Boy Swap (2 page)

“What the—. Brooke, where did you get that scarf?” Natalie, a xylophone player, stops me in the hallway outside the band room doors.

The students walking by are totally staring at me, and I can hear whispers. Things like, “Look, she has a pink scarf.” “How did that girl get a pink scarf?” “Isn’t she in the band?”

“Nice isn’t it?” I say fingering the scarf. My God, I already feel at least twenty-five percent more popular than yesterday. This could really be it for me!

A couple of seniors pause and tilt their heads at me in speculation. Everyone’s probably thinking the same thing. How? Why? I just want to scream, yes! Yes, it’s all true! I have wonderful new friends! We all wear these scarves! I am absolutely fab! Run, tell the world! But I don’t. Because that is something the old, non-pink-scarf-wearing Brooke would do. The new me strolls into the band room with my head held high. I am
so
in. Finally.

I had the opportunity for popularity-dom once before back in 6th grade and I took a pass. Not that I regret it or anything—it was the right thing to do at the time. Up until 5th grade, I was best friends with Delaney and this other girl Trish O’Donohue. We did absolutely everything together from weekly sleepovers at each other’s houses to our very first movie without our parents. Of course Trish’s mom just sat in another theater but it was still a really big deal. Anyway, 6th grade seemed to be the time where everyone split up into their categories, which mostly boiled down to two—popular and not popular. I was headed straight for popular up until 8th grader Todd Jenson’s party. All three of us were invited—huge deal being only 6th graders— and it was my first real boy/girl party so I was totally excited. When I got there, they were passing out bracelets for everyone to wear. At first I thought—oh wow, we still get goody bag stuff like when we were little kids. But that was so not what they were. The bracelets had
meaning
, if you get my drift. The different colors indicated what you would
do
with guys at the party, and I was so not going to do anything. I kinda freaked actually. I ran into the Jenson’s kitchen and called my mom to come get us. Delaney and Trish didn’t want to leave so I left them and our friendship at that party. Trish moved away that year and, from that day on, Delaney acted like she’d hit her head on a rock, got amnesia, and forgot all about us being BFFs since kindergarten. She tossed me aside like an old pair of skinny jeans. It was utterly awful.

It became one of those things we just didn't talk about. Well, we didn't talk period. We completely avoided each other. But she started it. I always wanted to be like hey, remember me? You slept over at my house a dozen times last year. I know about that ugly, nasty toenail on the pinky toe of your right foot and what a pain it is to paint over so you always have to wear dark shades of nail color. And I know how you break out in hives if you eat anything with strawberries in it. And I know how movies where puppies are hurt or lost or hungry make you cry. So how do you suddenly look at me like you're sure we've met but just can't place me?

My mom always said the best revenge is doing well in your own life so that's what I went for. But Delaney had all of her cool new friends and I had no one. I did the only thing I could do. I joined the band.

I have first hour band practice every day and we practice outside in the school parking lot during football season, so I leave my jacket on. I head straight for my locker in the back of the room to retrieve my flute. Two oboe players, Melanie and Amber, nudge each other and point at my scarf. The entire French horn section is staring at me and the trumpets, well, at least the female trumpet players, have all stopped to look in my direction too. Lizzie walks out of the band director, Mr. Shank’s, office with a handful of music and almost drops it when she sees me.

“Oh. My. God. Brooke.”

“Hi Lizzie,” I say. “Cute top.” Lizzie is wearing a really cute tee shirt with touristy London spots airbrushed on it.

“Forget my top, where on earth did you get that scarf!” she says, reaching for my head.

“Oh, this?” I say, touching my scarf again and recounting what I was told to say. “Sale at Macy’s.”

“Shut up! Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you pick up one for me too? You know I’ve wanted one of these scarves forever!”

Ooh. All very good questions. Why didn’t I get her one?

“Um, well there was only one there. Or I totally would have bought you one. And I didn’t want to call and rub it in or anything.” That sounds plausible.

“Man. I can’t believe you got one of the scarves! You’re going to let me borrow it, right?”

