The Swap (17 page)

“The best things in life aren't things,” he always says.

I fall back onto the bed and look for the stars. They just look like dumb yellow stickers in the light.

The second I close my eyes, I hear a knock, followed by “Morning, Ellie-Belle!” Summer sings through the door.

I've only known her a day, but I can totally picture her behind the door, smiling, her crazy-long red hair, her billion freckles.

“Morning,” I call back and watch the door open and Summer step through, her smile instantly brightening the room.

“Oh my gosh!” she says. Her jaw drops open, and her eyes are huge. “Whoa! Wow! Ellie honey, it's—” She stops talking, opens the closet, and runs her hand along the hangers all arranged the same way. “I'm actually totally speechless!” she exclaims. “I mean, like, you have seriously blown me away!”

I shrug. “It's okay,” I say, trying to act all cool. But I'd be lying if I didn't say it feels kind of good to make her so happy.

Summer turns around. She's dressed in her pajamas still too—a silky lavender bathrobe and fluffy bunny slippers. When she grins, her green eyes light up.

“Wow! Wow! Wow!” she says, gleaming. “I don't know
what's
gotten into you, but I like it!” Summer plops down next to me on the bed and smothers me with a huge hug and a big, wet kiss on the cheek. I kind of back away at first, but then—

I mean. I don't want to be rude. I just melt while she pulls me in. I don't fight it.

She talks to me about three inches away. “Honey pie,” she says. Her voice is gentle again, almost in a hush. She just looks at me for the longest time, smiling and brushing the hair out of my eyes. I try not to look away. I try and let it happen. I try and just stay.

“Love cake,” she starts again; our noses almost touch. “I'd say this rare but absolutely wonderful occurrence deserves a little celebration, don't you?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“What I mean is, we have to celebrate, this is . . .” She leans in and lets our foreheads brush.

“It's no big deal,” I say, and jerk back. “Really, it's no big deal. It's fine.”

“Fine? Are you kidding me? This is—” Summer stands. “This is spectacular!”

All right, fine. I don't exactly argue when Summer tells me to “climb back into bed and get all cozy and snug.” A lot of times, my brothers and I don't even sleep under our covers. That way we won't have to make our beds at five a.m. The covers don't get all messed up.

But, I mean—Freckles did tell me to stay in her room, after all.

Why not!

I easily climb back under the covers and sink into Freckles's cozy bed. Thirty minutes and forty pages into Harry Potter later, Summer appears with a tray of food. It's like room service! Like a hotel! I sit up and wedge a pillow behind me like I do this all the time.

Summer carefully sets the tray down in front of me on my lap. “Your majesty, Princess Ellie-Belle.” She giggles. “For your royal highness we have—” She pauses to sit down on the edge of the bed beside me. The food looks and smells so good! Yesterday I was struggling to get down a spinach-fish oil smoothie, and today . . . I focus back in on Summer.

“We have banana pancakes with fresh raspberries, whipped cream, warm maple butter. Bacon, two poached eggs, and last but not least—” She hands me a cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

“Wow, this is so . . .” I try and search for the right words. “Thank you so much.” I stare at the plate. I haven't had this many carbs since—

Since forever.

And you know what? Screw the rules. It looks so good!

I hear Stryker's voice in my head,
“Yeeeeah, buddy!
” as I lift a forkful of pancake and shovel it in. Sometimes the littlest things can make you the happiest.

Summer looks kind of amazed as she watches me. “Whoa, hey, slow down. You must be growing, huh? You are famished. Maybe I don't feed you enough!”

“No, it's just, like,
so
good,” I say between bites, and try to remember to swallow next time and not to speak with my mouth full.

“Well, take your time. Chew.” She's smiling, and she's looking at me like she's never seen anybody eat before. We sit together quietly for a little bit.

“So,” starts Summer. “I wanted to ask you, honey, did Dr. Swenson talk to you about—” She stops midsentence, and her smiles grows.

I look at her like, huh?

She reaches over and gently sweeps the hair out of my eyes. This time she tucks it behind my ear. “I just hate it when I can't see your eyes, honey.” She pauses. “It's just you've been so tired and a little bit moody, and, gosh, ravenous! I thought maybe it might be a good moment to talk about the changes your body's going through and, you know, about
that time
—”

I look up from my plate and think for a second. “Wait, what time?” I ask, confused.

“Getting your period.” Summer's voice is soft and calm. Her eyes are sparkling.

Noooo. Not this again!

I pick up the orange juice and start gulping to hide the look on my face, which pretty much says:
Please don't make me talk about this!
But just in case? I set down the glass and do my best—and only—girl imitation of all time. I pout my lips, tilt my head forward, and flip the hair out of my eyes like I've seen girls do.

“Um,” I start. “Can we, like, pleeeease not talk about this?” Yes. I make my voice extra high. “Please!” I add.

Summer smiles softly. “Oh, honey, I know it's a little bit uncomfortable, but we all get our period. It's going to happen to you too.”

“I'm fine,” I say.

“I know you're fine,” she answers. “Seriously, sweetie, you're acting very different. Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine,” I repeat, and throw in a smile.

“Okay, I get it, I get it.” She stops and just looks at me for the longest time. “Look, honey, maybe you don't want to talk about it now, but if you do? If you ever want to talk about it?” She smiles. “Come talk to me, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I answer and stuff my mouth with an entire strip of bacon.

Summer stands and moves to the door. “Hey, remember yesterday how I said I had a big surprise?”

I nod and swallow the half a pancake that I just stuffed in my mouth.

“After you're finished, wash up and get dressed. You and I are going on a big adventure!”

“Adventure?” I repeat.

Summer's eyes light up. “Mommy-Daughter Day!”

