The Swap

by Megan Shull

  “Hey, so are you going to tell me what happened to your eye?” She smiles. “That doesn’t look like it’s from today.”

  “Hockey,” I answer.

  Her eyes light up. “Hockey? Rad!”

  Her eyes are this unreal blue. She’s kind of a rocket, as Sammy would say. I watch her as she grabs an ice pack out of the mini fridge and trades me for the damp, bloody washcloth.

  “Looks like it might hurt a little bit?” she asks.

  I shrug, like, No. Big. Deal. It actually does hurt, though. A lot.

  The nurse bends down again and looks real close, right into my eyes.

  “Is your vision blurry?”

  I shake my head.

  “How about double?” she asks. “Do you see two of me?” She breaks into a grin.

  “No, ma’am,” I answer.

  “That would be scary, right? Two of me! Yikes!” she jokes. I notice she has a tattoo of a half-naked lady riding a tiger climbing up her neck toward the word FEARLESS inked onto her skin in curvy dark script, almost like graffiti. She doesn’t look like any school nurse I’ve ever seen.

  I try not to be so obvious. I’m kind of staring.

  “Okay, so the nose?” she asks. “What’s the story there?”

  “Um.” I stop and try and think of what I should say. “I ran into a wall.”

  “A wall, huh? Must have been a mean wall.” She laughs. She has a warm, funny laugh. I squint back at her because my nose is sort of swelling and the ice pack is blocking my view.

  “Hon, you really need to lie down.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and I flinch. “Just lie back, and keep pinching your nose and keep the ice on it, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  I slowly lower myself back onto the cot. The pillow feels good. Man! My heart is still pounding. I’m so amped! I lie there and stare up at the square tiles on the ceiling and replay the fight in my head. I replay it like a highlight video on ESPN, sort of how other people would see it, almost like I’m watching myself on YouTube in super slow motion.

  Jack Malloy vs. Porter Gibson 660,000 views

  Did I win or did I lose? How many punches did I land? I glance down at my mangled red knuckles. I guess I connected with something! He threw a couple of sloppy punches, but he really didn’t hit me besides . . . well, besides the wall . . . I think I landed two or three. I’m pretty sure I got the upper hand. Pound for pound, he’s bigger. I’m stronger, faster—I went full out! I replay it again and again. Man. I hate it when guys hide. He was scared. He was all talk! When I fight, I’m gonna throw. I’m not going to back down from anyone.

  At first I think I’m dreaming. But then I realize it’s the nurse.

  She’s sitting on the edge of the cot now. “So we kind of skipped something epic.” She stops and smiles. “Your name?”

  “Jack,” I tell her, sitting up a little too fast. “Jack Malloy.”

  “Whooooooa.” She puts her hand on my shoulder again. “Sweetie, relax, you really need to lie back down.”

  I’m not used to anyone calling me sweetie.

  It’s weird, but there’s something about the nurse that is just, like, really calm and soothing.

  “Listen, Jack Malloy,” she says, “how about we give your dad a call?”

  Honestly? Maybe today is the weirdest, luckiest day of my life, because as soon as the nurse mentions calling my dad? Like, that exact same second? Some girl dressed in her gym clothes walks through the door, and she’s crying. She’s not just crying, she’s, like, bawling. I have no idea who this girl is, but let me tell you, I am grateful.

  The girl who saves my life has the most beautiful long dark-red hair I have ever seen, green eyes, and a thousand freckles. She’s really pretty. I’m about to smile at her, in a thank-you-for-saving-my-life kind of way, when out of the corner of my eye I see—

  “Mr. Malloy,” says Ms. Dean. Her voice is stern.

  The girl? Freckles? She glances at me and then quickly looks away, and I watch as she drops her huge book bag, plops down across from me on the other cot, and buries her head in her hands. The nurse moves straight for Freckles, and Ms. Dean walks straight to me.

  Ms. Dean is no-nonsense. She’s always dressed really fancy and serious looking. For what seems like forever, she just stands there with her arms crossed, looking straight at me. My heart is still racing from the fight and my nose is stuffed up with bloody snot and I suddenly have major knots in my stomach—I have never been in trouble before.

