The Swap (13 page)

My mind begins to race . . .
Maybe I can help, you know? Maybe I can make Freckles stand out, try to do something to get her noticed
.

“Ellie? Ellie! Are you listening?”

“Oh, yes, ma'am,” I say.

“You're an extremely nice kid, Ellie, and sometimes you're
too
nice. You have the speed, the skills. You can be very strong on the ball. You're technically sound. You can dribble. You see the game well. I need you to take the attacking role, be tough up front. It's a confidence thing.” She pauses and smiles, eyebrows raised. “You have wheels, Ellie. Let loose out there! Be creative on the ball. Make it fun.”

She's so positive and convincing. She's more down-to-earth than any coach I have ever had. For just a second, I completely forget everything. Forget even who I am or where I am or . . .

“Well, what are you waiting for, girl?” She smiles and jumps up. “Get at it!”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

WHEN I ENTER JACK'S ROOM,
I am positive it's Jack's room because there is a license plate on the wall—not a real one, one of those fake ones you get for your seventh birthday—and it says jack. So yeah, at least I'm sure this is where I'm supposed to be.

It's not a huge room, but it occurs to me right away that it is also not just Jack's room. There's another bed. There is another bed and a thick piece of white tape right down the center of the gray carpet. The two sides of the room are almost identical. Each side has one single bed, one single desk, one bookcase filled with gold and silver trophies, and shiny medals hanging from ribbons.

I stand sort of frozen for a few seconds, only three steps in, suddenly very aware that I should probably take off Jack's smelly sneakers. It's like a museum or something in here. You know, like you're afraid to touch anything? It's so . . . the opposite of my room, which even I will admit is a disaster area. The Prince of Thatcher's room is pretty much the neatest room on earth! There are no layers of dirty, crumpled clothes covering the floor. Nothing is out of place. Not a speck of dirt. Everything is arranged just so. Both beds are made, the blankets smooth, not even one wrinkle.

I walk into the center of the room, and for no other reason other than what else am I supposed to be doing? I walk down the white middle line of tape in my socks, like I'm a gymnast on a balance beam, wobbling and leaping, left foot, right, and when I get to the end? Yeah, I do it. I thrust my hands in the air, all smiles like those Olympic girls do on TV.

Which is when I hear clapping.

Which is when I die of embarrassment.

Which is when I meet Brother Number Three, a little-bit-bigger version of The Prince. Pure muscle. Same dark hair. I can verify the muscle thing because, like Clark Kent next door, Brother Number Three is wearing—surprise! No shirt. Six-pack doesn't describe it for the Malloy brothers. It's more like twelve-pack. They're built like an action heroes come to life. You can see every single tiny muscle popping out. Not an ounce of fat. And I am in the middle of reminding myself not to stare and not to turn bright red from complete you-saw-me-prancing-down-a-white-piece-of-tape-pretending-I'm-an-Olympic-gymnast humiliation when he speaks.

Wait. No. He laughs first, then he shakes his head,
then
he speaks.

“What's up, stud?” he says. “I'm not even going to ask you what you're doing in here, Nancy pants!”

Thank goodness he is distracted by . . .

“Butter Baby got the flow chopped!”

Without even thinking about it, I know what he means. I lift my hand and run my fingers over the prickly stubble Geno left.

With no warning, Brother Number Three comes straight at me and plants both his hands on top of my head and begins rubbing, as if I'm some lucky Buddha charm.

“Unbelievable!” he says, smiling, and just as quickly I watch that smile melt as Brother Number Three's brain catches up to the fact that my nose is busted up and swollen.

“Wait, that's not from yesterday in The Cage, is it?” He genuinely looks concerned. “Jacko, I am legit sorry if I made your mug that ugly.”

“You didn't,” I say, surprising myself by how suddenly easy it is to be an expert on all things Jack. “I, um, I got in a—”

“Did you get in a tilt, dude?” he asks, cutting me off. He looks more excited than if I had told him he had won a million dollars.

“Kind of?” I answer.

“Bro, you either got in a tilly or not, and by the look of it, I'd say you got dusted.” Brother Number Three falls back onto his bed, jamming his pillow underneath his neck and folding his arms over his chest.

“I didn't get dusted!” I exclaim. And yeah, it's strange that I am suddenly using words I had no idea existed when I woke up this morning. “I pumped him!” I add in for good measure.

“Okay, easy, bud. Vet move. So you waxed him, don't have to cry like a little baby over it, geesh.” He flips over on his bed, his back to me, and curls up with his pillow. “Gonna take a siesta, big dog. Resting up for tomorrow. It's gonna be brutal.”

I sit on the very edge of Jack's bed and wonder if I'm going to be arrested if I actually get in it and mess up the perfectly made covers. Also, like, what is all this talk about tomorrow? What does he mean by brutal? My heart begins to pound, and I sit on the bed and copy my mom from this morning, breathing in and exhaling a big, long breath. I do it again and again until—

“Dang, bro, if you're breathing heavy like that, go to the bathroom and handle it.”

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“Jacko?”

“Yeah?” I answer.