And look, I know it wasn't in the agreement, but I'm a thirteen-year-old boy in a twelve-year-old girl's body. I'm not in a power position here. I can't exactly demand to stay home. And the crazy thing is, I don't want to be alone. I wouldn't go broadcasting this on ESPN or anything, but . . . the truth is, I am kind of a mixture of relieved and excited. Something about Summer makes me feel calm.

I think about my mom every day.

I miss her so much.

“Sure,” I say, and mix in a smile. “Mommy-Daughter Day? Why not!”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

NONE OF THE BOYS TALK
in The Cage. I mean, there is grunting. There is sweating. There is more puking (Stryker) and one bloody nose (Gunner), but it's not until we all climb back up the steep basement stairs and I follow Stryker through the back door out to the yard that the boys slowly come back to life.

“Two hours of lifting,” says Stryker, flexing his huge biceps. “Look at these guns. Yoked, bro!”

I nod and smile and crash onto the soft grass.

“Oh, yeah,” Striker says. “I like the way you're thinking, bro.” He crumples to the ground, a foot away. “Just chillin' with my roomie. It's the little things, right, Jackie Chan?”

I smile sideways. We are both flat on our backs. For the first time all day, I kind of understand him.

“Yeah.” I sigh and look up into the cloudless sky. “The little things.”

Stryker reaches over and plants his hand right on my chest. I feel the heat and weight of his sweaty palm through my soaked T-shirt. “Dude, you killed it on the squats, bro.”

“Thanks,” I answer, and wonder if his hand is, like, resting or if he's about to pull some ninja-style wrestling move and mash my face into the ground. I turn and look at Stryker. His eyes are shut and his mouth is open. He doesn't talk and he doesn't move.

I watch the sweat drip down the side of his head and have an up-close view of the dark stubble above his upper lip. He looks kind of adorable and peaceful when he's not strangling me. He's probably, like, fifteen or sixteen. He probably shaves.

Stryker exhales long and loud then speaks. “Bagger at the end killed me, bro.”

I don't even have to talk. I just nod.

“Play like you're in first, train like you're in second,” he tells me. “Right, bro?”

“Play like you're in first, train like you're in second,” I agree.

“That's the legit truth, Jackie Chan!”

Stryker's voice gets suddenly quiet, almost like he's whispering, but he's not. “Nothin' better than seein' your little bro battle through it, eh, buddy? You were an absolute gun today.”

I smile up at the sky. “Thanks,” I tell him. “I mean, as long as I don't walk for the rest of my life.” I stop and laugh. “I think we're good.”

“Word,” Stryker says. “Pay to play, bro.”

“Pay to play,” I mutter back.

The two of us stay there. Sprawled out side by side on the grass. The sun feels so warm. My lips taste salty, in a weird good way. And I can honestly say not moving has never felt so good. Which is when I hear Gunner yelling across the grass, “Nice of you boys to help out!”

I look up. He doesn't look happy. He's walking toward us, shirtless, and hoisting two giant plastic garbage tubs over his head.

“Yeah, thanks for your support, fellas!” calls out Jett. He's right behind Gunner, bare chested, too, lifting two more huge plastic tubs over his head.

I jump to my feet.

So does Stryker.

“C'mon, man!” Jett shoots us both a look as he sets the tubs down on the grass. Every single rippled muscle in his body glistens in the sun.

I think I might be staring.

“Get the ice!” he yells.

After we finish hauling eight ten-pound plastic bags of ice from this huge freezer in the garage out around the side of the house and into the backyard, I get the feeling Stryker and I are supposed to stand back. Gunner and Jett seem to have whatever it is they are doing down to a science: Gunner empties the bags of ice into four side-by-side giant plastic garbage pails while Jett walks behind him with the garden hose, carefully filling each tub with water. Stryker and I stand obediently off to the side until—

With absolutely no warning, all three of them start
stripping
! Shoes, then socks, then . . . yeah. Um.
Oh my god
. In case it's not clear, what I am saying is THEY ARE REMOVING THEIR CLOTHES! I cover my eyes with my hands.

“What are you doing!” I squeal, and peek out of a little space through my fingers and watch the three muscular stark-white bare butts disappear into the icy water.

Stryker is practically screaming. “Dude, it's freezing! Holy Hannah. Man, do I hate this! This is actually insane. Do we have to get all the way in?”

Jett slides in like it's nothing, of course. He takes off his glasses and tosses them onto the grass. “Up to your midchest, dog. Nipple deep, don't cheat.”

Gunner sinks all the way down, disappearing for a split second under the icy water before he pops back up like a killer whale. “Whooooooooweeeeee! Bring on the pain!!” he shouts, grimacing. “That's #%*! cold!!!”

I cover my face again, then look—

The three of them all stare back at me from their ice-filled garbage-pail Jacuzzis.

“I'm
not
getting in there!” I state very clearly.

No way am I getting naked. No. Way
.

Gunner looks genuinely ticked. “Don't be a wuss, bud. Get in!”

“No,” I blurt out. “Noooo way. I'm good. I'm absolutely fine here.”

I backpedal a few steps.

“What's with you, bro?” Jett asks. He's leaning back in the tub, his arms resting around the top edge. “Must have been that tilt yesterday, eh, bud? You're seriously blowing my mind right now. Don't be a chick!” He pauses. “Let's go!”

I take another step back and almost trip over the stairs to the back deck.

“It's go time, J-Man,” Stryker chimes in. “What's your problem? Get your manhood out of your purse, Jacko. You know we do this every time. You always feel better tomorrow. Recovery, bro! Take it.”

I shake my head vigorously as I watch Jett settle deeper into the plastic garbage tub filled with ice, the water spilling out over the sides.