  “Mr. Malloy,” she finally starts. “I understand you had an altercation?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Well?” she asks. “Is this an accurate statement?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer softly.

  “What was that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I repeat, lifting my eyes to look back at her.

  “Jack, I can’t tell you how disappointed I am.”

  More silence.

  She lets out a long sigh. “Honestly, Mr. Malloy, what happened is simply unacceptable.”

  I stare at the floor.

  “Yes, ma’am, but he started it when he—” I start to explain, but then I stop. One, because the more I talk the more my nose begins to kill, and two, I just hear my dad’s voice booming in my head: “Actions speak louder than words, Jack.”

  Ms. Dean shakes her head. “I expect more out of you, Jack. You showed extremely poor judgment.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer.

  “Everyone at Thatcher looks up to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. I have the worst lump in my throat.

  “You’re an eighth grader, Jack.” (Long pause.) “You’re an honor student.” (Longer pause.) “And quite frankly . . .” She stops and glances up at the clock on the wall. “I’m not looking forward to calling your father.”

  You know that feeling you have when you’re about to cry? I bite down on my bottom lip, to hold it in, to keep it inside.

  No hockey.

  No sleepovers.

  No friends.

  No life.

  He’ll probably yank me out of Thatcher and make me go to Saint Joe’s.

  “Jack?”

  I look up.

  “Do you have anything more you’d like to add?”

  “No, ma’am,” I lie. I know better than to say what I’m thinking, to say how I feel.

  “Mr. Malloy, for the time being . . .” Ms. Dean looks at her wristwatch, then back at me. “I’m going to hold off calling your dad. But you and I are going to have a serious discussion on Monday.”

  For a second, I’m completely relieved. But then it hits me: Monday will be here soon enough. How much will change, right?

  I watch Ms. Dean turn and leave.

  “Whoa, easy does it,” I hear the nurse, then I feel her hand on my shoulder. “Just relax,” she says. “Lie back.”

  I do. I fall back.

  I give in.

  Everything is sort of foggy.

  I turn on my side and look over at Freckles.

  She does not look happy.

  She’s got big fat tears trickling down her cheeks.

  “Middle school sucks, huh?” I whisper. I smile really gently. She looks so sad.

  “My entire life sucks,” she answers.

  “Yeah?” I say. “I can relate.”

  “Probably not,” she mumbles. “Boys have it so easy.”

  “Um.” I turn my head again toward her. “Have you looked at me?”

  Freckles lets out the tiniest smile, but then, just as quickly, the smile fades, almost like she remembered something.

  “So what happened to you?” I ask.

  She looks so . . . I don’t know. Defeated. She doesn’t say a word. I move the ice pack away so she can see my messed-up face.

  “Want to trade places?” I say.

  She almost laughs.

  “Yeah,” she answers. She says it so softly I can hardly hear her. I watch her close her eyes.

  “We could,
like, magically trade lives, right?” she says.

  I just nod and close my eyes too. “You be me,” I whisper. “And I’ll be you.”

  “Holy bananas! Wouldn’t that be fun?” I hear the nurse say. “You two could do a swap, a little switcheroo!” She giggles. “Help each other out.”

  This nurse is kind of crazy cakes, but in a good way.

  The room gets really quiet.

  The lights go off.

  And the last thing I remember is the nurse whispering into the darkness, like she’s casting a spell. “See the world through eyes anew, until you learn what’s deep and true. Heart and courage to speak and feel, will return you to the home that’s real.”

  13

  ELLIE

  I WAKE UP WHEN I hear Ms. Dean’s voice over the loudspeaker.

  “All buses will be running late today due to sixth-grade orientation. Please remain in your classroom for an additional fifteen minutes before dismissal.”

  Not a problem, I think. I slowly open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. Everything is blurry. The lights are dimmed. For just a few seconds, I’m a little confused . . . like, you know—who am I? Where am I? Why do I feel like I got hit by a truck? Then I remember.