Uh, what? Nooooo. I am sure that is against the rules. What’s my mom always saying when my pesky little cousin is acting hyper? Oh yeah, redirect. “Tell me where you got your shirt—I totally love it!” I say.

“Oh, just Target. No biggie,” she says hurriedly. “So when do I get to borrow it?”

Shoot. The redirecting thing didn’t throw her. It must only work on three-year olds.

“Hey, Honey,” a warm voice whispers into my ear and two strong arms envelop my waist. Chris. My hero, saving me from any further scarf-borrowing talk.

I wrap my arms around his neck and give him a good morning kiss. He’s so handsome; especially in the mornings when his dark blond hair is still a little damp from his shower. And he smells so, so good. All, I was just outside chopping down a pine forest like.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Lizzie says and walks to her seat to warm up. Lizzie plays the tuba, which, you can imagine, is just as unsexy as it sounds. Toting around a gigantic hunk of metal that probably outweighs every boy in the room and puffing out your lips as you spit into this giant metal shaft is not so attractive. But Lizzie loves it. And she’s good at it. And no one else in band could lift it.

“So are we going to Katie’s party after the game tonight?” Chris asks, arms still around my waist with no plans of moving any time soon. Katie Hodges’s family hosts band parties after every home football game. They are legendary in the band. Her house has excellent hidden nooks for making out. And her mom can make a mean chocolate chip cookie, too.

“Sure,” I say. “Can we give Lizzie a ride?” Chris sighs a little but then nods his head yes. I know he hates that I always have him carting Lizzie around. But she’s like, my own personal walking talking birth control. I know that Chris is ready to have sex, but hello, I’m totally not. And I’m so not having sex for the first time in the back of his filthy little 98’ Ford Focus. No way. I’ve decided that the perfect time for us to first have sex will be on the band trip to Disney World over spring break. The Disney trip is four months away and by that time we’ll have been dating for eight glorious months. I’ll totally be ready by then, I’m sure. And we can do it on a beach at night with only the moon for light and waves crashing into our toes. It will be super romantic.

Chris leans in to kiss me again, and I see Mr. Shank walk into the room. “Ooops, keep that thought,” I say. “I better get to my seat.” I race to the front of the room to the flute section. Chris walks over to his drum set, picks up his drumsticks, and starts warming up.

I take my seat next Rayne, the first chair flutist. I totally hate her. Okay, that’s mean. Let’s say I don’t enjoy her as much as I do many, many other people. I’m a junior so this is my third year in band. Rayne is only a freshman but somehow beat me out for first chair. It drives me absolutely crazy, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Okay, I shouldn’t say there is
absolutely
nothing I can do about it. Just nothing I want to do. Mr. Shank keeps telling me if I want to be first chair, then I can challenge Rayne for it. Which at first makes you think what? Pistols at thirty paces? But no, Mr. Shank’s a total whack job. If you want to challenge another musician for their chair, he sets up this freaking
American Idol
finale night situation in which the entire band attends and you stand up front and go head to head playing the same songs. Then we are like, critiqued by three seniors band members and the entire band gets to vote who should get the higher chair. I mean, come on people, who in their right mind is going to put themself through all that? So needless to say there aren’t many challenges.

I take my flute out of my case and quickly line up the pieces, adjusting the head piece to stick out just a centimeter further than it is supposed to be. This is my own little secret—I really think it makes the sound better.

“Hi, Brooke,” Rayne says, giving me a once over and smiling.

I sigh. “Hi, Rayne.”

She makes this muffled heh-heh sound and I see her look up at Chris and then at my scarf. Hmph. She seems to have made the connection between the scarf and the club. Is she in Boy Swap? I give her a once over too, searching for a tuft of pink coming out of anywhere. But nope—no scarf. I don’t recall ever seeing her with a pink scarf either. Maybe I’m reading too much into her reaction.

