Page 4 of Exchanged

“The Caving Grounds,” Dad says.

“The what?” Garrett asks, craning his neck as Dad wheels the truck around and heads back up Main Street.

“You know,” Emma says, “ground that caves in. People don’t go over there.”

From the look on Garrett’s face, I figure his hometown doesn’t come with a risk of being swallowed by the ground. But his confusion fades as we drive back up Main Street, businesses giving way to old houses with lawns shaded by towering oaks.

“Darryl Maki lives there.” Dad points to a yellow house with blue shutters. “He’ll be your calculus teacher. And the Halpens are there. They have a daughter your age.”

It’s like he’s forgotten that Garrett is leaving tomorrow, that he’s not actually our exchange student.

We slow down at a large white house with a wraparound porch and ornate trim. A turret protrudes from the second story, the setting sun winking off one of its many windows. If the house were a bit bigger and a bit more polished, it might look like a small retreat home for Victorian-era nobility. If it were a bit less polished, it would look haunted.

The yard is strewn with a menagerie of artfully arranged items. Some might call these items junk, others might call them weird shit, but Dad calls them priceless antiques. Several gnomes with bulging eyes and peeling paint leer at us from the base of an oak tree. A spray of petunias grows from a teal-colored toilet bowl. Teapots lining the front path hold a variety of fuchsias.

At the end of the walkway, next to the street, hangs a whitewashed wooden sign with red lettering that reads ROSSI’S RARE FINDS.

Dad wheels the truck into the driveway and kills the engine. We step out.

Garrett squints at our house. “You live above an antique shop?”

“Technically, the shop is in our house,” Emma says.

Dad hoists Garrett’s luggage out of the truck, and we follow him through the back door and into the kitchen.

We’re met with the heavy, humid air of boiling pasta water, the cackling simmer of sofrito, the smell of onions and garlic. It’s a big kitchen filled with well-worn wood, copper pans, and an island scattered with vegetables, at which stands my Aunt Liz, plucking basil leaves from the stems.

She looks up when we enter, her round face breaking into a broad smile. Abandoning the basil, she marches over to Garrett and pulls him into a hug, her chestnut hair wobbling in the messy bun atop her head.

“Gamarjoba!” she says. She holds him at arm’s length by his shoulders, waiting for a response. She’s worked on that one-word Georgian greeting for weeks, likely pronouncing it wrong and having no idea what to do if someone actually responds.

Garrett looks at her like she’s speaking a foreign language.

“Liz,” Dad says, giving her a small head shake.

“Oh!” she says, letting go of Garrett. “Sorry. Right. Full language immersion.” She places her hand on her chest and speaks slowly. “You can call me Aunt Liz. What’s your name?”

“I’m Garrett,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or annoyed. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Aunt Liz gives him a wink and makes the okay sign with her forefinger and thumb. “Very nice pronunciation. You’ll do well here.”

“He’s not actually from Georgia,” I say.

“Yes he is,” Emma argues.

Aunt Liz looks between the two of us, and Dad steps in to explain. She listens, frowning, then lets this not-so-small change of plans bother her for zero more seconds.

“Either way,” she says to Garrett, “welcome home. You haven’t eaten dinner yet, have you?”

“No, I—”

“Wonderful.” She pushes a wooden board piled with cheese, nuts, and olives toward him. “We eat late here, so help yourself.” She begins pointing out each variety of cheese and nut and olive while Garrett obligingly tastes them all.

Dad wanders off to close out the cash register at the front desk, and Emma busies herself with the sofrito on the stove, leaving Aunt Liz, Garrett, and me around the island.

Aunt Liz looks between us, lips puckered, a concerning glint in her eye. I know what she’s thinking: He’s from Atlanta. A big city. And she’s hoping I’ll become best friends with him and hear about all the opportunities outside of Upper Michigan, and it will be one more nudge in the direction of me getting out of this town next year.

She has more plans for me than I do.