  I am Ellie.

  I am a loser.

  I am on the nurse’s cot.

  I am an escaped gym convict!

  I have no friends.

  Great.

  I do not lift my head. I don’t move a single muscle. I lie completely still and replay what happened in the locker room over again. I close my eyes and try to think of something, anything, I did to cause Sassy to suddenly hate me so much. I don’t understand what I did, or why she hates me. It’s so crazy how things can change so quickly. I would do anything to get things back to how they used to be.

  I use my hand to wipe the tears that I feel trickling down my cheek. Oh my gosh, my eye feels all tender, and puffy like . . . like I got hit in the face. And my nose. My nose is killing me!

  And my head. My head is throbbing. Like I ran into a wall.

  At this moment? This very second? It occurs to me that the nurse isn’t here.

  Where is the nurse?

  The room is so still.

  It’s eerie.

  Then I start to remember. I’m not alone.

  OMG.

  Jack Malloy.

  How humiliating! The Prince of Thatcher Middle School saw me crying in my stupid gym clothes! Jack Malloy. Saw. Me. Crying.

  Life as I know it is officially over.

  I turn my head to glance at The Prince, sleeping, and—

  What the—

  I close my eyes, then open them and look again.

  I’m dreaming, right? I’m dreaming. Of course I am!

  When I turn to where Jack is, where The Prince was lying the last time I checked—

  It’s not him lying over there.

  It’s me.

  What happens next is I freak out! I jump up. And this is going to sound absolutely crazy, but I go over to my own body, sleeping on the cot, and poke my arm.

  “Hey!” I say. The voice that comes out of my mouth is so raspy and deep! I sound—oh my gosh, I sound like a guy!

  “Hey! Get up!” I say.

  This has to be a dream, right?

  I’m standing beside the cot, looking down at my own body, dressed in the blue Thatcher gym shorts and orange tee, seemingly sound asleep. There’s actually a little bit of drool coming out of my mouth. Am I dead?

  I must be hallucinating.

  I poke again. This time hard. Then I bend down real close and put my lips to my own ear.

  “Helloooo!” I say.

  Nothing.

  So I grab a handful of my loose red hair and yank it. Hard.

  I just about faint as my own eyes pop open and stare back.

  Face-to-face, one inch away.

  It’s like I’m looking in a mirror . . .

  Only there’s no mirror.

  I’m looking right at—

  ME!

  14

  JACK

  SURE, I’VE HAD MY BELL rung a couple of times. Last year in the playoffs, I got clocked in the head. It’s the weirdest feeling. It’s like you’re in a daze, you know? Sort of like a dream. Like I’m almost hovering above myself, watching everything happen.

  That’s exactly how I feel when I wake up, all groggy, in the nurse’s office, with someone jabbing me in my shoulder.

  “Wake up!” I hear my own voice practically yelling in my ear.

  “Hey!” I hear myself say. “Helloooo!”

  I must be dreaming, right?

  I swat away the hand that’s poking me.

  Chill! I think, slowly opening my eyes.

  Holy jeeeeez!

  Please don’t think I’m insane when I tell you this. I swear to you.

  When I open my eyes?

  I see my own face staring back at me.

  For a few seconds I’m sure I look a lot like a little baby playing peek-a-boo. I close my eyes tight, then open them again.

  Close. Open!

  Close. Open!

  Close. Open!

  Same result every time . . . my own face is three inches away from me, inspecting me like I’m some sort of full-on freak show.

  To make matters worse?

  The me standing there? The me I’m staring at?

  I’m not looking too good.

  Both my eyes are a little bit black, my nose is banged up, and there’s a streak of dried blood on my upper lip.

  This is some crazy dream! I reach out and touch my cheek. My face jerks back and I hear my own voice let out a squeal. “Ow!”

  Okay, this is getting weird. I guarantee you, I’ve never squealed in my life.

  Close. Open!

  Close. Open!

  Close. Open!

  “Would you stop doing that!” says the voice—my voice, sounding rattled and much deeper than it does when it’s in my own head.

