The Swap (36 page)

I see Jett standing in his dress shirt, necktie, and a navy-blue Saint Joe's blazer before he sees me. That awful feeling in my stomach explodes into my heart. This has to be something even worse than I even thought. He's talking to Mr. Santos by the front entrance, next to the attendance lady's desk. I walk kind of fast. I try to think brave thoughts, even though I feel more and more nauseous the closer I get.

Jett, in his thick black-framed glasses and his loosened necktie, looks up, sees me, and smiles. And, god, I swear right that second, I can tell. I can tell, like, nobody died. I know what
that
face looks like. I take the biggest, most relieved breath of my life, exhaling the air out of my lungs. But I hurry. I'm still kind of worried. Jett has never come into school to pick me up. I've never in my entire life gotten called out of class.

Jett gives me a nod and a wink as I approach. “'Sup, big guy.”

“Is everything okay?” I just blurt it out.

Jett doesn't answer, though. Instead he turns to Mr. Santos, reaching out to shake hands.

“Sir, thank you,” Jett tells him, looking him square in the eye.

As soon as we walk out the Thatcher doors, as soon as we are outside on the sidewalk, Jett tells me.

“Dad wants to have a meeting,” he says. He doesn't stop or look at me. He tells me as we walk to the truck that he has parked on the curb in the visitors' circle.

“A meeting? Why?” I ask, confused.

“I don't know, man.” He raises his eyebrows, looking anxious.

“Oh, man,” I mutter. “This can't be good.”

In the truck, Jett doesn't drive with the music blasting like we normally do. It's just completely silent except for the thump of the pavement moving underneath us. When we pull into the driveway, I feel like I might puke.

Jett turns and looks at me before we get out. “Bro, settle down. Just don't think negatively, man. You never know.” He pauses and shrugs as he opens the truck door. “It might be something good for once.”

“I doubt it,” I counter, under my breath.

Jett stands outside the truck and waits for me to get out. We don't say a word as we walk up the path to the door. Then, right before we step inside, he gives me a look. “If it's bad,” he tells me, putting his hand on my shoulder, “we're all going to be together, and we'll take it.”

The meeting is in the living room, which makes me worry even more. We never sit in there, you know . . . ever since my mom. The double doors with the glass and the curtains, they've been shut. Closed.

Everything about the room reminds me of my mom. The smell. The big sofa, the fireplace, the books lining the bookcase, the framed family photos of my mom and dad at their wedding, my brothers holding me up for the first time on skates—picture proof that there was once a time that my dad was actually happy.

When I walk in, Gunner and Stryker are already waiting on the big couch, still dressed in their matching navy-blue blazers with the Saint Joe's school crest.

“'Sup, man.” Stryker nods. He looks just as nervous as I feel. His tie is loosened like Jett's, the top button of his shirt undone.

I sink down into the sofa in the gap of space between Stryker and Jett. Gunner's huddled on the very end, looking rattled.

Nobody talks.

Nobody moves.

So I sit and stare at the floor.

My dad walks into the room dressed in the clothes he wears to work—tie loosened, crisp blue shirt with the sleeves rolled, dark suit pants. He looks different, clean-shaven; the shadow beard of rough white stubble is gone. He pauses in front of the photos lining the mantel, then clears his throat and, using one hand, picks up the heavy wood-framed chair from the corner of the room and sets it directly in front of us.

My heart is racing. I'm shaking my leg. Stryker covers his hand over my knee and gives me a look that says, “Stop.”

My dad sits down. I make myself look at him. I lift my eyes. And I didn't expect it, but my dad's actually smiling. Like, a gentle, warm smile. I haven't seen him smile like that in so long. I glance sideways at my brothers. They look just as surprised.

“Boys, I'm going to get right to it,” he says. My dad's eyes are so blue and clear. He takes a deep breath and looks right at me. “Jack, first, thank you.”

I look back confused. Then I realize.
Elle.

“Yesterday wasn't easy. What you said, it . . .” He trails off. He breathes. “What you said really hit home. I'm not going to mince words. Losing your mom—” My dad just stops. He stops and closes his eyes. He raises his hands to his face and bows his head.

It is absolutely quiet.

Complete silence.

I do not even move. I don't move my eyes. I don't shift. I have never ever seen my dad like this. My dad, he's, like, the toughest, strongest man I know.

“Your mom,” he begins again, his voice cracking. “The thing that was most important to her—” He stops.

We all see it.

“It's been tough. I know I haven't been . . .” He pauses again, choked up. His eyes begin to fill with tears. “My job as your dad is to completely love you.”

There's a long time again where no words are said. And we sit and watch the welling in his eyes until there's nowhere left for the tears to go, and the grief spills out, streaking down his cheeks.

