Page 11 of Exchanged

“Yes.”

“So,” the woman continues, as if explaining basic math to a toddler, “GYA determined that your town could replicate a foreign experience for someone from a more populated area. We thought Garrett could learn about rural poverty, differing educational standards and political beliefs, and outdoor survival.”

Dad closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “And what about what Garrett wants? Have you considered that he might not want to spend his senior year in a new town and at a new high school?”

“That is precisely the experience all GYA participants agree to when they apply to the program.”

“They’re signing up to study abroad. It’s different, and you know it.”

“Mr. Rossi, we give our applicants every opportunity to drop out of the program and receive a full refund for their fees if we cannot find them an international placement. The Domestic Exchange Program is entirely optional. Garrett’s parents, however, insisted that he remain in the program.”

This gives Dad pause. “His parents?”

“Yes. In all of our communications with them, they expressed their desire to have him complete the program regardless of where he would ultimately be placed.”

“Why?”

“You are more than welcome to ask them yourself,” she replies, sounding like she’s reached the limits of her patience. “Their contact information was included in our most recent mailing, but I can provide you with it now.”

Dad jots down the phone number she reads.

“And I must ask: Are you wishing to terminate Garrett’s placement in your home? Because this is a two-way agreement, and if you are unwilling to host him, GYA needs to know as soon as possible.”

Dad runs his hand over his beard.

“Mr. Rossi? Are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry. I need to talk to his parents. And my kids. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

He hangs up. We look at each other for a long moment before he asks, “Did Garrett say anything about this to you last night?”

I think of Garrett’s conversation with his parents, the way his voice sounded small and weak. How all the confidence he’d projected in front of our family bled from him through some invisible wound.

“No.”

Dad tilts his head to the side a fraction of an inch, spotting my lie. I don’t like hiding things from him, but if Garrett wanted us to know about his parents, he would have told us. I can at least give him that privacy.

Dad lets it pass. “I should talk to Mr. and Mrs. Andersen myself anyway.” He releases a long breath, looking around the entry hall with its double-wide front doors, yellowing floral wallpaper, and shelves of antiques, as if the space will give him the answers he needs. In the living room, a customer browses a collection of tattered Agatha Christie novels.

“You should take Garrett to see Lake Superior or something,” Dad eventually says. “You can use the truck and drive out to Black Rocks.”

“Now?” I say, feeling my stomach twist at the thought of the two of us alone together for several hours. “I have a shift starting soon.” During the summer, I work part-time at our shop. I take inventory, manage the front desk, and help Dad collect large items from people’s homes.

“Take the day off. Emma can cover for you. And while you’re in Blue Harbor, you should take a drive through campus.”

The School of Mines is in Blue Harbor. Dad never misses a chance to remind me of this.

“Why?”

“To get used to the place before next year.”

“Hard pass.” I don’t need to drive around the eight squat buildings named after deceased mining executives to reinforce the reality of my dismal future.

Dad sighs. “I don’t want to argue about this, and I’m not going to make you hang out with Garrett if you don’t want to. I just thought he might appreciate getting out of the house.”

In my head, I once again hear Garrett’s pleading voice. I think of him alone in our guest room. I hold my hand out for the keys to Dad’s truck. “Whatever. He probably won’t want to hang out anyway.”

To my surprise, Garrett does. Twenty minutes later, we are scrambling over rocks warmed by the late August sun, the waves of Lake Superior crashing below us, driving and percussive. The sky and the lake stretch out into endless blue summer, a fermata before the beginning of school. The view sparks an orchestra of bagpipes and brass and frenetic strings in my head like the bombastic theme from How to Train Your Dragon.