*      *      *

Can we just call this BEST DAY EVER? Seriously, it’s only 4th period and my day has been amazing. Everyone is looking at me differently. Everyone is treating me differently. Yesterday, I had my band friends and my French club friends and the kids I sit with at lunch. But that was it. Nobody beyond that had a clue who Brooke Thomas was. But today, well, today my name is buzzing through the air. I’m on the tip of every girl’s lips. And it isn’t just the non-scarf-owning population that is talking about me. The popular girls, those in the Boy Swap Club that is, are all nodding acknowledgement. You know, kinda like how one semi-truck driver acknowledges another on the highway? Or how one dude in a shiny Mustang convertible slows down to let another dude in a shiny Mustang convertible in his lane? It’s like that—they’re acknowledging their own. And wow, I didn’t realize how huge Boy Swap really is. I mean, this morning alone I probably spotted thirty-five scarves. Girls are wearing them in all kinds of styles: in their belt loops, peeking out of a pocket, on a purse handle, or tied around their neck. I even saw one girl with a scarf tied around her ankle.

I’m busily trying to figure out how to handle my new position in Jefferson High society. I mean, I want to run up to each girl with a scarf and become instant besties but that would give away the whole secret club thing, right? I’ll just have to sit back and observe for a while. See what the other girls do.

“Hey, Babe,” Chris says, tossing an arm around my shoulder and shaking me out of my thoughts.

“Hi, Sweetie.” I stand up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. We walk toward the gym—we both have class there next hour.

“Did I mention that you look really pretty today?” he adds.

“No, but thank you. You look good too.” I lean into him. Aww. Even Chris is acting differently today. I love this scarf.

“Practice was crazy this morning, huh? It was so freakin’ cold outside—I can’t believe Skank made us go outside to rehearse.”

“I know! I was a total Brookesicle.” Especially since I refused to wear a hat and cover my scarf.

“At least you get to march around,” Chris says. “We just stand up front and freeze.” That’s true. Mr. Shank positions the percussion section in the front of the field and the rest of us do the routine.

“Poor baby,” I say jokingly, and give his shoulder a little shove with mine.

“Hey there. Looking good,” a tall, leggy blond says to Chris as she walks by, totally interrupting our couple cuteness. I have no idea who she is, but I suddenly have a strong urge to do this morning’s marching routine all over her face. Who does she think she is telling my boyfriend he looks good right in front of me? Rude much? I feel Chris stiffen, his arm still around my shoulder. Okay, apparently he registered the weirdness factor of this situation too.

Oh yeah. It’s the scarf. Boy Swap. God, this is like walking around with a freaking vacancy sign flashing over my head.
You too can have Chris’s arms wrapped around you!
Ew. I don’t even want to picture that. But it is what I signed up for, I guess. And I got the cute scarf. And maybe some cool new friends. And the thrill of torturing Delaney with my mere existence. Not to mention Chris looks about as interested in Blondie’s flirting as he would be in getting a flu shot. So, it will be okay. I force a smile and look up at Chris.

“I can’t wait for the party tonight,” I say, breaking the awkward silence. Chris looks instantly relieved. Like, one of those, oh-thank-god-we-don’t-have-to-get-into-an-hour-long-fight-over-why-that-girl-just-talked-to-me looks.

“Me too,” he replies.

Chapter 3: Friday Night Fights

Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp. Panthers! Panthers! Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp. Panthers! Panthers!

The stands are shaking with what looks like the entire student body stomping their feet and screaming. There is so much orange and black clothing in the stands that it looks like Halloween. No one can say the JHS students are not HUGE on school spirit.

“Ladies and Gentleman,” an announcer booms through the intercom system during half-time, “put your hands together for the Jefferson High School Marching Band, together with the Flag Corps and Dance Squad.” The stands go wild with applause and my heart speeds up as we march quickly out to our marks on the field. The realistic portion of my brain is well aware that the crowd is NOT applauding for the band or the flag corps but rather the dance squad in their micro-minis, but I like to pretend. It motivates me to give the performance my all.

We play the school song and march into various lines and circles around the field. The dancers are kicking their little brains out and the flags are twirling like windmills around the edges of our large group. The students in the stands are screaming the Panther’s fight song and making the required cat-like scratches to the beat.

“Go Panthers, Go Panthers

Growl! Growl!

Win Panthers, Win Panthers

Now! Now!

Fight for us, Win for us

We’re behind you all the way.

Go Panthers, Win Panthers

Save the day!

Growl!”