The Swap

by Megan Shull

  “Oww!” I say. I somehow managed to make Jack’s voice squeal.

  “Easy, Sally, simmer.” He shakes his head.

  I look at him, like, “Who the heck is Sally?”

  “I’ll give you this, Jacko, takes some berries to tangle. A little bit grungy, though, to do it in school, bro. Not a good look. C’mon, man, figure it out.”

  I have no idea what Jack was thinking or why he even got in a fight or even, gosh, who with!

  Brother Number Two nudges me with his foot. “Next time, don’t be such a donkey!”

  I nod, oddly grateful for the advice that isn’t even meant for me.

  “Haaa, rookie move, I guess.” He closes his book and sits up in bed. I notice he has the same tiny gold pendant hanging from a thin chain around his neck, same as . . .

  I slip my hand up and feel around my neck. Same as I do.

  “Well?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Besides the tangle, how was the big first day? Meet any good-looking ladies?”

  I look at him, like, “What are you talking about?”

  But he just breaks into a huge smile. “Handling business as usual, bro. Battled hard and got the W! Throw on a smile, ya big beauty.” He kicks me again, harder than before. “My li’l buddy is growin’ up so fast.”

  24

  JACK

  NO WONDER I HAVE NO game. Girls make absolutely no sense. I come to this conclusion about two seconds after throwing down my bag and sitting on the turf in front of the goal where the rest of the Thunderbirds—and everyone trying to be one—are getting ready for tryouts.

  As soon as I do, this bouncy, friendly, smiley girl plops down next to me. “’Sup playa!” she says, sounding a little bit too much like Sammy. “When is your individual?”

  “My individual?” I repeat.

  “Duuuuh, with Coach?” She laughs. She has a mouthful of braces with fluorescent pink rubber bands framing each tooth.

  “Oh, uh, not sure,” I answer. At least that’s true. I try to glance down at the name sewn on her hoodie.

  Her name is Sammie. Girl Sammie!

  “Relax, dude! You seriously look freaked! She’ll probably call us up one by one, right?”

  “Sure, yeah, I guess,” I say. I look around for the coach. I can’t even tell you how much I want to get this over with.

  “Wowzers!” Girl Sammie flops back onto the turf and closes her eyes. She’s wearing the same pink gear, head to toe. I’m thinking how goofy-funny she is and I’m almost grinning watching her when her eyes pop open and she sits straight up.

  “OMG, Ellie, I mean, hopefully, we both make it, in which case”—she grabs my wrist and yanks me toward her—“how excited are you to spend a whole soccer season with me!”

  Mostly I’m just hoping you let go of my hand, thanks.

  Girl Sammie’s smile suddenly dissolves, she lowers her voice. “Incoming!” she says, nodding toward . . .

  I look up. Sassy Gaines and that new girl, Aspen, are walking straight toward us, same Thunderbird hoodies, hair pulled back, matching pink headbands. I watch as they stop two feet away, their backs to us, and drop their bags onto the turf. I won’t lie. Sassy Gaines is a head turner. You have to work not to stare. When Sassy catches my eye, though, she doesn’t smile at me the way she does at school or at the pool all summer. No. She glares.

  “Ahem,” she says, looking back over her shoulder directly at me. “Why do people think it’s okay to wear their soccer gear over their gym clothes?”

  Aspen glances back too, scowling with her nose scrunched up. “I know, right? So pathetic!”

  Sassy turns to Aspen. “So super awk, when you say something and people think you’re talking about them.”

  “I know, right? If you were talking to someone”—Aspen smirks—“you would have said it to her.”

  Sassy starts laughing hysterically. “I was totally just thinking that! We literally thought the exact same thing at the exact same time!”

  “Twins!” they both squeal.

  Sassy may be hot, but it’s amazing how someone can go from a ten to a two just by opening her mouth. What a clown. I just look at her and shake my head. I mean, if I were in the locker room and one of the guys lipped off to me like that? I’d just throw tape at his head and shut him up. “Easy, buddy,” I’d say, and laugh. “That all you got?” That would get the boys going. But I’m not in our locker room and I don’t know what the protocol is if you have boobs, so I just keep my head down and fidget with Freckles’s pink-striped socks.

