The Swap

by Megan Shull

  I just grin and shake my head. “Dude, she is awesome. And you better never lay a hand on her,” I say, sounding overly protective. “Also, we’re just friends.”

  “Just friends?” Sammy repeats. Eyes are wide, sly smile. “Yeah, sure, man, whatever.”

  Owen is much more worried about what happened with The Captain.

  “Bro, sorry my mom called your dad. I feel so bad,” he tells me.

  “I’ll be okay,” I tell him. “Things have a way of working out, man.”

  Owen smiles. “Dude, I like the positive attitude.” He laughs.

  I shrug. “My brothers always tell me to focus on what I can control.”

  “You’re lucky you have brothers,” Owen says.

  “Yeah.” I nod.

  When the bus stops, I descend the steps into the madness that is Thatcher. The swarming, crowded, loud hallways full of squeals and laughter. I’m only standing at my locker for about one second when I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around.

  “Mr. Malloy,” Ms. Dean says, looking extremely serious, as always. She’s dressed in a gray fancy suit, skirt, jacket, white blouse.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, immediately straightening my shoulders, looking her in the eye, forcing a polite smile. I try to swallow, even though my heart starts pounding. Porter is standing next to her.

  We walk into Ms. Dean’s office before the bell even rings. There are two empty chairs set in front of her desk.

  “Gentlemen, please have a seat,” she tells us, waiting for both of us to sit. I glance at Porter. I give him a nod. He’s dressed like he’s ready for golf: yellow polo shirt, popped collar, pressed tan khaki pants.

  I slip into the chair in my Bruins hoodie and my dirty jeans. Good thing The Captain didn’t see me leave. Wearing dirty jeans to school is strictly against the code—same with socks not pulled up, ratty T-shirts, or saggy pants around your butt. Today . . . I don’t mind. I’m just so happy to be me again.

  I dig my hands into my front hoodie pocket.

  I keep my eyes on Ms. Dean.

  I sit up straight.

  I try to remember to breathe.

  The bell rings, and the announcements are broadcast over the loudspeaker. Still Ms. Dean just sits quietly behind her desk. I have no idea what she’s going to say.

  We sit for what seems like five minutes in silence. Porter’s breathing heavy, shifting around nervously in his chair. Fidgeting.

  I glance sideways. Dude’s a mess. His cheeks are all splotchy pink. He’s sweating. I’m just glad he doesn’t have a black eye. One punch and he was done, man. I don’t think I’ve ever hit anyone that hard.

  I don’t expect it, what I do next.

  I turn to him. I look him in the eye, just like my dad always says.

  “Porter, man, I’m sorry. I just want to say, I was out of line. I shouldn’t have hit you. I snapped. No excuses.”

  Porter’s eyes go wide. He looks genuinely shocked. He stares back at me. He looks terrified. I see his lips kind of quiver.

  “No, man,” he says, his voice shaky. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have started it, that stuff I said—”

  We both turn back to Ms. Dean. Like, now what?

  She’s smiling gently. Then the smile grows. “Gentlemen, I’m pleased you both initiated a conscious approach to a civilized conversation. My utmost concern is a sense of safety. This is your only warning. Physical confrontations will not be tolerated.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I speak softly.

  Porter just nods.

  More quiet. I can hear two teachers talking outside the door. I hear the clock. I swallow back the lump in my throat. I look at Porter in his chair, his slumped shoulders, his head hanging. It just happens. It feels right. It’s not easy. I stumble with the words.

  “Hey, man, also,” I add, looking right at him, “sorry to hear about your brother.”

  Porter’s eyes well up. I can tell he’s fighting back tears. I give him a second.

  I breathe in deep. I make sure to face him, squaring my shoulders as I say it. “Thing is,” I tell him, “you and me both lost somebody. You lost your brother and my mom, she—” I stop and swallow hard. I have never said the words out loud. “She—” My voice cracks. I take another deep breath, and I look at him again. “She died. It’s been—” I stop. I breathe. “It’s been a little over a year.”

