The Swap (3 page)

“Hard-nosed, discipline.”

“Yes, sir.” I nod. “Thank you, sir.”

My dad is big on please and thank you. All Malloy boys are expected to—let me quote—“partake in the basic civility of life.” That means please, thank you, yes, sir or yes, ma'am, holding open a door, firm handshakes, and so on.

“Jack?” The Captain calls out.

“Yes, sir?” I look back at him.

“Go get 'em.”

It doesn't matter what kind of day I'm having. The second I step into the rink, everything is better. It's magic. The first thing that hits you is the smell. Every rink is different, but they all smell like hockey. You could put a blindfold on me and put me in any rink and I'd know, just from the salty, sweaty scent and the dampness and the cool air that kind of hits you when you walk in the door.
BAM!
You are at the rink. You have arrived. There's just this feeling of excitement. It's unreal. And when I walk through the doors to the locker room, that hockey smell is stronger than ever. It's always there. It will never go away. I love that smell. I can't explain it, but it's comforting, I guess. Once you get into the locker room you're sheltered from everything. There are no windows. You have no view of the outside world. You're kind of in a shell. The only contact you have is the other guys, your teammates, sharing stories, talking about different things—hockey, music, where guys went out on the weekend, what they did after, who hung out with who, girls, who's hot, who's not. Guys are chirping, everyone is sort of making fun of each other, joking around. Nothing's off-limits. Most of the guys on the Bruins are one or two years older than I am, so they love to pick on me and razz me, and they all call me “Mallsy,” or “Malls.” I love it. It's like this place that's different than any other. You're just all together, talking about whatever, no distractions.

To an outsider looking in, it might look like a madhouse—eighteen guys, eighteen equipment bags covering almost every space on the floor—but actually there's an order. Every guy knows that order. All the little adjustments to get yourself ready to go: tying your skates just right, lacing 'em up at just the right time, taping your shin pads, taping your stick, folding your socks just the way you like them. It's like tying your shoes—you're so used to it, you just do it. Then when you're all done? Somehow everyone looks the same, and we all head out to the ice.

You walk out of the locker room on the rubber mats, out to the rink, and as soon as you take a step onto the ice, right off the gate, you glide. It's just effortless. That sensation is really the best feeling in the world. You take your second step and your third step and you pick up speed and the cool wind blasts through your face mask and you inhale that first breath of cold air and it gives you a jolt of energy and you want to go faster and faster. You just feel like you can do anything, like you are invincible. Then there's a screeching whistle that brings everyone to a stop, brings you all together, and you get to work.

For the next sixty minutes of my life, everything is almost a trance.

Nothing else matters.

Nothing else exists.

It's like I'm there but I'm not there.

I don't have to think.

The sound track is the steel on your skate cutting into the crisp ice with each stride, the swooshing of the ice when you stop, the puck hitting sticks, the coach directing players, whistles, so much motion, so much activity.

At my best, everything is clicking, everything is right in the world. The puck goes to where I want it to go, my feet move the way I want them to move. It all flows. I just love to be out there. It's what I'm built for. It's what I do best.

After, in the locker room, I sink into my seat, soaked in sweat. Usually there's a high. All the boys feel really good. And as soon as we're off the ice, we're on to the next thing. Nobody's talking hockey anymore. Someone cranks the music, and as we change, we talk about girls and school. We talk about everything but hockey. The guys are always joking and chirping and throwing tape balls in the garbage. And I'm so spent—not just physically, but mentally too, which is kind of awesome, because in the fifteen minutes before I leave and throw my bag in the back of my dad's truck, in those fifteen minutes I have no worries. None. I get my gear off, get dressed, dry my skates, pack up, and laugh with the guys. I do not have a single worry in the world. I'm free.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

MY MOM DRIVES OUT OF
the Sportsplex, and I sit in the front next to her and pretend everything is totally normal and totally fine as I listen to her questions.

“How were tryouts, honey?”

“Did you have fun?”

“Hey, what do you think of sushi takeout for dinner?”

The thing is, there is a big lump in my throat and it's hard to answer because the minute I try to talk, I know my voice is going to give it away. So I sort of nod and shrug my shoulders and look out the window. I manage to hold it together until the second we turn into our driveway.

“Sweetheart,” my mom starts, and I feel the tears building up. “What's going on?”

I open up my mouth to answer, but instead of words, only sobs spill out.

She turns toward me. “Oh, honey. Hey, what's wrong? Did something happen at tryouts?”

“No!” I tell her, but now I'm crying so hard she can barely understand me.

“Are you having trouble with your friends?”

“Noooooo!” I lie again, and shake my head. “I'm okay, I'm fine,” I sob.

“Oh, Ellie, honey, it doesn't sound like you're fine.” My mom takes a deep breath, reaches over, and with her hand moves the hair out of my eyes. “Did someone say something to you?”

“No, just—” I stop for a second. I'm so embarrassed. I try to take a breath, but . . . yeah, I just burst into tears all over again. I get out of the car and shut the door and start walking toward the house.

“Ellie,” my mom calls after me.

I turn around and shout, “It's none of your business!”

Talking to my mom this way doesn't make me feel better at all. I go upstairs to my bedroom and, with all my sweaty soccer clothes still on, crawl under my covers and bury my face in my pillow and cry until the pillow is wet and my nose is running. Then, finally, I sleep.

