The Swap (5 page)

As soon as Jett sits down, he starts chirping at me. “Are you gonna start wheeling today, or are you gonna just stay home all year, playing
Call of Duty
by yourself?”

To my brothers, “wheeling” means getting all the girls that you can.

I drink my green smoothie and eat my oatmeal and take it.

“That tarp is absolutely disgusting,” says Stryker.

“Huh?” I say.

“That shirt, it's brutal.” Gunner shakes his head, half grinning. “No swag, bro. How can you expect to wheel with that thing on your back? Maybe mix in some style, bud.”

Jett chimes in. “Pretty grungy, if you ask me.”

All three of them are laughing.

“Whatever, man.” I laugh too. You can't give them too much attention or they won't stop.

“Just kidding, little man.” Gunner shoots me a wink. “Don't get rattled. You look good, bud. You're rockin' that shiner like a boss!”

“Whatever,” I repeat.

Jett takes off his sweaty hat and slams it down on my head. “Dude, cover up that salad, or cut your mop!”

Jett and Gunner share a smile, and they both get this crazy look in their eyes.

I can tell what they're thinking.

“Nobody is touching my hair,” I tell them, and I'm not kidding. It took me an entire year to grow it out from the last time The Captain made me cut it.

Stryker stands and burps loudly. “Great grub sesh, boys!”

Jett puts the plates in the dishwasher. “Just keep yourself in check, little man,” he tells me. “And don't be a donkey.”

Gunner gets up too. “Naptime,” he says, yawning, then snaking his arm under my chin and wrapping me in a choke hold. “Be a man, Jacko, and stay out of trouble.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

AFTER I GET OFF THE
bus and step into the Land of Thatcher, things go downhill fast. I am in first period for entirely ten seconds before I have a terrible feeling in my stomach. And it's not, like, butterflies. It's worse. And it's not just that I get the last seat in the back next to Henry Hodges, who is making farting noises. It's more that I catch a look from Sassy (front row, third desk by the windows), dressed in a tight-fitting black spaghetti-strap top, and the look she gives me does not say, “Ellie! Yay! We're in the same class!”

No, if this look could talk it would be more like, “Ewww, nice outfit . . . hahahaha! Not!”

I watch her, and her glittery eye shadow and her black mascara-painted curly eyelashes stare me down. She starts at my sneakers, and I feel her eyes move right up my body until they reach my face, at which time she turns to Aspen, seated (surprise!) next to her, and whispers something. Then the two of them burst out laughing.

I look around the room, first at Ms. González, who is writing something on the board, and then toward the door, still open because the bell hasn't rung yet, and I imagine myself leaping up from my seat and sprinting straight down the almost-empty Thatcher hallway, past all the bright orange lockers, out the emergency exit door. Maybe I could run to the main office, call my mom, beg her to pick me up, beg her to let me homeschool, or just . . . gosh, anything but be here now. Anything but be
me
.

Every class of my day is pretty much a repeated loop of this exact scene. Me walking into class, Sassy (plus whoever she's sitting with who is not me) sneers, rolls her eyes, then bursts out laughing. At lunch, after I wander into the crowded cafeteria looking lost, I am in line with my melted-cheese bagel and my yogurt, almost to the cash register, when I hear her.

Sassy.

I look over my shoulder and see her by the soda machines in the corner, holding court like some sort of celebrity, obviously talking just loud enough for me to hear her.

“No offense,” she starts, then pauses to flip back her golden hair, as if she's a famous actress waiting for her gathered audience to turn toward her (they do). Then she says it (drumroll, please): “Gotta love it when people don't even, like, brush their hair! Eww. Embarrassing.” (Hahahahaaa!)

Sassy stops again and looks up just long enough for her entire tribe of girls (Aspen by her side) to turn toward me and give me the death stare. “Not to be rude, but seriously, people, sneakers with jeans is
so
not okay. It's hideous!” (Hahahaha!) “Just sayin'!”

In chorus, the one class I absolutely love, Mr. Pratt puts me right next to Sassy. One song in, she leans over, whispering into my ear, “Some people should probably just mouth the words.” She pauses for a beat, overwhelmed by giggles. “Off-key much?'”

By eighth period, my last period of the day, I have decided I really can't take this anymore. I honestly hate my life. This has actually been the worst week ever. Today is Friday—how am I going to even make it through the weekend to Monday? I already said I'd go to Claire's birthday sleepover. I supposedly have soccer tryouts. I have an entire Sassy Gaines–filled weekend, and I still have one more class with her—gym.

Walking into the girls' locker room, I am secretly praying the universe will strike me down with some sort of awful feverish sickness that forces me to stay in bed all weekend. Chicken pox? Strep throat? Appendicitis? Could I fake getting my period?

Probably not.

In what might be my only good luck so far today, there is an empty bathroom stall. I slip inside, hang my three-thousand-pound backpack from the hook of the flimsy metal door, and fish out my Thatcher-issued blue-and-orange shorts and T-shirt. At least I don't have to change right out in the open, in front of all the other girls.

Gym. I can get through gym, right? I'm faster than Sassy and probably more coordinated then she is. I picture myself accidentally throwing a softball at her face. Then I switch it up—a basketball, a soccer ball, a floor-hockey puck. In each scenario, I will admit to you that I actually picture her with a bloody nose.
Sorry, not sorry.