  The office is incredibly quiet. I hear the voices outside, the secretary laughing. A phone ringing. I swear to you, I can hear my own heart. Ms. Dean reaches across her desk and hands Porter a box of tissues. He blows his nose, hard. I’m surprised I’m not a mess right now. Ever since Summer and Elle—I feel like, I don’t know—

  I let the pressure out.

  After a few more silent minutes, Porter lifts his head and looks at me. Not right in the eye. It’s more a quick glance. Then he drops his eyes and stares into the floor.

  “Thanks, man,” he says. He can barely speak. “That means a lot.” He slowly turns to me, extending his hand. And yeah, I shake it. His palm is moist with sweat. I grasp it for longer than I need to—a strong, firm grip, the way my dad taught me.

  Ms. Dean stands up. “Okay, gentlemen.”

  I move to my feet.

  Porter rises too.

  Ms. Dean’s eyes shift from Porter to me, back and forth. “I expect there won’t be any more physical confrontations.”

  “No, ma’am,” I say.

  Porter shakes his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Good,” Ms. Dean replies, handing us each a slip of paper. “Here’s a note for both of you to return to class.”

  Porter takes the note. I hear it sort of crumple in his hand. He walks past me to the door. I can tell by his eyes, he’s going through a lot.

  “Stay strong, man,” I tell him. It just comes out. He gives me a nod. He pauses at the door and looks back over his shoulder, as if he wants to say something too.

  His eyes are red.

  I shoot him a shy smile. “If you ever want to talk, dude, I’m down,” I tell him. It feels good to do something different. To not brush it off.

  I grab my bag, lift it to my shoulder, and hesitate before I turn to the door. I look back at Ms. Dean, standing behind her desk, wearing her gray suit. She looks like a judge, minus the robe.

  “Ma’am, does this mean you won’t—” I start, then stop. Maybe I shouldn’t even bring it up.

  “Mr. Malloy, I am impressed with your humility and thoughtfulness today. You accepted responsibility and showed contrition.” She pauses for a moment and just looks at me, her eyes brightening. “I would suspect your father would be quite pleased with how you handled yourself this morning. I know he requires a lot from you.” She stops, and a hint of a smile appears. “As long as you continue to use good judgment, as far as I’m concerned, last Friday never happened. You have a clean slate, Jack. Use it.”

  55

  ELLE

  MONDAY MORNING I WAKE UP smiling, stretching my arms up over my head. Being back in my own bed feels so good. I pull my teddy bear in and give him a squeeze.

  There’s no place like home, I think, and grin. I flop over onto my stomach and pull open the silky window curtain by my bed. The view isn’t as great as the top of the mountain, but I stay perfectly still. I don’t move. I didn’t miss it—I’m three for three on watching the sun turn on. Through the trees across the street, I can see the morning light fill the sky, finger-painted streaks of orange and pink. Unreal. For a few quiet minutes, I just watch. It’s mesmerizing. Magic. I stay there until the sky is blue, a pillow propped up under my chest and my chin perched on my folded arms. And I keep thinking, you know, there’s a lot I want to do. I think waking up to watch the sunrise is going to be my thing. It’s peaceful. It just starts the day right. It’s how I think it’s meant to be.

  I shower.

  I take care of “business.” (Yeah. That.)

  I brush my hair.

  I stand, wrapped in a big white towel, i
n front of my thanks-to-Jack perfectly organized, color-coordinated closet and pull out the first thing I notice—jeans and a new shirt. The shirt is purple. It still has the tags on. I cut them off and hold it up. It’s kind of fitted. It’s not what I would have picked out, but what the heck, I’ll go with it! Pulling it on, I remember yesterday—Jack’s hockey jersey getting caught and how the kid next to me yanked it down. Those guys were nice. I stand in my bare feet, jeans, and new shirt, and look in the mirror attached to the back of my door, shaking my head, doing that weird smile you do when you smile at yourself. I almost laugh. It’s like, I don’t know if you know what I mean, but it’s like I’m friends with this girl looking back at me. And it’s not so much what I’m wearing. I guess it’s more the way my shoulders are back. The way my feet feel planted on the ground. The way I feel strong.

