The Swap (15 page)

He gives me a little shove and I go flying into Stryker, who promptly puts me in a headlock, and I get a mouthful of underarm hair and deodorant.

“For the boys, with the boys, Butter Baby. Say it!”

“You're strangling me!” I cry out.

He tightens his grip. “Say it, Jacko!”

“Say what?” I plead.

“For the boys, with the boys!” he tells me.

“For the boys, with the boys!” I repeat.

“That's not good enough, Jackie Chan.” Stryker tightens his grip. “Look at this Nancy, so soft. Say it louder, hombre!”

“For the boys, with the boys!” I scream it, muffled by his hairy armpit, until his grip loosens. I fall to the floor and feel around my neck, clasping the tiny pendant on the chain.

“C'mon, man!” Gunner says, helping me up. “The kid's face is waxed and he still has a nasty dried-blood muzzy on his upper lip.” Gunner reaches out and rubs my new lucky-sandpaper head. “Get a move on, big guy. Never thought I'd say this, but just this once, I'll take one for the team.”

“Huh?” I say.

Gunner laughs. “I'll make your bed for inspection, ya plug.”

I look at him weird. “Wait. What? Inspection?”

“Go!” they all yell at once.

I take a tender step backward toward the door, watching the three of them, each in a different state of undress, madly making the bed I just got out of. Stryker in his boxers, straightening the pillows, and Gunner in sweats and a T-shirt, smoothing out and tucking in the sheets. Clark Kent with his crazy bed head and his sweats and no shirt, shaking out the blanket and draping it carefully across the mattress. He looks up at me standing frozen in the doorway and catches my eye. “Throw on a smile, big guy. Battle through it. Things are about to get a whole lot better.”

In the bathroom down the hall, I splash my face and wash up as best I can, pee (sitting down on the cold toilet seat before I remember it doesn't work that way), slip into the sweats and the hoodie, and follow the boys' voices downstairs. They are all standing in a row dressed in sweats and hoodies. Only there's a fourth person there, and he is not smiling.

I look up into the eyes of The Captain with my mouth hanging open, like he's some kind of mythical hero. He looks like one too. He's pretty much rugged handsome, exactly like Jack and his brothers—same ice-blue eyes, same superhuman athletic shoulders—except he's the older version. His salt-and-pepper hair is buzzed almost to the scalp, and there is a shadow of white stubble on his big square jaw.

“Your haircut is a significant improvement,” says The Captain, greeting me.

My heart is pounding and my hands are trembling. I bite down on my quivering bottom lip. I can hardly look at him. I have no idea what to say.

“Thank you, sir,” Gunner whispers, prompting me.

“Thank you, sir,” I repeat. I swallow hard when I see The Captain's eyes zero in on my messed-up face.

“What in the lord's name happened to you?” he asks.

I glance sideways at Gunner. But it's Stryker who saves me.

“That was my fault, sir,” he offers. “Sauced him with a puck right in the melon yesterday in The Cage.”

I glance at the brothers. Each of them is standing tall, shoulders back. I suddenly straighten up too. “I'm okay,” I blurt out. “I'm okay, sir,” I try again.

I'm not stupid
.

We all stand there silently for a good minute. Then The Captain smiles quietly, first at me, then down the line at Gunner, Stryker, and Clark Kent—
I still have no idea what his name is
. The Captain checks his watch, fidgets with it, and opens the front door. Not a word is spoken. And so I do the only thing I can think of. I follow them all right out that door. Running.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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IT'S DARK. I HAVE NARROWLY
escaped having to take a bath. I ate Summer's homemade lasagna for dinner, and I am wearing Freckles's fleecy flower-print pajama bottoms and an oversized Patriots T-shirt I found on her floor. And her floor? Let's talk about that. Nothing is put away. It's like her dresser exploded. It's hard to know where it's safe to even step. The floor is pretty much totally covered. Crumpled clothes, books, candy wrappers. The dresser drawers are all open, and there's no desk. I stand on the edge and take a deep breath.

I don't know how she can take it. I mean, it's like—

“This place is a mess,” I say out loud.

I am so absolutely beat, though. I don't think I have ever been this tired in my life.

Trying to be someone else is exhausting
.

I turn off the light and trample through the clothes, walking right on top of them, and let my body collapse into Freckles's incredibly messy, unbelievably comfortable bed. And it's huge. It's one of those double beds like my dad has.

I close my eyes and I picture my room and my house and my bed. I hope Freckles is okay, I think, and stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars above her bed. I hope Stryker isn't grinding her gears too bad. I think about what a crazy day it's been. “Monday,” I whisper up at the stars.
I just have to make it till Monday
, I think.

I start counting stars. It's what I do when I can't sleep. I count things. And ever since, well . . .

