into the mirror, purse their lips, and apply hot-pink lip gloss.]

  Sassy: Oh. Em. Geeee! That’s so hot. Boo, we definitely gotta hang soon! You’re going to Claire’s tomorrow right?

  Tori: Yes!!! Soooo excited! Can. Not. Wait.

  Sassy: Chicka-chicka-yeah-yeah. [They high-five.]

  Tori: Hopefully a certain someone knows she’s not invited.

  Sassy: Stop, no, ewwwww, barf. Don’t remind me!

  10

  JACK

  WHEN I STEP ON THE bus I smile, because right away, straight in front of me, I can see that Owen and I are wearing the exact same shirt. Light-blue polos, except he has his collar popped and I don’t, because, well, my brothers would never let me forget it. I drop into the seat next to Owen and Sammy, like I’ve done every year since we met in sixth grade.

  Sammy’s chirpin’ before I even settle into my seat. “Jack, your hair is pretty flowtastic right now, not gonna lie.” He smiles big. “And the shiner? Broads love a tough guy. I can only imagine the girls you’ll have after you now, stud.”

  Sammy’s crazy.