The Swap (6 page)

“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “I see her.”

“Total rocket, right?”

“I guess,” I say with a shrug. Sammy is such a ladies' man.

“Come on, man, she's mad hot! I'd marry her on the spot!” Sammy pushes me into Owen and we all bust out laughing. Kid's crazy.

At lunch, we always sit together. Me, Owen, Sammy, Demaryius, Trey, Dominic, and Brayden. We sit at the same table we sat at last year, on the far side of the cafeteria by the guidance office.

Trey is obsessed with the Red Sox.

“Did you see the Sox blow it last night?” he asks.

Brayden laughs. “Don't even get me started, man!”

“Yeah, dude,” says Dom. “That bullpen is an absolute disaster.”

Sammy jumps in. “Dude, I think
I
could go out there and do a better job closing games for the Sox right now.”

“Then we'd
really
be in trouble,” teases Trey.

We all love to mess with Sammy. He's just an easy target.

Everyone starts talking at the same time.

“The Pats are so sick, did you see the game last night?” (Brayden)

“Dude, the Pats are absolutely gonna kill it this year.” (Demaryius)

“It's not even gonna be close. They're just unstoppable.” (Owen)

“Hands down, best defensive line in the league. Not even debatable.” (Me)

“I don't know, though, man. Buffalo's new QB looks like a gun!” (Trey)

“Nah, dude. He's overrated.” (Dominic)

“Shut up, Dom. Dude's gonna be a legend!” (Trey)

“Yo!” Sammy raises his voice over all of us and awkwardly nods his head toward the seventh graders walking by. “Two words: Sassy. Gaines. Smoke show!”

“That's four words, Sammy,” says Owen.

We all burst out laughing.

Owen raises his hand. Like I said, love the kid. “You guys want to come over tomorrow night and have a
Madden
tourney?”

“
Madden
? No!” argues Trey. “Dutes, man!”

“Cool,
Call of Duty
. Whatever. I can kill you all in that too.” Owen smiles.

Sammy throws his hand up for a high five. “Yeeeaaah, buddy, I'm in,” he says.

“I have to ask my mom,” says Trey.

Owen turns to Dominic. “Dom?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Demaryius?”

“Definitely, I'm down.”

“Brayden?”

“You know it.”

“What about you, Jacko?”

“Absolutely, man. Sounds good.”

To be completely honest, I'm kind of surprised at how much I'm not minding eighth grade. The only sort of bad thing so far is this kid Porter Gibson. The kid's just a loudmouth idiot. Owen and I are walking to Mr. Graves's class when Porter crashes into all eighty pounds of Owen, knocking his books to the floor and his glasses straight off his face.

I kneel down and get his stuff. “Dude,” I tell Owen, “I'd really like to punch that kid in the face.”

“I can brush it off.” Owen shrugs.

But I can tell he's rattled. I hand Owen back his glasses.

Porter keeps at it in science. The kid is always being obnoxious in class, always needs attention, always needs someone to be laughing at him. The guy's a joke. Right away he causes problems.

Owen and I are sharing the desk in the front row. “Since there's so much talking,” Mr. Graves announces, “we're going to switch seats. So everyone, let's have the girls stand first. And we're going to count off, girl, boy.”

Porter kicks the back of my chair. “Hey, Jack,” he whispers, “
girls
first!”

I'm not going to lie.

I'm heated.

I sit there for the rest of the class and seriously consider jumping over the desk and punching him in the face.

In the hallway after sixth period, Owen tries to talk me down.

“He's not worth it, Jack,” he tells me. “Don't let him get to you.”

And look, I'll tell you the truth. I'm not big on fighting. I mean, sure, I fight my brothers all the time. But as far as fighting at school?

No.

My dad would kill me.

I stop to get a drink at the water fountain, and when I turn around

I see Porter coming at me in slow motion.

I'm not ready.

“Watch where you're going,” he says, slamming into me.

Porter steps right up to me. Eyeball to eyeball. I can smell fish sticks on his breath. He starts poppin' off. “You're such a pretty boy, Malloy. Think a little highly of yourself, don't you? Think you're better?”

“Get out of my face, bro,” I answer. I turn. I swear, I turn and begin to walk away, but Porter pushes me again. This time a little bit harder.

“Don't be such a girl,” he says.

I shake my head and start to walk away again. But then he gives me another shove, this time hitting me in the back of my shoulders. I turn around and look right at him.

“What?” he asks. “You gonna call your
mommy
and cry?”

“Step back, dude,” I warn him.

“When you do call your mom, bro, tell her to stop texting me,” he says with a laugh.

That's it.

I drop my backpack.

“You got the biggest mouth, dude. You want to go right now?” I say. Out of the corner of my eye I see a crowd forming, and I can hear them cheering.

“Fight him! Get 'em, Jack!”

“You wanna go?” I repeat.

“What?” Porter looks scared now. “I was just playin'. . .”

I don't have an off switch.

“Let's go right now.” I grab him by his backpack strap, pull him in, and connect with a right cross. One punch. Porter slams backward into the locker and starts flailing his arms. I'm looking to strike again. I'm looking to knock him out. I pull back my arm and throw a right uppercut that connects with his jaw. He's getting desperate to end the fight. He lunges at me, wrapping his arms around my waist, and tries to take me down, tackling me, but instead he smokes my head against the brick wall.

I feel my nose crack.

Then blood trickling down my chin.

I just roll him and get on top. I drive him into the floor. I don't stop. He's on his back, full throttle trying to get up. I pin him down with my knee, hook one arm around his neck, and pound him with shots. I'm landing some big punches, just blazin' him, until I feel somebody's hand yank me back off him.