Let's just say I don't really sleep that great a lot of the time.

I am almost to that place where I'm just about asleep when I remember what I forgot. I throw one leg over the bed and onto the floor, kneeling, and push away a space on the carpet.
Two hundred sit-ups and two hundred push-ups
, I tell myself, and get to work.

Ellie's body isn't as strong as mine, but I'm not about to stop. I break them into sets of ten. In between, I lie on the floor and count the stars. It takes me a while, but I make it through. And when I'm done, I stay on my knees and do what I have done every night since my mom taught me how. I do the prayer of Saint Sebastian seven times.

The only thing that's missing is my notebook.

I jump up, turn on the bedside table light, and kick through Ellie's stuff until I find a pen and a piece of paper. And then I sit up in Freckles's bed and I write it out, just like I do every night. Everything about my life is about making my dreams happen. I visualize that dream I'm chasing as I write it all down. Just a reminder of what I'm working toward. No one will do it for you. I'll do whatever it takes.

       
1. Play for Boston College.

       
2. Get drafted in the first round of the NHL.

       
3. Sign an NHL contract.

After, I carefully fold the piece of paper, tuck it under Freckles's book on her night table, and turn off the light. Then—

“Sweetheart?” I hear. I can barely see through the darkness. Summer is standing in the doorway, and for a few seconds I wonder how long she's been there and how much she saw.

“Oh my gosh, Ellie, sweetie, I can hardly walk into your room.” She laughs, and I can make out her smile and the outline of her long hair. She gets closer and sits down beside me on the edge of the bed. I curl up in a ball and pull the comforter up to my chin and wedge a pillow under my head.

“Ellie, honey, is everything okay?” Summer sets her hand on top of my forehead and runs her fingers gently over Freckles's long hair. I'm not gonna lie. It feels good. It's been a long time since . . .

“I'm fine,” I finally answer quietly, and turn away.

“Well, you're not fine, sweetheart, and it's very apparent that you're not fine.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “Honey, look, it's kind of ridiculous to say you're fine when something is obviously very not fine.”

I don't know what to say. I swallow and flip over, facing the opposite wall.

“Ellie?”

“I'm fine, really,” I repeat softly, into the darkness.

The room is so still. I close my eyes. For a few long moments, the two of us stay just exactly like that. It's so quiet. Under the covers, her hand finds my hand and holds it in hers. I don't pull it away. I leave it there. I don't move.

“Oh, honey.” She sighs. “I know things have been really hard with your dad leaving and . . .” Her voice trails off, and I feel the weight of her arm wrapping around me.

She's so close.

I bite down on my lip.

“Sweetheart,” she says. Her voice is barely a whisper. “I know it's so hard to stay open when you feel like closing.” She pauses and nuzzles up so close I feel her heart beating.

For a long time neither of us says a word.

“I know you're hurting, honey,” she tells me. “And you don't have to keep it all inside.”

I can smell her hair, it smells like . . . I take a deep breath and try to swallow back the feeling in my throat. Try to stop everything from spilling out.

“Oh, Ellie,” she whispers into the night. She holds me so tight. It's dark. Thank god. Nobody can tell. Nobody can see the tear streaming down my cheek.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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WE SPRINT THE ENTIRE MILE-LONG
steep climb up the mountain in pitch-black silence, and it's only at the very top, on the muddy clearing, that I drop to my hands and knees, panting, and puke. My heart is absolutely pounding and my legs are burning and I am pretty sure I am not supposed to stop.

The reason I am pretty sure is that while I am now flat on my stomach, dying, Gunner is standing over me shouting.

“Let's go!” he yells. “Ball out, bro! You're a warrior, little man. No pressure, no diamonds, dude, get up!”

I don't move. I can't. I have puke burning down the back of my throat and dripping out of my nose. It's so quiet and dark. Clark Kent, Stryker, and The Captain are already on their way down.

“Keep grindin', bro, get up!” I feel his foot jab me in the side. “Stop playin', Jacko! You know it doesn't count till you touch it.”

“Touch what?” I say back, but I'm pretty sure he can't hear me because I am talking facedown with my forehead smushed into the muddy ground and a bunch of leaves under my mouth.

“You've got to be kidding me right now.” Gunner sounds shocked. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see his ankles. His socks and sneakers and the bottoms of his sweats are covered with wet grass and mud.

“Whatever it takes, man. Let's go!”

“I can't,” I say. It sounds more like a whimper than I mean it to.

“You
did not
just say that, bro.” Gunner's voice grows louder. “What's got into you, bud? You don't give up.
Ever
.”

There is silence for a few seconds.

I turn my face. I can taste the mud. The ground feels oddly good against my head.

Gunner is practically yelling now. “C'mon, man! Get up!”