“I was wrong, you were right. I'm stupid, you're smart! I'm ugly, you are good-looking. . . .” He laughs softly. Brother Number Three still has his back to me. “Took one in the melon. Proud of you, bud, and don't worry. I'll keep your little secret—”

For a split second I am like,
Oh my gosh, he knows!
But then, just as fast, I realize what he means.

“I won't tell The Captain, big dog,” he says.

“Thanks,” I answer.

I sit on the bed for a good long time, long enough to realize that Brother Number Two's name is Stryker—due to the large, gold engraved plaque hanging over his bed that reads stryker malloy, bantam major aaa silver stick tournament mvp.

Stryker. That's a cool name. Fits him, I think as I watch his back rise and fall with his breath.

I glance around the quiet room. Jack's desk doesn't even look like anybody really sits there, except for one framed picture. I pick it up, careful not to make any noise and wake the sleeping teen giant three feet away.

The frame is silver and the photo is definitely Jack, but younger, maybe eleven years old. Next to him—must be his mom. Same dark wavy hair, same bright swimming-pool-blue eyes. She's beautiful.

I hold the frame up closer and read the engraved writing beneath the picture:

mom. always on my mind, forever in my heart, never forgotten.

I stare at it, and all at once everything around me just turns really dark, and I have the worst feeling wash over me. Jack's mom. She's—

I can't even say it.

She's—

“I miss her too, bud.” I hear Stryker whisper into the quiet. “Not a day goes by where I don't miss her too.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

AFTER SOCCER, I SLIP INTO
the front seat of Freckles's mom's car and try to say as little as humanly possible. To help me achieve this, I move the seat as far back as I can, fold my arms, and stare out the window.

Red Hair with Yoga Pants is barraging me with questions, and in my dad's words, I have not been “acceptably demonstrating that I am listening.” I am breaking all of The Captain's rules. I am not squarely facing the speaker, I have not been replying promptly or respectfully, and considering that I'm turned away looking out the window, it's safe to say I am avoiding eye contact—a big no-no with The Captain. But I didn't say I
wasn't
listening. More, I am
half
listening. And by the time we pull out of the Sportsplex, something Freckles's mom says sort of registers. And it's not good.

“Hon, I know you're tired, but Dr. Swenson is doing me a major favor fitting you in.”

“Dr. Swenson?” I repeat. This is what I do now, by the way. I just repeat the last thing anyone says. Not exactly a champion strategy, but—

I glance toward Red Hair with Yoga Pants. She turns and looks at me too. “It's totally my fault, hon,” she says, taking one hand off the wheel and placing it on my leg. At first I jerk away, but then—I feel the warmth of her hand. I just let it happen. I feel so tired.

“It's my fault, I completely spaced on your medical forms,” she goes on, returning her hand to the wheel. “I know this is the last thing in the world you want to do, but you can't even take part in the last tryout on Sunday unless you have a physical.”

My throat tightens. “A physical? No!”

“Honestly, Ellie, we're lucky Dr. Swenson squeezed us in on this short notice. We'll get in and out quickly, honey. It will be painless.”

I walk into the waiting room. The whole time—every bony, freckle-kneed step—I'm trying to think of some way I can get out of this. I mean, I'm sure you would agree, right? A checkup! A checkup as a
girl
! This is just wrong on so many levels. Freckles's mom stops in front of the row of bright green plastic chairs lining the wall.

“Why don't you sit down, honey, I'll sign us in.”

I stay standing. “Please, let's just go,” I try.

“Don't be silly, sweetheart, everything is going to be okay.” She smiles at me and pushes the sweaty hair out of my eyes. We're standing close. “Take a deep breath.”

I drop down hard into a chair.

Oh my gosh. This is
—

This is so crazy!
I stare at the floor. I'm still wearing Freckles's turf shoes, two pairs of shorts, two shirts, her ridiculous pink-and-white-striped socks, and yes, okay? A bra! (Even though, as far as I can tell, Freckles doesn't exactly need one.) I breathe in slowly, lift my head, and look around. The waiting room is packed, and it kind of smells like throw up. I count three crying babies, one snotty two-year-old, and one little girl crying her eyes out and shaking, she's screaming so loud. “I want to go home!” she is sobbing. “I want to go home!”

Yeah,
I think, and look right at her.

Me. Too
.

Twenty minutes later I am following a short, wide nurse dressed in green polka-dot scrubs down a rainbow-striped hallway. She stops in front of an open door and points into a small room with one of those examining tables that has the white crunchy paper over it.

“Dr. Swenson will be here in a few minutes,” she tells us.

Yes, us. Not to sound like a total soft freaking baby, but I can't tell you how relieved I am that Freckles's mom got up and walked with me down the hallway too. That doesn't mean I am enjoying this. It just means . . .

God. I don't even know what it means.

Breathe, Jack. Breathe
.

I stand against the wall, arms folded, and stare across the room at a huge glossy poster of a gigantic ear. Freckles's mom sits down in the chair by the sink and settles right into a magazine she brought from the waiting room. We are together in complete silence for the longest time until finally I just can't take it.

“I am
not
taking my clothes off!” I blurt out.

She looks up, smiling, eyebrows raised. “Sweetheart, I hardly think you have to take your clothes off. Relax, it's just a well visit.”

I let out a long breath.

She gives me a look. “Hey, what's going on?” she asks. Her voice is gentle. “Are you okay, honey?”