The Swap (11 page)

“Yeah, um, sure,” I say, and nod for emphasis.

Gunner throws his arm around me as we walk side by side. “'Sup, big fella?” He winks. “Feels unreal to be back on the sticks with the boys!”

“Yeah,” I repeat, throwing one of those guy nods in again.

“Bro,” he starts. “Honestly, I was thinking about growing a mullet. It's making a comeback. Business in the front, party in the back!”

I look at him a little weird again. I can't help it. I like him, but I can't understand a word he is saying. Gunner just keeps his arm around my shoulders. “Tough day, little man. Have to bounce back. Let's get it goin'!”

He shoots me a wink and stops all of a sudden in front of a door, holding it open for me. “After you, Jacko!”

The barber's name is Geno. Geno Anthony DiAngelo, to be exact. The only reason I know this is because I'm so freaked out, I keep my eyes glued straight ahead at the framed barber's license leaning on the counter against the mirror.

I think by accident I agreed to, like—

Get Jack's hair shaved off!

Gulp.

I slink down into the big leather barbershop chair, trembling. Gunner whips out his iPhone and starts filming. “Let's see that shaggy mop, Jacko!” He laughs. “Little bro's flow has got to go!”

Geno the barber looks at me. “The usual?” he asks.

“I, uhhh—”

“Yeah, old-school, Geno,” Gunner answers for me, then looks at me in the mirror. “A fade, right, broski?”

“A fade?” I repeat. I am seriously wondering if boys even speak English.

Gunner turns to Geno the barber. “Big guy's had a rough day,” he tells him. “Let's go with number two on top, and number one around those big beauty ears.” He laughs and drops into the seat behind me.

It all happens so fast.

Geno the barber moves behind the chair, turns on the electric clippers, and the next thing I know I'm watching in the mirror as huge clumps of Jack's thick, dark, curly, beautiful hair drop off his head. Nobody says a word. Besides the buzzing of the clippers, we sit in total silence.

It doesn't take long.

Seven minutes max.

“Here you go,” says Geno the barber, holding up a mirror so I can see the back. There's not really any purpose to that, though. Besides a very minuscule layer of prickly, sandpapery stubble? Jack's hair is—

G-O-N-E.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I AM THREE STEPS INTO
the Sportsplex lobby when some girl nearly lays me out with one of those knock-you-down-running-start hugs.

“Girlieeee!” she squeals right into my ear before she finally lets go. “Oh my goooosh! I haven't seen you in forever!”

I look back at her like, “Do I know you?” Believe me, I'd remember. I can practically hear Sammy's voice in my head: “SMOKE SHOW!” he'd say.

Smoke Show has long, sun-streaked blond hair, bright blue eyes, and, according to the bubbly script stitched on the upper right side of her hoodie, her name is
Mackenzie
. There's a lot of pink going on—pink-and-white-striped soccer socks, pink shorts, and the hoodie with thunderbirds in bold, white, shiny sewn-on letters across the front.

“Girlieeee!” Mackenzie's eyes widen. “We
really
need to make plans to hang! Now that I'm at Mount Saint Mary's, I never see you on the bus! We haven't talked in
so
long! I have
so
much to tell you! You
are
coming tomorrow, right?”

“Tomorrow?” I say. And I'll be honest, I am still absolutely shocked at the sound of the voice I hear coming out of my mouth.

“To Claire's, silly!” Mackenzie laughs.

Yes, I am staring. Really, what do you expect? I can't even talk to girls, let alone talk
like
a girl!

“Ellie! You promise, right? I miss you. I want to hang out with you! You are coming, right?”

I take a deep breath, and before I even have to answer, Mackenzie threads her arm through mine and begins walking, pulling me along past the trophy case and the snack bar. Her eyes light up as she talks. “I'm going to let you off the hook for acting so spacey! Are you nervous?”

Ha. I seriously almost smile.
Nervous? Yeah. You could say that
.

“No worries, girlie! Bus besties, remember? Team No Boobs!”

Huh?

Mackenzie suddenly stops in her tracks, turns, and looks right into my eyes. Man, is she pretty.

“Ellie, you're seeming a little bit, like, not yourself. You would
never
get cut. You're, like, so good. You're
so
fast!”

I manage the slightest smile.

“Don't freak, okay? You're going to make the team!” She sounds so sure. “It's going to be awesome!”

I just stand there like a complete idiot and nod. I
am
nervous, but not because I'm afraid of Freckles's soccer tryouts. It's more because I'm looking over Mackenzie's shoulder at the bright-green turf field and the twenty or so girls who are sitting around stretching, and I realize I have to
change
.
Change my clothes!

“Great,” I mutter.

“Great what?” asks Mackenzie.

“Oh, uhh, um . . .”

“Ellie.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “You're acting weird. Seriously, are you feeling all right?”

“I'm fine,” I lie. I stop and shove my arm down into Freckles's pink bag and fish out her turf shoes, shorts, and jersey. Screw the bathroom. I stand right there in front of everyone and pull on the jersey (pink) and the shorts (pink) right over the gym clothes I'm already wearing. Then I drop down onto the cold cement floor and finish the look with the same pink-and-white-striped socks Mackenzie has on.

“Um, Ellie?” Mackenzie looks confused. “Aren't you, like, gonna, you know, change?”