  Maybe it’s this getting up with the sun, but I’m energized as I bounce down the stairs and walk into the kitchen. I’m the first one up! I hit the lights. I get to work. Tea and two bowls of oatmeal with raisins and honey. I’m pretty proud of myself when I set the bowls down on the table. You should see my mom’s face when she walks into the kitchen! She’s dressed in her yoga teacher clothes; her hair is down and still wet from the shower.

  “Well, good morning,” she says, sounding amazed, smiling. “And excuse me, but did someone steal my daughter and bring me back a Martian?”

  “Morning,” I say, handing her a hot mug. “Peppermint tea with milk, just the way you like it.”

  She looks at me, mouth kind of open, eyebrows scrunched up. “What’s going on? It’s not my birthday, it’s not Mother’s Day. Hmmmm . . .” She brings the tea to her mouth. “Ohhhh, this is perfect, just what I needed.”

  “No big deal,” I say with a smile. “I just, you know, I got up early, and—”

  “You got up early?” My mom looks surprised. “How are you feeling? Like, with the—”

  “I’m fine,” I say quickly, a little bit glad she brought it up and a little bit embarrassed.

  “No cramps?” she asks, sitting down at the table.

  “Sort of, but—” I sit down too. “I’m tough. I’ve felt worse.”

  My mom just gazes at me across the table. Her eyes are all sparkly.

  “Did you do something different with your hair or, like—” She pauses and studies my face for what seems like a long time. “Something’s different. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  I laugh. “I mean, I got my hair cut.”

  “No, it’s not that. You look gorgeous, but I think you always do. No . . . it’s something inside,” she says, beaming. “It’s coming from your eyes.”

  “Whatever,” I say. I’m kind of blushing.

  “What. Ever,” says my mom, playfully mimicking me.

  “I guess I’m just getting older,” I say with a shrug.

  “I guess you are,” my mom tells me, sipping her tea. She sits back, tilts her head, and just looks at me again, smiling her crazy-big smile. I kind of laugh, because it used to really bug me when she did this. I’d get so mad. But this morning I smile softly back at her. I can’t get enough.

  Look, the last three days have blown my mind. But I’m going to be completely honest: when I step off the bus onto the sidewalk, I get this nervous, fluttery, funny feeling deep in my stomach. And it’s not the “girl thing,” if you know what I mean. It’s the fact that as I make my way through the hundreds of kids flooding out of the yellow school buses onto the sidewalk, I see straight ahead—past the colorful backpacks, the swarms, the fist bumping, the shouting, the high-pitched excitement. I see, in the distance, standing in front of the bike rack, Sassy Gaines and her pack of identical glossy-haired ladies-in-waiting. I take a deep breath. I can do this.

  I keep my head up. I keep walking. With my backpack slung around my shoulders and the little voice in my head cheering me on, I mix into the sea of eager faces. I can do this. I say it to myself as I walk through the open Thatcher doors.

  “Good morning,” calls out Mr. Santos, the vice principal, dressed in his suit and tie. He’s standing where he usually stands, greeting us as we arrive. “Make today count!” he says in his booming voice. “Be the change you want to see!”

  He always says that. But for once, I think I know what he means.

  Before the bell even rings, I see him from a distance.

  Buzzed hair.

  Black Bruins hoodie.

  He’s standing at his locker, way down by the front office. I literally stop walking. I just stop. People are shoving me in the crammed-crowded hall, telling me to get out of the way. The pushing doesn’t faze me. I hold my ground. I don’t shy away from it. The pulsing noise from the hallway just drops away and everything gets fuzzy. Everyone but Jack. My eyes focus like a close-up camera lens zeroing in on the scene.

  Ms. Dean.

  Porter.

  The anxious look on Jack’s face.

  The three of them walking across the hallway through the door to the main office. I know something’s wrong.

  And here’s the thing. In this moment, when I see him? I am actually way more nervous for Jack than I am for me. And it hits me right there, in this very second, standing in the middle of the buzzing hallway, kids pressing into me, pushing past me—

  I know what a real friend is like.

  I know how it feels.