“Boys, this is over!” It's Mr. Graves.

For the first time I notice how many people are watching. It's like the entire eighth grade is standing there in a circle around us, staring.

“Okay, people, show's over. Go to class!” says Mr. Graves. Then he turns to me, “Jack, go to the nurse.”

I stand there for a second.

My heart is pounding.

I can taste blood.

“Go!” Mr. Graves repeats, sounding mad.

Somehow a wad of paper towel emerges, and Owen hands it to me with a giant grin on his face. Before I leave, I glance down at Porter, still in a heap on the floor, his lip busted.
You think you're gonna knock me out? Not going to happen
.

I watch him for a second and make sure to catch his eye. Then? I shake my head and toss him a smile.

On my way to the nurse's office, my heart is beating like crazy ridiculous. I can't calm down. My body is shaking and my hand is throbbing. By now there's a crowd following me down the stairs. Everyone's hyped.

“Beast mode, bro!” (Brayden)

“Yeeaah, boyyyy! Dominate!” (Trey)

“Dude's a truck, but you smashed him!” (Demaryius)

“You're an assassin, Jacko!” (Dominic)

Sammy throws his arm around my shoulders. “You're an absolute stud! You rocked him, dude. Ground and pound! You had some big shots, man. He felt it!”

By the time I reach the door to the nurse's office, it's just me and Owen in the empty hallway. He hands over my backpack, while I try to keep the blood-soaked paper towel on my nose.

“You're still coming to my house tomorrow night, right?” he asks me.

“Well, I—” I start, and reality sort of sets in. “I'll probably be grounded. I mean, my dad—”

“Oh, man, bro.” Owen looks a little worried. “Your dad is going to lose it!”

“Yeah, so . . . ,” I start, but it's hard to talk with the blood and my nose.

“Well, call me when you find out, man.”

“Yeah, I will,” I answer.

“Jacko?”

I glance back.

Owen flashes me the biggest smile.

“Thanks for shutting him up,” he says.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

I DON'T KNOW IF IT'S
possible for you to picture me in my flimsy blue Thatcher gym shorts, orange Thatcher T-shirt, and sneakers, walking as fast as I can down the empty hall with tears streaming down my cheeks, but that's what I look like.

I look like a baby.

I look like a ridiculous baby, and I don't care.

I don't care because all that is on my mind is getting out of here, getting home, and never leaving my room again. Ever! I think about all the things I'm going to
not
do as I move through the deserted hallway—

I will not play soccer!

I will not go to Claire's birthday party!

I will never go to another birthday party again. Ever!!!!!!!!

I pass the closed doors of classes in session. I pass two teachers. I blow right by them.

“Miss? Young lady?” one calls out.

But I don't stop.

Apparently, I am suddenly the type of girl who skips class and doesn't listen.

“Ellie. Ellie O'Brien?” Ms. Walker calls out. “Ellie, where are you supposed to be?”

I don't even turn around. I head straight to my locker and struggle to remember my stupid combination before I finally get it open. I jam the rest of my books into my backpack. I am a girl possessed. My face feels hot and my head is pounding and I'm so—

Mad.

So MAD!

I shut the locker and look around, considering my next move. There is only one period left. I look up and down the hall and try to spot a place to hide.
I could just, like, hide out, right? Wait for the bell to ring. Nobody will even know!

This sounds like such a good idea in my head.

I'm totally going to do this!
I think. And there I am, with my backpack weighing down my shoulders, walking in my gym clothes toward the little gap of empty space between the band room and the hallway, when I hear a voice.

“Young lady?”

I can tell without looking.

Ms. Dean.

And by Ms. Dean, I mean the principal of Thatcher.

What made me think this would ever work out? I mean, really? This isn't exactly my lucky day.

I stand in the hallway, surrounded by a million orange lockers, and force a weak smile and act like I'm not skipping class, like I'm not having a nervous breakdown, like I'm not—

Me.

I have never said a word to Ms. Dean in my life. Before today I have never even been late to class, let alone skipped one. “You're such a goody-goody, Ellie!” Sassy likes to say.

I look at Ms. Dean and try to quickly think of the words that should come out of my mouth. But instead, I look down, fidget with the straps of my backpack, and swallow hard.

“Ellie O'Brien, right?”

I look up and manage to nod. I have no idea how she even knows my name.

“And where are you coming from, Ms. O'Brien?”

“Gym,” I answer. Right away, my voice is shaky.

“And why aren't you in gym, Ellie?”

For just a split second I consider spilling everything, but something stops me. And that something is that I don't want—on top of everything else awful about this day—to be a tattletale. I can't imagine how happy that would make certain people.

Sassy's voice in my head is mocking me—“
You're such a little suck-up, Ellie.
”

So instead of answering, I just stare back at Ms. Dean with this dumb blank look.

“Ellie, something is obviously upsetting you, and if you don't tell me what it is, then I'm not going to be able to help you.”

“Um,” I say weakly. Have you ever talked to your principal, alone in the hallway? It's awkward, all right, and I practically jump when Ms. Dean's phone buzzes.

“One second.” She turns and holds the phone to her ear. I can't really hear what she says into her phone. Something about a fight. Eighth graders. Something about her office . . .

I stop trying to listen and start remembering how pathetic I must look standing here in my gym clothes. I try to stand up a little taller. I try to not seem like I have just been crying. I take my ponytail out, and slip the elastic on my wrist. I'm pretty sure my messy, crazy red hair hanging down around my shoulders doesn't really improve things as I hoped it would.