I look up from tying Freckles's turf shoes tight. “I'm good,” I say, standing.

“What's with you, girlie?” She laughs. “Didn't you forget something?”

I glance down. I'm pretty sure girls don't wear a cup.

“Shin guards?” she offers.

“Oh, uhh, yeah, right,” I say, embarrassed that I didn't even think of that. I dig them out of Ellie's bag and slip the shin guards into the socks, which makes me think about hockey, which makes me both worried and afraid. I'm the youngest guy on the team. I've never missed a practice in my entire life! I'll just have to pray that Ellie stays put in my room and doesn't screw my career up.

“Hellooooo!” Mackenzie is waving her hand in front of my eyes. “You sure you're okay?” She looks confused. “I can't believe you are seriously nervous about tryouts, Ellie! You're awesomesauce! You're ten times better than, like, almost every girl on the team!” Mackenzie leans in and cups her hand around my ear.

I told you I'm, like, the shiest kid in the entire eighth grade, right? Honestly, I have never been
this close
to a girl in my life.

I swallow hard.

“If you're feeling a little bit stressed . . .” Mackenzie pauses and takes a big, warm breath. “Fake it till you make it, girlie! You got this.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I FOLLOW GUNNER UP THE
winding stone path to the front of the house, but I don't just walk right in. No. I stand in the entryway, staring at the honey-colored walls as if I'm a friend or a visitor—before it all comes rushing back.

I am JACK.

I'm practically bald.

I supposedly live here!

My nose is killing me and my head still hurts.

I watch Gunner hang the keys to the truck on a little hook and admire himself and his new look in the mirror by the door. Geno worked his magic on Gunner too, and now we look scarily the same, like twin marines, minus the black eye and the busted-up face and the fact that I'm a girl in Jack's body!

“Geno crushed it, right, bro?”

“Crushed what?”

“Perfection, bud.” Gunner thwacks me on the top of my bald head before bounding up the stairs.

“Wait!” I call, disturbingly aware that I'm sounding extremely desperate. “Where are you going?”

Gunner looks back down at me. “Ha ha, love you, bud. Get your rest. Big day tomorrow!”

What I want to do is run after Gunner and wrap my arms around his leg like a two-year-old, clamping on hard and not letting go. What I want is to ask him what exactly he means by “big day,” not to mention the more obvious things, like “Where is Jack's room?” and “What am I supposed to do now?”

Instead? I stand alone in the entryway, Jack's bag slung around my shoulder, and steal a quick glance into the mirror. I run my hand over the prickly quarter-inch of hair Geno thankfully left on Jack's head.

Um. Yeah.
He's seriously going to kill me
.

Upstairs, the first door I try is
not
Jack's door. I know this because when I open it, I get a sneaker thrown at my face.

“Let's see that flow show, Jacko!” I hear, and I open the door a little wider.

Brother Number Two is lying on his bed in gray sweatpants and no shirt, which makes me back away, and fast. “Sorry!” I say.

“Get back in here, you big beauty!”

I open the door just a crack and peek through. This one has to be the oldest. He has Jack's same—I mean, used to be same—wavy, longish, thick dark hair, and he's wearing those Clark Kent-type dark-framed glasses, the kind that make anyone wearing them seem instantly brainy. Plus he's reading, and a guy with a book just looks smart.

“Holy smokes! Shaved your mop! Can't believe you chopped it, bro. You had some sweet locks going. I thought you weren't going to give in? It was about that time, though!” He studies me for a long second, smiling the whole time. “Flow chop, then start growing it for the season. Nice!”

Brother Number Two is unbelievably handsome, and I think I mentioned no shirt? I'm pretty sure my cheeks turn bright red.

“Don't get rattled, bro, it'll grow back.” He laughs. “In six months!” Brother Number Two cracks himself up. It's hard not to smile, though, and so I stand in the doorway and I think I honestly kind of almost grin.

“No big deal, little man. The old dome is a bit cooler these days. Still a stud, though.” He throws the other sneaker at my head. “What are you waiting for, donkey? Get your butt in here and sit down!”

I step into the room and immediately notice something awful. It smells really bad, like farts and smelly feet.

“Sorry, bro,” he says, looking up from his book. “Been rippin' the nastiest bombs all day.”

I look all around the room to see if there are any clues as to who the heck I'm even talking to, but besides the bookshelves loaded with a billion gold and silver hockey trophies and medals and three framed, glass-encased jerseys hanging on the wall, it doesn't really look like a teenage boy's room at all. What I mean is, it's not, like, messy. It's actually really, really neat, right down to the fact that Brother Number Two is lying on
top
of his bed,
not
under the covers. The bed is made perfectly. The sheets are flat and smooth and nothing is hanging out over the edge. Everything is tucked in just so and creased and folded over the striped wool blanket. There's not even any stuff on the floor!
My mom would love this kid
, I think, and park my butt on the very edge of the end of the bed.

For a few seconds I just awkwardly sit there in silence while Clark Kent goes back to reading his book in his perfectly tidy room. I wonder what it is I'm actually supposed to be doing.

Then he talks. He doesn't look up from his book, though. “I hear you tangled with some dolt at school,” he says.

I nod. At least I know that's true.