Page 25 of Exchanged

“I’d be pretty upset about it.”

“Please. What seventeen-year-old actually wants to become a corporate lawyer? You obviously don’t.”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t know anything about me or what I want.”

The gotcha journalist I’ve somehow turned into is pleased he hit a nerve. “I’m starting to get a sense of who you are, or at least why you’re stuck with my family. You don’t want to be here, but your parents sent you anyway, probably because of some messed-up family drama, or maybe you screwed up at your old school and this is your parents’ solution. Like a cheaper version of boarding school or a less intense version of juvie.”

Based on Aunt Liz’s and Dad’s cryptic hints about his parents, I’ve gathered that Garrett was sent here because of a parenting decision Aunt Liz and Dad disapprove of. By the stony expression on Garrett’s face, I can tell my guess isn’t too far off the mark.

“Fine,” Garrett says, lowering his voice and taking a step closer to me. I catch a faint whiff of his deodorant, citrusy and soft. “You want to get real about why I’m here? Why not? When I was accepted as a Global Youth Ambassador, my parents expected me to be out of the country, so they planned this whole year like they finally got to be empty nesters. Volunteered for extra work trips. Arranged a monthlong vacation in Portugal. Organized a road trip to visit my uncle in Phoenix. And then when GYA couldn’t find a placement in Italy for me, my parents didn’t want to give up their plans. Sure, they felt guilty and everything, but not enough to back out on all their fun traveling. So … here I am. I get why they did it, and maybe it was a little shitty. But no, we don’t have hidden messed-up drama. I didn’t fuck up at my old school. I’m just being babysat by your dad for a year so my parents can have a life.” He moves past me, making sure his shoulder plows into mine. “So if you’re done pretending you understand me, I’ll head to my useless government class.”

“I think lawyers need to know about the government,” I say lamely to his retreating back, a paparazzo taking a last, desperate shot at the school’s crown prince.

He doesn’t respond.

That evening, I find Garrett in the living room watching Monday Night Football with Dad. The two of them are sitting next to each other on the couch, yelling at the players. Dad usually does this by himself, never having been able to get Emma or me to sit through more than five minutes of a game. Dad takes his hat off, presses it against his face, and puts it back on, angry at something one of the players did. But I can tell he’s happy to share this with someone.

The Raiders are playing. From her spot in an armchair, a book propped in her lap, Emma flicks her eyes from the screen to my face. An impish grin tugs at the corner of her lips. I can tell she’s trying to decide how to reveal that she found me snooping around the jersey in Garrett’s room.

No, I mouth.

“Enzo, isn’t your favorite player on this team?” she asks.

Dad glances away from the TV. “You have a favorite NFL player?”

“No,” I say.

“I thought you liked number ninety-four or something,” Emma says.

“Nassib?” Dad asks. “Isn’t he the gay one?”

“There’s a gay NFL player?”

“Gay people can play football, too,” Emma admonishes.

“I know they can,” I say. “I just didn’t know they do. Not in the NFL, at least.”

“Enz, you’re being homophobic,” Dad says.

“I can’t be homophobic,” I bluster. “I’m gay.”

“Are you?” Garrett asks. “Because you told me you’re not.”

“I never said that.”

“Enzo is gay,” Emma clarifies. “And gay people can be homophobic.”

“They can also be football players,” Dad adds.

“I know they can.”

“I’d hope so,” Emma says, “since your favorite player is gay.”

“Right,” I say, giving up. “I guess that’s why he’s my favorite.”

Garrett looks at me strangely for a second. Then someone scores for the Raiders—a straight player, presumably, since it isn’t Nassib—and he and Dad are once again focused on the game. Emma gives me a self-satisfied shrug and goes back to her book. I don’t care how the game turns out, so I head upstairs to work on arranging a medley of James Horner soundtracks, because apparently I’m too homophobic for the NFL.

I reach the top floor and peer through Garrett’s open door. He hung the jersey of the NFL’s only gay football player on his wall. Maybe Nassib is a badass, the NFL’s version of John Williams or something.