And look, have you ever tried to change in one of those tiny bathroom stalls? There's not a lot of space to move around, and I'm literally, like, slipping off my jeans—balancing on top of my shoes, trying to not touch my socks to the gross sticky floor—when I hear Sassy's voice right outside the door.

Right away my heart starts pounding, and I stand frozen in my yellow daisy-speckled underwear, clutching my gym clothes against my chest, staring at my legs, terrified that she might somehow see me. “
Eww, shave your legs!
” I can just hear her say.

With every ounce of quiet I have in me, I step into the Thatcher gym shorts, slip the orange T-shirt over my head, and peer out the thin gap of space between the metal door and the side of the stall. Sassy is with this girl Tori, who I don't really know that well because she's cooler and prettier and just—

Not someone who would ever hang out with me.

The two of them have already changed and are standing in front of the mirror, fixing their hair and makeup. Why? For gym?!! For gym with other girls.

Exactly.

This is what I hear—

Sassy: I can't believe I got put into Mr. Tate's class. He spits when he talks.

Tori: That's just gross!

Sassy: I know, right? Oh, and Ms. Dennison? Apparently she gives, like, a ton of homework. So annoying. Doesn't she know I have a life? Hold this.

Tori: Hold what?

Sassy: My hair thingie. Here. I feel
so
naked without a hair tie!

Tori: Ohmigod, can I just say I hate you because your hair is sooooo super soft!

Sassy: I know! It's my new hair straightener. [Sassy smiles at herself in the mirror.] What would I do if you weren't in my gym class? And seriously, how are we not going to be in social studies together this year? Who am I going to sit next to and talk to in the middle of class?

Tori: OMG, seriously! Why are you sooooo pretty! You look amaaaazing!

Sassy: Awwwww, thanks, babe. Oh my god, I hope Ellie stops following me around and gets the hint!

Tori: I know, seriously!

Sassy: Like, do I have to walk up to her and say it to her face?

Tori: I know, right?

Sassy: Yeah, like, ummm, hello? Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Bye!

Tori: Hahahaha. Seriously. Back off.

Sassy: Totes. I mean, not to be rude, but she is just too—

Tori: Babyish?

Sassy: Yes! Totally babyish! She wears such horrid clothes. And her hair? Hello? She's worn the same dumb center-parted ponytail since kindergarten! She doesn't even
own
a blow dryer
or
a flat iron!

Tori: Didn't you tell me she still has, like, her American Girl dolls on her bookcase?

Sassy: Can you say embarrassing!

Tori: Can you even imagine her
talking
to a boy? Ha!

Sassy: I know! Right? Hahahaha! I seriously can't even picture it. It would be so super awk! [They smile into the mirror, purse their lips and apply hot-pink lip gloss.]

Sassy: Oh. Em. Geeee! That's so hot. Boo, we definitely gotta hang soon! You're going to Claire's tomorrow right?

Tori: Yes!!! Soooo excited! Can. Not. Wait.

Sassy: Chicka-chicka-yeah-yeah. [They high-five.]

Tori: Hopefully a certain
someone
knows she's
not
invited.

Sassy: Stop, no, ewwwww, barf. Don't remind me!

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

WHEN I STEP ON THE
bus I smile, because right away, straight in front of me, I can see that Owen and I are wearing the exact same shirt. Light-blue polos, except he has his collar popped and I don't, because, well, my brothers would never let me forget it. I drop into the seat next to Owen and Sammy, like I've done every year since we met in sixth grade.

Sammy's chirpin' before I even settle into my seat. “Jack, your hair is pretty flowtastic right now, not gonna lie.” He smiles big. “And the shiner? Broads love a tough guy. I can only imagine the girls you'll have after you now, stud.”

Sammy's crazy.

The three of us are best friends. We hang out together, and except for hockey, we pretty much do everything together. Sammy is pretty cool, pretty laid back, wicked smart. He's the one all the girls like. Owen, he's more quiet and has huge glasses. He's a gamer. He's all about
Call of Duty
,
Halo
, and fantasy football (in that order). Love the kid. We hang out at Owen's a lot because he has all the cool stuff at his house—a sixty-inch flat screen, a PlayStation
and
an Xbox, a Ping-Pong table, and a pool table. Plus, when his mom throws us out for playing video games too long, Owen has a huge yard with a trampoline. And if we get bored, he lives right next to the elementary school with big grassy fields and a basketball court.

The first day of school is crazy. Everyone is pumped to see all the new kids, to see who's changed. As soon as we get off the bus, Sammy starts a running commentary on girls.

“Yo, bro,” he says, elbowing me in the gut. “Total smoke show to your right.”

I look over at Sassy Gaines.

Most guys in eighth grade think Sassy is the prettiest girl at Thatcher. (Sammy: “She's hot. She's just so hot.”) I've never said a word to her in my life. I'll tell you right now, I've got no game. I'm definitely a quiet guy. I am pretty shy when it comes to girls. I guess I'm just pretty shy, period. I have absolutely no idea what to say to them or how to act. I wish I had some sort of instruction book. I wish I could walk right up to a girl and somehow know what to say. In a perfect world? I wouldn't even have to talk.

Sammy elbows me again.

“This is going to be the best year of my life!” he says, eyes wide, staring at this new girl, Aspen Bishop.

“Whatever, Sammy,” I say.

“Yo, bro, do you
see
her?”