  For just a split second, I take a big deep breath and quietly hope that my brothers are going to jump out from behind the nurse’s empty desk. “Surprise!” they’ll shout. “We’re just rippin’ you, Jacko!” they’ll tell me. “Easy there, bud, settle down!” Only, my brothers aren’t here. Nobody is here. Nobody except for—

  “Hello?” I say weakly. And by weakly I mean I don’t want to actually admit that I’m speaking to what looks like my ghost standing two feet in front of me, and I don’t want to tell you the voice that comes out of my mouth sounds like a GIRL!

  “What the—” I mutter out loud. Obviously I’m dreaming, right? I’m talking to myself, so you can imagine my surprise when my own body—dressed in my light-blue polo shirt and jeans—reaches out, grabs me by the hand, and yanks me up to my feet and toward the full-length mirror hanging from the back of the closed nurse’s room door.

  15

  ELLIE

  “LOOK!” I POINT TO THE mirror. The two of us are standing in front of it, side by side, me and Jack. Only, um . . . I don’t really know how to say this, because if I say it, if I say it, like, out loud, uhhh, you are going to think I’m—

  “What the—” Jack starts, and I watch him staring into the mirror. “This . . . wait, dude, whoa! C’mon, man! This can’t possibly be happening. This doesn’t make sense!” He grabs me by the shoulder and shakes.

  “Stop!” I say. “What are you doing?”

  “Are you real?” he asks.

  I push him back, kind of harder than I meant to, and he stumbles.

  “Does that feel real?” I say.

  We both turn back toward the mirror, as if the mirror is going to suddenly change what we see.

  What we know.

  What is clear as day.

  I am in Jack’s body, and he is in mine!

  16

  JACK

  “I DON’T GET IT,” I say.

  Actually, I keep saying it over and over again. “I don’t get it. I don’t get it.”

  I’m pacing across the smal
l nurse’s room, from one cot to the other, back and forth, like that is somehow going to change things.

  Worse, Freckles is starting to cry like a total girl, except—

  She’s me.

  I have never seen myself cry.

  This is unreal.

  “Freckles!” I say, realizing I don’t even know this girl’s name. “Dude, you’ve got to stop crying, you know? You’re freaking me out!”

  “Yeah, well, your nose is killing me!” she says, snorting back sobs. “What did you even do to your face?”

  I look back at her, I mean—

  I look back at me. I look pretty banged up. “This is unreal,” I say, staring back into the mirror. “It’s like I’m living in a movie!”

  “We should get someone, right?” Freckles manages to stop the tears long enough to blurt this out. She’s looking right at me. “We should, like, go get Ms. Dean, or—”

  “No way!” I cut her off. “They’ll think we’re totally nuts! Who is going to believe this? What would we even tell them?”

  “We’ll just tell them what happened!” Freckles answers, as if it’s all as simple as that.

  “Yeah, great.” I almost laugh. “We can tell them we fell asleep, and we woke up in each other’s bodies?”

  Freckles looks mad. “Well? Do you have any better ideas?”

  She plops down on the cot. “Oh, my head,” she whines.

  I hand Freckles my old ice pack and sit down next to her. Honestly? For the first time in my life, I really don’t know what to do.

  Think, Jack. Think.

  When was the last time I remember actually being in my own body?

  “That wacky nurse!” I look at her empty desk across the room. “She must have, like—”

  “Put some sort of spell on us?” finishes Freckles. She looks as freaked as I feel. “What are we going to do?” She’s crying again. “We have to find the nurse, right?”

  “Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa, just breathe, okay? Calm down,” I say. Every time I talk, I nearly die. My voice sounds so soft and—girly!

  I feel dizzy. I flop back on the flimsy mattress. And yeah, if you’re thinking this must be weird, it is! I glance down at my—I mean, Freckles’s—tight blue gym shorts and puny girlie legs, and look, I’m not going to even say it, like, out loud, but I am in a body that is 100 percent female. Including the upper half and the lower half, and the everything-in-between half!