The Swap (9 page)

“Wait!” I call after Freckles in my new squeaky girl voice, and jump up too.

Ms. Buchanan walks toward the door. “You two get yourselves together. As I said, the bell is about to ring. And leave the door
open
. No funny business. Understood?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I answer. “We understand, ma'am.”

“Well, thank you, Ellie, I appreciate the respectful tone.”

I glance over at Ellie—I mean, me—and notice how much my own eyes look completely relieved when Ms. Buchanan finally leaves.

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EVEN THOUGH MS. BUCHANAN TOLD
us not to close the door, I jump up and shut it, turning the lock just to be safe.

“That was nuts,” I say. I don't really know if I'm talking to Jack or talking to myself, but either way, I'm starting to freak out again, and it shows.

“Ellie?” says Jack. “That's your name, right?”

I nod.

“Look,” he tells me, “we don't have a lot of time. Pretty soon the bell is going to ring and nothing is going to change here, so let's face it—”

“I'm you,” I say, interrupting him.

“Exactly, I'm you and you are me,” he says, smiling for the first time. I know this sounds nuts, but I actually feel a little bit more calm when I see myself smiling.

He grins again. “We just have to make it through the weekend, right? Then we'll get back here and find that wacky nurse and—”

“The weekend!” I cut him off. “Are you crazy!?”

Jack looks up at the clock. “Dude, come on, do you want to waste time arguing?”

“Fine,” I answer. “Go ahead, tell me your great, awesome plan,” I say, sounding kind of meaner than I wanted to.

“Okay, first, go home with my dad. He'll be right outside by the gym door in a big pickup truck, and—”

“What color?” I ask.

“What color what?” says Jack.

“The truck?”

“Black,” he answers. “Dude, you are asking too many questions. Look, just go with my dad and keep your mouth shut, don't get into it with my brothers, and whatever you do,
don't
tell my dad about the fight, okay?”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” I answer. “I won't tell him.”

“No, seriously, Ellie, for real. Please! Promise, okay?” Jack looks really worried. Which means I'm looking at
me
looking really freaked out.

“Okay, okay, I promise,” I tell him. “But isn't he going to wonder what happened to your face?”

“Just say it was from Stryker last night in The Cage,” answers Jack.

“You were in a
cage
with someone named Stryker?”
Oh god.

“Stryker's my brother. I have three.”

My mouth drops open. “Three brothers!”

“Look, you'll be fine, okay? Just stay in my room. Even if Owen calls, or anyone, just stay home, okay?”

“Okay.” I nod.

“My dad, he has, like . . .” He pauses for a moment, then goes on. “He has a certain way about him, so just . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Just say as little as possible.”

“Okay,” I tell him.

“Well?” he asks.

“Well what?”

“What about me?” he asks. “How am I, or, like—” He stops and looks at me anxiously. “What am I supposed to do?”

I picture my mom waiting in her car by the back of the school. She's probably already even there, waiting with a snack and my soccer gear.

Oh my god,
soccer
!

Sassy!

Everything comes flooding back. I start to panic, and okay, yeah, I can feel the tears gathering in my eyes.

“Look, dude, you seriously have to stop crying!” Jack tells me. “If you're going to be me, you can't be such a GIRL!”

This is so crazy.

“I know this seems unreal,” says Jack. He reaches out and grabs my hand. Which is so weird, because I never imagined I'd be holding hands with The Prince of Thatcher on the first day of seventh grade.

Or, I'd
be
The Prince of Thatcher on the first day of seventh grade.

He lets go of my hand and I'm sort of flustered.

“Well? What do I do?” he asks again.

“Uhhh, my mom's picking me up in the back by the gym, and look, number one: do
not
go to soccer, no matter how much my mom says you have to go. Make something up. Just go directly to my room and stay there for the entire weekend!”

“Okay, no soccer,” he repeats. “Stay in your room. Got it.”

“Yeah, just, like, stay in my room. Please! Promise me that no matter what my mom says, don't go
anywhere
, okay?”

“Okay,” he answers. “Chill!”

“
No
soccer,” I repeat.

“Okay, no soccer, I get it, you already said that.”

“And whatever you do,
no
sleepovers!
No
birthday parties!”

“Dude!” he says. “Relax! I'm not going to some chick birthday party, okay?”

“Swear?”

“I swear.”

Suddenly he looks worried again. “Oh, man . . .”

“What?”

“Hockey . . .” His voice trails off, and for a second I think he might cry too.

“Do
not
under
any
circumstances go to hockey,” he tells me.

“Hockey?” I laugh. “I can't even skate.”

“Good, yeah, well. Just . . . don't go. Make something up, okay?”