  Cue the music! Start the applause! Right there, when the bell is about to ring, this light just goes off in my head. Or maybe I should say a light goes on. Four words come to mind: I do not care. Or is it seven? I do not care what Sassy thinks! She doesn’t scare me anymore. I don’t want her to like me. I don’t need her to like me. And when I walk through the door into first period and our eyes connect? When she predictably whispers to Aspen, scrunches up her nose, and laughs? I just, like, smile a totally friendly smile back. I sit down. I take out my books. I look up at Ms. González standing by her desk. I don’t even really think about it! It’s hard to explain, but I’m not even mad at her—

  I just don’t care.

  There is no superpower involved. No magic, no secret. It’s really simple. I don’t know how to say it except: if you’re lucky enough to get a second chance at something? Don’t waste it.

  On my way to lunch, by my locker, Sammie from soccer runs up and hugs me! I’ve never hung out with her that much, but I don’t know why. She’s, like, super nice and really funny.

  She stands by my locker and waits for me to fit my bag in.

  “Oh my gosh,” she tells me, moving in closer. “Can I tell you something that’s a little bit of a TMI?”

  I nod.

  Sammie takes a big breath. Her eyes are really twinkly, like she has a huge secret. She lowers her voice to an almost whisper. “I just got my period! And I think I might be leaking!”

  My mouth falls open. And I hesitate for a moment. I almost don’t say it. I almost hold it back, but then, what the heck! It’s all about making new friends, right?

  “I got it too!” I tell her.

  “Shut. Up!” says Sammie, grinning. “Oh my gosh, like, my sister told me that when a bunch of girls hang out together, sometimes they all get their period at the same time! Maybe it was, like . . . maybe it was all of us hanging out at Claire’s!”

  “Maybe.” I laugh.

  “OMG! We’re synchronized, Elle. We’re like sisters!” Sammie says, working to keep her voice down. You can’t not smile when you’re with Sammie. She’s so funny.

  “Well?” Sammie scrunches up her nose, sounding a little embarrassed. She leans in and whispers right into my ear. “Will you, like, tell me if I’m leaking?”

  “Sure,” I say nervously, giggling.

  She spins around, looking back over her shoulder at me as she walks like a supermodel striding down the mostly empty hall.

  I watch her.

  We both start cracking up.

  I run up to her and catch up. We’re both laughing hard now.

  “You’re all good!” I announce.


  “Phew! Oh my gosh, I know that’s so weird, but, it just feels like—”

  “It feels really kind of weird, right?” I finish, giggling.

  “So. Weird!” says Sammie, threading her arm through mine as we walk together toward the cafeteria, down the long Thatcher hall, past the orange lockers, past two teachers talking.

  Sammie looks at me. “The funniest thing is, I was, like, literally so excited to, you know, get it!” She pauses thoughtfully. “But seriously, now that I got it? It seems kind of like a major pain in the butt, right?”

  “I guess,” I reply with a shy smile. “I mean, it’s only been like twelve hours for me.”

  “Well, gosh, me too, but in my totally inexperienced opinion? Boys literally have it so good! They’re so lucky! I mean, could you, like, imagine, if they actually had to have blood come out of their body!” Sammie laughs and shakes her head. “It’s just so much easier being a boy. You just don’t have to worry about a lot of stuff.”

  “Yeah,” I say as we continue walking. I almost don’t say it, but then I do.

  “But, like, guys have other stuff that’s kind of hard too.”

  “Oh, really?” jokes Sammie, our arms still looped as we move down the hall. “That’s what I love about you, Elle! You’re always so, like, considerate and thoughtful. You are the best! We definitely need to hang out a lot more!”

  “Yeah,” I agree, and grin. “I’d like that.”

  “You need to come have a sleepover after soccer! Mackenzie too! We can make brownies and just eat the batter!”

  “I’m down,” I say, grinning when I hear myself, because I sound like the boys.

  “And,” she goes on, pressing into me as we walk, “we literally need to convince Mackenzie to switch back to Thatcher!”

  “Totally!” I agree, remembering what Jack told me: “Mackenzie and Sammie, they’re both awesome.”

  Sammie talks loud as we enter the super-noisy cafeteria. “Hey, you played like a boss yesterday at tryouts! Go get it, girl! You totally rocked it!”