The Swap (34 page)

“Dude! Did you see the hawk?” Gunner exclaims, breaking the silence.

I look up at the orange sky. “Where?” I breathe.

Only the next thing I know, my sweats and my boxers are ripped down, bunched around my ankles.

“Got 'em!” Gunner hollers. The three of them take off laughing, leaving me standing alone, shaking my head, bare butt, straight up smiling.

I can hear their voices echoing through the morning air, taunting me.

“Figure it out, bud, get gritty!” shouts Jett.

“C'mon, big guy!” Gunner yells. “Let's see how it goes!”

“Let's go, Jackie Chan!” Stryker calls out. “Run somebody, bro!”

I take my time, I don't freak out. I pull up my boxers, my sweats. This time I tie a tight double knot. And when I take off down the mountain, I push the pace, sweating, smiling. It only takes me a few minutes. I catch up.

After, we hit The Cage and lift. I shower and dress in my favorite broken-in jeans—Jett's hand-me-downs—and my black Bruins hoodie. It smells like hockey.

Breakfast is a feast. Stryker's this morning's chef. He cooks us each a made-to-order omelet, and Jett is a ninja with the blender, mixing up a batch of The Captain's famous protein shake: seven raw eggs, extra spinach, and bananas. The boys all watch me as I dig in, shovel it into my mouth.

“Dude, slow down.” Jett grins.

“Little man's got a growth spurt.” Gunner laughs.

Stryker pours half his green protein smoothie into my empty glass, burps loudly, blows it in my face, and stands. “Jackie Chan's probably growing hair
down there
, if you know what I mean, boys.”

Jett shakes his head. “Dude, c'mon, man, I'm eating. I don't want to talk about hairy nuts.”

I keep my mouth shut, but I just watch them. Secretly? I'm loving every second.

When I get on the bus, Owen and Sammy practically make me deaf, talking in both ears. They have entirely different concerns. Sammy is obsessed with the fact that I “got some lip action” on the playground.

“Dude, I thought about it all weekend. I could not think of someone more perfect than Ellie O'Brien, red-haired rocket. I hear she's sick at soccer.”

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. She always looks like she belongs in the White House.

“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 dark 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.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

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, in 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.”