“Sure.” I shrug. “No problem.”

“Look, Ellie.” Jack takes a big deep breath. “We have got to make this work, okay? One weekend, that's two measly days, right? How hard can it be?”

He almost has me convinced.

“How hard can it be?” I repeat.

“So we'll meet by the main office first thing Monday. Deal?” Jack extends my own arm toward me.

“Deal,” I say, shaking my own hand.

And, this is embarrassing, but, um, I seriously can't hold it much longer, so I just blurt it out. “Jack, you, I mean we . . . I mean . . . I have to pee.”

Jack pushes me toward the small nurse's room bathroom, opens the door, and points to the toilet.

“What do I even do?” I squeal.

“Just go in there and, like . . .” He cringes. “Just, like . . .” He stops and swallows hard. It's pretty obvious he's just as embarrassed as I am.

“Yeah?”

“Grab on, aim, and shake when you're done.”

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WHEN THE BELL RINGS, I'M
not gonna lie—

Freckles has to push me.

“It's now or never!” she tells me, grabbing my new bony-girl wrist and pulling me out the nurse's room doorway. Stepping into the jammed hallway is probably the most petrified feeling I have ever had in my life. It's a madhouse. And it's loud. So loud. It seems like every single kid at Thatcher is pushing and shoving and shouting. The two of us stand side by side, our arms brushing, our backs to the lockers, sort of frozen, staring out at the scene.

I grab Ellie's hand for just a second before I realize what it looks like.

Like we're, you know, a couple, holding hands, and I drop it fast.

“Jack! What are you doing?”

“I know, it's just—” I stop.
Just the small fact that I'm a friggin' girl!

I don't say that out loud, though, because one glance toward Freckles standing in the Thatcher hallway with my banged-up face—black eye, swollen nose—and I can tell she's just as overwhelmed as I am.

“Hey,” I say, speaking kind of loud so that she can hear me over the crowd. “Let's move on three, okay?”

Freckles nods.

“Okay,” I start. “Ready?”

“Ready,” she says.

“One,” we both say. “Two . . .” And—

Exactly on three, Sammy appears out of nowhere and throws his arm around Freckles's neck. “'Sup, dude!”

She catches my eye, like,
Could this get any weirder?
Then she glares at Sammy like he's totally crazy.

Really,
we're
the crazy ones!

I nod at her like, you know,
I am you and you are me, remember?
And if that's not enough, I walk behind her and sort of nudge her in the back.

“That's my friend Sammy,” I whisper.

Freckles turns to me. “I know who that is!”

Sammy looks around, completely confused. “Um, who
who
is, Jacko?” Then he nods toward me in Freckles's body. “I see the dames are already loving your action, big dog.”

Freckles looks back at Sammy in a complete daze.

“Um, dude.” Sammy grins. “Are you feeling all right?”

Unreal.

I can't watch any more of this.

I take a step away.

“Monday,” I mouth toward Freckles.

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WHEN WE STEP OUTSIDE THROUGH
the back door by the gym entrance, Sammy won't stop talking, and he's
so
gross!

“Duuude, hold up.” He smiles at me, then clears his throat and spits out a big green glob of snot that spins through the air and lands on the sidewalk. “
That
was a good horker, bro!”

I look at Sammy Armstrong like he's disgusting, because he is. “Eww!” I say, before I remember that The Prince of Thatcher probably doesn't say
eww
. “I mean, um, uhhh, cool, cool.” I try again and give him a little nod like I see boys do.

Sammy grins at me. “Dude, exactly how hard did you hit your head? You're seriously acting weird!”

I glance up and down the back parking area and see if I can spot my mom or Jack. But I don't see anyone I know, and to make matters worse? Sammy hauls off and slugs me in the arm. Hard.

“Gunner,” he says.

“Gunner? What? Someone has a gun?!!!” I look all around and practically drop to the ground.

“Yo!” Sammy starts laughing. “Seriously, you're kind of scaring me, Jacko!” He points to the big black pickup truck. “Your brother? Gunner?

“Helloooo?” He shoves me for emphasis. “Bro's here, broskinator!”

I look toward the big black pickup truck pulled up to the curb
. Brother? I thought Jack said it would be his dad
.

Sammy follows me to the truck. It's huge. The truck, I mean. Like, the kind you practically need a stepladder just to climb up into the seat. The windows are down, and there's country music blaring. I open the door and launch myself up and glance at the kid in the driver's seat, who pretty much looks like an older, even more handsome version of Jack. If that's possible. He's got the same dimples, and big toothy smile, and he's wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt that is just tight enough that his biceps pop out.