When I wake up, I look in the mirror on the back of my door. My eyes are all puffy and I have the worst headache. My hair is messy and wavy, and my stupid freckles are still there. I flop back onto my bed and stare up at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers that are still plastered all over my ceiling from when I was a baby. Can you make a wish on plastic star stickers? I do. I wish I could be someone else, like, confident and strong, and not so worried about what everyone thinks all the time. But who wishes on dumb stickers?

I guess I do.

At the same exact moment I make my pathetic sticker wishes, there's a knock at my door.

“Ellie, honey?”

It's my mom.

I don't answer.

I don't even know what to say.

“Ellie, are you sleeping?”

“No,” I say. My voice is muffled, though, because I am talking into my pillow.

She opens the door. “Ellie, sweetheart, what is the matter?”

My mom sits down on my bed right beside me. I feel her hand on my back. “We need to talk. Something happened and you have school tomorrow and you don't want to go to school in this state, right?”

“I don't want to say,” I start. “I don't want to say because I know when I tell you, you're just going to tell me I'm stupid.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I would
never
tell you you're stupid. You know that.”

My mom leans over and kisses me on my head. “I just see you're having a hard time. Come on, let's talk.” She climbs under the covers and curls up next to me like she used to do when I was little.

We stay like that for a long time until she finally speaks. Whispers, really. “Ellie, honey, I just want to know what happened. And I want you to be able to talk about it. You'll feel better if you can just get it out. It will help, I promise.”

I take a big deep breath. “Are you sure you won't be mad?”

“Mad? Why would I be mad?”

“It's about Sassy,” I say.

My mom lets out a long sigh. “So what did she do this time?”

“Mom! Don't say that!”

She looks me right in the eyes. “You can tell me anything. What did she say? I'm really going to just listen, I'm not going to say anything bad about Sassy.”

“Promise?”

“Yes. I promise.”

“She hates me!” When I hear the words, and how pitiful I sound, it just makes me burst into tears all over again.

“Oh, honey, I don't think she hates you, she's just—”

“She does, she hates me!”

“Sweetheart—” My mom stops for a second and takes a deep breath. “A lot of times kids say mean things because they feel insecure, and it makes them feel better about themselves when they put other people down.”

“Sassy is NOT insecure, Mom!” I turn toward my pillow again. “And whatever, it doesn't matter, because I still have no friends.”

“Sassy Gaines is your only friend?” My mom shoves me playfully, and we both kind of smile—even though I'm trying
not
to smile.

“What about Claire, or Mackenzie, or Sammie from soccer?” my mom offers. “What about Kiana? Remember when you used to take riding lessons with her? I love her!”

“Then maybe
you
should be friends with her,” I say, sounding pretty bratty.

“What about Annie Hutchinson? Annie is
so
sweet. I've always wanted you to be friends with her, and I love her mom!”

“Mom, you don't understand. I'm talking about Sassy! I just want Sassy to like me again. I don't know what I did or, like, why—”

My mom studies my face and reaches over to move a clump of sweaty damp hair out of my eyes. We're snuggled up so close, our noses could almost touch.

“Sweetie, how do you see under all that hair?”

“Mom!”

She smiles. “Look, honey,” she starts again, “Sassy is fine and everything, but she does have a little bit of a mean streak; she can be cruel, and I see sometimes she's not nice to you, and who the heck wants to hang out with somebody who's not nice to them?”

I don't answer. I feel a tear streaming down my cheek.

“Your job is to figure out who you are and what your limits are. Sometimes you need to draw that line in the sand. I know it's scary to stand up for yourself, but when you do, sweetheart, I'm telling you it feels so good to be strong.”

“Mom, please, just stop! You don't understand!”

“Oh, Ellie, honey, there are so many kids at Thatcher you don't know. Your next best friend in the world is out there, but you're so focused on Sassy, you're missing out on—”

“Mom!” I cut her off. “You don't get it.”

“Well, maybe I don't.”

She gets up off my bed and moves toward the door, stepping over my clothes. “Ellie, please just clean your room, this mess drives me crazy!”

I don't even care about my stupid room. I don't care about anything right now. I have my face planted in my pillow again. The pressure feels good against my head, which is sort of throbbing from crying so much.

My mom is standing in the doorway. “Look, Ellie, you've got to go to school tomorrow, so we've got to figure out how you can get over this and at least feel okay about yourself. And, Ellie?”

“What!” I look up.

“Honey, if you want me to treat you like you are getting older and more mature, then, well, you need to get yourself together and pick up this room and
blah, blah, blah
. . .”

I stare at my mom and pretend I'm listening, but really I'm not.

“Ellie,” I hear her say, “why don't you take a nice bath and—”

“Mom, I'm in seventh grade! I'm
not
taking a bath!”

“Well, I take baths and I'm forty-four!”

“Fine! I'll take a bath.”

“Good, and put some of those lavender bubbles in there, and just soak. Then get in your pj's, come downstairs, and we'll have a nice dinner.”

“Okay,” I answer into my pillow again.

“And this weekend—”

“I know! My room.” This time I turn and watch her standing with one hand on the doorknob, the other on her hip. She's smiling at me, like she knows something that I don't.

“You'll get through this, honey. You're such a great kid. You can't control the way people are, and we've just got to help you get stronger, so that you can see who your real friends are and—”

“Mom, Sassy
is
my real friend. You don't understand. It's just—”