  Girl Sammie moves closer. “Sorry, Ellie,” she says. “It’s so not even funny how two-faced people can be.”

  I shrug. “Girl’s a clown,” I say under my breath.

  “What?”

  “Oh, I mean . . .” I stall and try and think hard of something to say besides what I want to say, which is “I could seriously care less about Sassy Gaines. Girl’s a joke, plain and simple.”

  Don’t worry! I don’t say that.

  I pop up to my feet and start juggling the ball. I haven’t played soccer since I was nine. The Captain does not believe in an off-season. It’s number four on his list of life maxims: “Success demands singleness of purpose.” We play hockey year-round. One hundred games. Even if I wanted to play soccer, I can’t. Off-ice training, lifting, working on my shot in The Cage, watching game film. Hockey is a twenty-four-hour, three-hundred-and-sixty-five-day job. The work never stops. My brothers and I train seven days a week. You’ve always got to be putting in the time. You can always get a lot stronger, tougher, faster.

  I kick the ball around for a little bit before I hear the whistle calling us in for a huddle. I don’t know why she bothers using her whistle, though. The coach has one of those voices that demands everyone’s attention.

  “Listen up, ladies,” she hollers. She looks more like a small gymnast than a soccer star. She’s wearing a black warm-up, zipped all the way up, and a visor with a dark ponytail spilling out the back. And she’s smiling.

  She waits a few seconds, bringing the shuffling and whispers to a hush. I glance around me and try not to be freaked out by the fact that I’m standing with twenty girls. Twenty-one, including me. My ears tingle and my hands feel sweaty. It’s so crazy how much can change in such little time.

  “Today and Sunday morning are the two last tryouts before cuts.” The coach looks at me. “I’m only keeping ten for indoor. It’s going to come down to who is working the hardest—who wants it most! Do you want it?”

  “Yeaaaah!” they shriek at the top of their lungs.

  Holy jeez, I have to do everything I can to not cover my ears.

  Everyone throws their hands in on top of the coach’s. “Thunderbirds on three,” she says.

  I look around as if someone is actually going to be understanding my predicament . . . you know, that I’m not Freckles! I’m Jack.

  Monday needs to hurry up.

  Then, just when it all starts to sink in again? Mackenzie comes out of nowhere and wiggles herself into the huddle right next to me, throwing her arm around my shoulders. We are so close. Her cheek is practically grazing mine. My heart starts beating like a thousand beats per minute.

  I mean . . . it’s not like I have anything better to do. Whatever.

  I throw my hand into the pile too.

  Twenty minutes of lunges, squat thrusts, sprints, and military-style warm-ups later? I am not laughing. The Thunderbirds are no joke. I throw myself into Ellie’s tryouts like I’m on a mission. I only have one gear. Ask my brothers. We have a lot of heated battles. Doesn’t matter what I’m doing. I’ve played the same way pretty much my whole life. That’s just my nature. I’m a competitive guy. I like to win. I hate to lose.

  Sassy is chirping at me the whole time. “Some people should save themselves the embarrassment and just quit,” she says, talking loud enough for me to hear her.

  Gutless.

  I will never hit a girl in my life, but between you and me? I’d love to collide Freckles’s fist wit
h Sassy’s noggin.

  The coach calls me over at the start of the scrimmage. I don’t come right away. I would have obviously jumped if I heard “Malloy!” or “Mallsy!” The fact that the coach is screaming at me to come over for a good minute is not a good sign. When I finally realize everyone is shouting “Ellie!” and Ellie means me, I hustle over to where the coach is standing by the players’ box and double over, hands on my knees to catch my breath. I am legit gassed.

  These girls can play.

  The coach doesn’t even really acknowledge me standing there. She clutches her clipboard to her chest. “Let’s go, Claire, watch that first touch!” she hollers. “Sassy, pick your head up. You have to see what’s around you. Mackenzie, great job supporting the play. Great anticipation, keep it up!” Finally she turns toward me. “Ellie O’Brien!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer.

