Page 23 of Exchanged

“Who the hell does that?”

Me, apparently.

He holds out his arms. “I can do my own fucking laundry.”

I hand over the basket. “I know.”

He moves toward the door that leads to the basement and our washing machine, then pauses. “My room wasn’t that dirty.”

“He’s so hot.”

“And that accent.”

“He can take me back down to Georgia with him at the end of the year.”

“He can take me down to Georgia anytime he wants.”

As Emma and I walk into school on the first day, some junior girls are grouped by the front door, gazing down the hall and not bothering to keep their voices down. It doesn’t take long to figure out who they’re talking about. Garrett stands halfway down the corridor, his forearm propped on a locker, backpack casually slung over one shoulder. He grins, and one of the junior girls releases an actual whimper.

“He’s not that hot,” Katrina tells her, appearing at my side. “And either way, I think you’re out of luck.”

The person Garrett is talking to closes her locker and flips her blond hair over her shoulder. It’s Dana Hendricks, the senior basketball star who’s a shoo-in for homecoming and prom queen. It’s like an invisible force drew Garrett to her, as if beautiful, popular people have an internal compass directing them to other beautiful, popular people. Garrett flashes a doofy, I’m-so-into-you smile at her, and she playfully tugs at the sleeve of his shirt.

Talk about a power couple.

The junior girls skulk off, replaced by Ryan Beltrami—our quintet’s flute player—and Marcy Hicks—our bassoonist.

“Enz! How was the end of summer?” Ryan says, pulling me into a hug. He looks down the hallway where our gazes are directed. “Oh, is that him?” Ryan and Marcy have been off at cross-country camp for the past two weeks, so their only update has been from the group chat, in which I texted: He’s from the wrong Georgia.

“Yep,” I say.

“He seems fun!” Marcy says.

“I hear Atlanta is cool,” Ryan says, and before I know it, he and Marcy are wandering toward Garrett to introduce themselves, pulled in by the magnetic force of his exotic-exchange-student status. I suppose I can’t blame them. There are 104 people in our class, and we haven’t had a new student since freshman year. Garrett is fresh meat in the dating pool and the friendship pool and the athletic talent pool.

I turn back to Emma. “Are you feeling ready?” I ask. “Want me to walk you to your first period?”

She shakes her head. “Thanks, but Garrett said he wanted to. He said it was his duty as an exchange brother to walk me to class on my first day.”

“I’m your real brother,” I say. “And Garrett doesn’t even know where Ms. Heikinen’s class is.”

Emma shrugs. “I know, but I think it makes him feel included.”

I glance at him just as he makes a joke that causes Marcy, Ryan, and Dana to burst into laughter. “I think he already feels included.”

Nonetheless, Emma trots toward him, and he peels away from his fan club. He throws an arm over her shoulders, and the two of them tread into their first day at Irontown High School.

On Monday afternoon of our second week, I find myself in the guidance office, standing in the small lobby where people sit and wait to meet with Ms. Ferris. I sometimes stop in to browse the college brochures that she stocks even though I know I won’t end up at any of the schools—after all, how can I turn down the lures of close and free offered by the School of Mines?—but that doesn’t keep me from looking.

I haven’t talked to Ms. Ferris since last fall. I received top scores at Solo and Ensemble, allowing me to audition for an honors orchestra at the University of Michigan. Ms. Ferris and Mr. Campbell got U of M to send up some graduate students from their music department to hold auditions in our band room. I love band and my wind quintet, but I’ve always wanted to play in a full symphonic orchestra—the kind that churns out film scores.

“Plus, it’ll be a chance to check out the school and meet one of their composition professors,” Mr. Campbell told me. “I know Burton-Clark is your dream school, but this could be a great opportunity.”

The graduate students sat in a panel in the front of the band room, and when I walked in, I wasn’t even nervous. I was ready. I played the required scales and then a piece I’d been working on with my private oboe teacher for months. The panelists seemed impressed, and one of them—who told me she also played the oboe—was especially complimentary. “You should check out our studio,” she said, “when you start applying to music programs.”

When, not if. I remember the warm hope that assumption injected into my stomach.

On my way out, I heard one of the other grad students say, “There’s more talent up here than I expected.”