Page 2 of Exchanged

Come on, dude. Tell us about the climate. Tell us about those rugged mountains and whether or not you’ve climbed them. Give us something.

“Falcons fan?” Dad asks, frowning at Garrett’s sweatshirt.

“Yessir! How about you?”

“Packers,” Dad says. “I’m just surprised Georgians are into American football.”

“Is that what y’all call it up here?”

As a worker rolls out the luggage cart, Garrett steps forward and pulls off a large suitcase. He turns to move toward the exit, but Dad doesn’t budge. I can tell he’s thinking the same thing I am.

Garrett’s name seems kind of American.

Garrett’s accent seems kind of Southern.

Dad scratches the back of his head. “I have to ask: You are from the country of Georgia, right?”

Garrett laughs, then realizes Dad is serious. “I’m from Atlanta.”

We stand there for a moment, looking at one another. Pantsuit Lady wheels her suitcase around us, her phone tucked between her shoulder and ear. The elderly couple and the family follow, and then we are alone in the airport with the sleeping TSA officer.

“They sent us the wrong Georgian,” Dad says.

“Maybe somebody at GYA screwed up?” I offer.

Dad looks at Garrett. “Then where are you supposed to be?”

“You’re in Michigan,” Emma says, helpfully pointing at her sign.

“Yeah, I know.” Garrett fishes a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He hands it to Dad. “Irontown, right?”

I read over Dad’s shoulder as he unfolds the paper. Garrett’s name is written at the top, and the text below confirms that he has been placed with Joe, Enzo, and Emma Rossi of Irontown, Michigan.

“Global Youth Ambassadors is a foreign exchange program,” I say. “Why would they send you here?”

Garrett bites his bottom lip. He takes off his baseball cap, puts it back on. “Well, I feel really stupid right now. You expected someone from Georgia? The country?”

We nod.

He looks like he’s waiting for the camera crew from a reality TV show to pop out and explain that he’s part of an elaborate setup and that they will film his senior year of high school while he lives with the wrong host family. When this doesn’t happen, he looks at us and blinks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I should call my parents. I can get money for a ticket home tomorrow morning or something. I’m fine sleeping here.” He motions to the empty airport, and for a split second, his impassive confidence falters and he becomes a kid in a strange place who isn’t sure where he’s going to sleep. Then he’s in control again and pulling out his phone. “Yeah, I’ll just call my parents, and—”

On cue, the TSA officer startles awake and addresses the room in a slur. “Airport’s closing!”

Dad shakes his head as if emerging from a daze. “No. Obviously you’re coming home with us. Sorry. I’m just … confused.”

Garrett’s face is steel. “No. You don’t need to take a random guy home with you.” He raises his phone. “I’ll just get an Uber and stay in a hotel or something.”

“We don’t really have Uber here,” I say. “Or Lyft.”

Emma kicks me in the shin.

“We’re all set to host an exchange student,” Dad says. “The least we can do is put you up until we get this figured out.”

Garrett looks around the airport again, realizes he has no other option, and nods.

Dad turns and leads the way through the sliding doors to the parking lot, and we step into the slanting sunlight of late August. It’s cool for this time of year, even for Michigan, and I catch Garrett’s broad shoulders hunching as he wheels his suitcase over the curb.