  She looks surprised. “Yes, ma’am?” she says with a laugh. “How very polite of you, Ellie!”

  We sit on the metal bench in the players’ box.

  “Jeepers, Ellie, you can sit a little closer.” She smiles. “I don’t have cooties!”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” I say, and scoot in a little bit.

  “So!”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “How was day one?”

  “Day one, ma’am?” I repeat, not sure what she means.

  “School?” she offers. She looks at me a little strangely. “You okay, Ellie? You’re acting a little bit different.”

  For a few seconds I completely freeze.

  I am not okay.

  “I’m fine, ma’am,” I manage.

  She glances down at her notes, then back at me. “You know if something’s going on, you can talk to me, right?”

  I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Look.” She sighs. “I have some big decisions to make. I’m only keeping six up front for indoor. Are you ready to play whatever role that’s needed?”

  The only thing I know for sure is that Ellie told me to not even go to soccer. I try to think.

  “Ellie?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The coach looks concerned. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Actually, I’m pretty sure I am not okay.

  “I’m going to be completely honest, Ellie. . . .” She stops and takes this long pause, and I get this totally sinking feeling. “I would say your strength by far is your speed, but your weakness? You need to believe in yourself more! I want to see more of those things that are hard to measure—confidence, risk taking. I need you to take some risks instead of passing off all the time. Attack the goal yourself. And if you lose the ball, what’s the worst that can happen? With your speed, you can just run it down and win it back. Show me some determination to put that ball in the goal.”

  My mind begins to race . . . Maybe I can help, you know? Maybe I can make Freckles stand out, try to do something to get her noticed.

  “Ellie? Ellie! Are you listening?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” I say.

  “You’re an extremely nice kid, Ellie, and sometimes you’re too nice. You have the speed, the skills. You can be very strong on the ball. You’re technically sound. You can dribble. You see the game well. I need you to take the attacking role, be tough up front. It’s a confidence thing.” She pauses and smiles, eyebrows raised. “You have wheels, Ellie. Let loose out there! Be creative on the ball. Make it fun.”

  She’s so positive and convincing. She’s more down-to-earth than any coach I have ever had. For just a second, I completely forget everything. Forget even who I am or where I am or . . .

  “Well, what are you waiting for, girl?” She smiles and jumps up. “Get at it!”

  25

  ELLIE

  WHEN I ENTER JACK’S ROOM, I am positive it’s Jack’s room because there is a license plate on the wall—not a real one, one of those fake ones you get for your seventh birthday—and it says JACK. So yeah, at least I’m sure this is where I’m supposed to be.

  It’s not a huge room, but it occurs to me right away that it is also not just Jack’s room. There’s another bed. There is another bed and a thick piece of white tape right down the center of the gray carpet. The two sides of the room are almost identical. Each side has one single bed, one single desk, one bookcase filled with gold and silver trophies, and shiny medals hanging from ribbons.

  I stand sort of frozen for a few seconds, only three steps in, suddenly very aware that I should probably take off Jack’s smelly sneakers. It’s like a museum or something in here. You know, like you’re afraid to touch anything? It’s so . . . the opposite of my room, which even I will admit is a disaster area. The Prince of Thatcher’s room is pretty much the neatest room on earth! There are no layers of dirty, crumpled clothes covering the floor. Nothing is out of place. Not a speck of dirt. Everything is arranged just so. Both beds are made, the blankets smooth, not even one wrinkle.

  I walk into the center of the room, and for no other reason other than what else am I supposed to be doing? I walk down the white middle line of tape in my socks, like I’m a gymnast on a balance beam, wobbling and leaping, left foot, right, and when I get to the end? Yeah, I do it. I thrust my hands in the air, all smiles like those Olympic girls do on TV.

  Which is when I hear clapping.

  Which is when I die of embarrassment.