It's so quiet as it happens. Nobody speaks. I try, through the silence—I try holding my breath, try to keep it inside. Until I can't. I steal a glance at my brothers. Jett, Gunner, Stryker, each wiping away tears.

I feel this gushing relief.

The tears just keep coming.

“You boys are my pride and joy,” my dad goes on. “You are the biggest blessing of my life. You do everything right. And I'm not talking about hockey. Hockey is a game, it is not what defines you. You are beautiful young men. You are kind, you care about others—” I look up at his eyes brightening through the tears. I haven't seen them shine like that in over a year. “For the last year, you boys have been raising yourselves. What I had to tell you now, it could not wait. I'm just sorry it took so long,” he tells us, breaking down.

“I'm back,” says my dad. “I'm here, and I want to tell you how much I love you.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

IT IS FEBRUARY FOURTH, WHICH
means two things: it is my birthday, and I am turning thirteen.

The first thing I do when I wake up is take out the folded-up piece of notebook paper I found tucked under a book. Yes, it's Jack's. I've thought about it ever since I found it. Sometimes I take it out, carefully unfold it, and look at it before I go to bed. I've been waiting until I turned thirteen to start a new tradition.

I do it right when I wake up, after I watch the sunrise, still in bed and propped up with a pillow.

“Here goes nothing,” I say aloud, smiling at my own white, blank sheet of lined paper and putting the blue pen to the page. I'm starting with one year at a time. Things I want to do or try.

“Elle O'Brien, thirteen!!!” I write in shaded 3-D letters.

    
Try out for spring track!

    
Get good at hockey!

    
Try out for The Music Man at Thatcher and make it!

Instead of numbers, like Jack, I make empty boxes that I plan to check off when I complete my missions. Laugh all you want, or maybe try it! Jack says, “If you dream it, you can achieve it!” I think I believe him. Ever since I've been back in my own body, I've been just really happy. I look people in the eye. I have so many friends. I feel more confident, like I can just walk up and talk to anyone and be fine. I'm having a massive all-girl sleepover tonight!

After birthday breakfast, my mom drops me off at the rink. Did you think I was kidding? I walk around the back, open the trunk, and hoist my huge bag up on my shoulder.

“Got it, birthday girl?” my mom calls back, looking over her shoulder.

“Got it!” I say. “Thanks!”

She smiles at me with her usual huge smile. “I'm so proud of you about this hockey thing. I think it's awesome!”

I start walking for the curb, stick in hand, when I hear my mom call out, and I turn and look back.

“I'm going to Lulu's for coffee,” she tells me through her open window. “I'll be back in a little while!”

I'm not in a full-on league yet. I mean, indoor soccer just ended. So for an early birthday present, my mom got me all the gear, and she drops me off at the open skate every Saturday morning. I researched it all myself. I signed up. I called and talked to the guy at the rink. I used my life savings to pay for the winter session: one hundred and seventy-five dollars! I'm invested.

Oh my gosh, skating is a lot harder when I'm not in Jack's body! The first time I stepped onto the ice with all the gear, I literally fell down on my face! I ate it. It was actually pretty funny. Like I said, you've got to start someplace!

No biggie, I just got up slowly, one foot at a time. I took little baby steps, like a duck, waddling around the ice. Slowly, I've gotten better and better.

I walk through the rink doors in my soccer hoodie and sweats, my high ponytail, my hockey bag on my shoulder. Inside, I love the smell. The cool air hits your face, and it's like . . .

It's awesome.

I got here a little early. There's a game going on. I look up at the scoreboard hanging over center ice: ten more minutes. There's a lot of people watching, parents cheering. I drop my bag down on the big wooden benches, take my stick, and walk out to stand ice level, right behind the goalie, looking through glass. I see them from behind first, and my mouth seriously just about drops open.

I know it's them.

I can hear their voices.

To my right, like, one foot away, Jett, Stryker, and Gunner are all standing, faces pressed close to the glass. I literally get chills. Man, I want to run up and hug them! I have to stop myself. Because . . . well, they don't know me! They don't know me at all. Even though they kind of do. They'd probably think it was a little bit weird if some thirteen-year-old girl came up to them and threw her arms around their waists, clinging to them like long-lost friends. My heart races, though, I am so excited. If the boys are here, this means I get to watch Jack! Jack and I have become really close. He always cheers me on and gives me good advice. It's really nice to have a good guy friend. We're like brother and sister. I give him tips on him and Mackenzie—even though he swears they're “just friends!” And he's always looking out for me. It's, like, a total tradition that all my friends and all his friends sit together at lunch. And we're not cliquey at all. Anyone who wants to can come sit with us.