  Which is when I meet Brother Number Three, a little-bit-bigger version of The Prince. Pure muscle. Same dark hair. I can verify the muscle thing because, like Clark Kent next door, Brother Number Three is wearing—surprise! No shirt. Six-pack doesn’t describe it for the Malloy brothers. It’s more like twelve-pack. They’re built like an action heroes come to life. You can see every single tiny muscle popping out. Not an ounce of fat. And I am in the middle of reminding myself not to stare and not to turn bright red from complete you-saw-me-prancing-down-a-white-piece-of-tape-pretending-I’m-an-Olympic-gymnast humiliation when he speaks.

  Wait. No. He laughs first, then he shakes his head, then he speaks.

  “What’s up, stud?” he says. “I’m not even going to ask you what you’re doing in here, Nancy Pants!”

  Thank goodness he is distracted by . . .

  “Butter Baby got the flow chopped!”

  Without even thinking about it, I know what he means. I lift my hand and run my fingers over the prickly stubble Geno left.

  With no warning, Brother Number Three comes straight at me and plants both his hands on top of my head and begins rubbing, as if I’m some lucky Buddha charm.

  “Unbelievable!” he says, smiling, and just as quickly I watch that smile melt as Brother Number Three’s brain catches up to the fact that my nose is busted up and swollen.

  “Wait, that’s not from yesterday in The Cage, is it?” He genuinely looks concerned. “Jacko, I am legit sorry if I made your mug that ugly.”

  “You didn’t,” I say, surprising myself by how suddenly easy it is to be an expert on all things Jack. “I, um, I got in a—”

  “Did you get in a tilt, dude?” he asks, cutting me off. He looks more excited than if I had told him he had won a million dollars.

  “Kind of?” I answer.

  “Bro, you either got in a tilly or not, and by the look of it, I’d say you got dusted.” Brother Number Three falls back onto his bed, jamming his pillow underneath his neck and folding his arms over his chest.

  “I didn’t get dusted!” I exclaim. And yeah, it’s strange that I am suddenly using words I had no idea existed when I woke up this morning. “I pumped him!” I add in for good measure.

  “Okay, easy, bud. Vet move. So you waxed him, don’t have to cry like a little baby over it, geesh.” He flips over on his bed, his back to me, and curls up with his pillow. “Gonna take a siesta, big dog. Resting up for tomorrow. It’s gonna be brutal.”

  I sit on the very edge of Jack’s bed and wonder if I’m going to be arrested if I actually get in it and mess up the perfectly made covers. Also, like, what is all this talk about t
omorrow? What does he mean by brutal? My heart begins to pound, and I sit on the bed and copy my mom from this morning, breathing in and exhaling a big, long breath. I do it again and again until—

  “Dang, bro, if you’re breathing heavy like that, go to the bathroom and handle it.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Jacko?”

  “Yeah?” I answer.

  “I was wrong, you were right. I’m stupid, you’re smart! I’m ugly, you are good-looking. . . .” He laughs softly. Brother Number Three still has his back to me. “Took one in the melon. Proud of you, bud, and don’t worry. I’ll keep your little secret—”

  For a split second I am like, Oh my gosh, he knows! But then, just as fast, I realize what he means.

  “I won’t tell The Captain, big dog,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I answer.

  I sit on the bed for a good long time, long enough to realize that Brother Number Two’s name is Stryker—due to the large, gold engraved plaque hanging over his bed that reads STRYKER MALLOY, BANTAM MAJOR AAA SILVER STICK TOURNAMENT MVP.

  Stryker. That’s a cool name. Fits him, I think as I watch his back rise and fall with his breath.

  I glance around the quiet room. Jack’s desk doesn’t even look like anybody really sits there, except for one framed picture. I pick it up, careful not to make any noise and wake the sleeping teen giant three feet away.

  The frame is silver and the photo is definitely Jack, but younger, maybe eleven years old. Next to him—must be his mom. Same dark wavy hair, same bright swimming-pool-blue eyes. She’s beautiful.

  I hold the frame up closer and read the engraved writing beneath the picture:

  MOM. ALWAYS ON MY MIND, FOREVER IN MY HEART, NEVER FORGOTTEN.

  I stare at it, and all at once everything around me just turns really dark, and I have the worst feeling wash over me. Jack’s mom. She’s—

  I can’t even say it.

  She’s—