Page 43 of Exchanged

When trying to compose, I’ve always felt self-conscious and naive, like there was a judgmental audience watching me, pitying me for pursuing something impossible. I don’t know whose faces I would see if I looked into that audience—my mom’s, my dad’s, or my own—but tonight Garrett’s face is there, and he doesn’t judge or pity me for making music. His eyes are blue and piercing, and he knows me now.

The music doesn’t flow out of me. It takes hours of halting, clumsy attempts at chords and melodies. I plunk away at the keyboard, stopping to move notes and passages into my music composition software. It’s painstaking, frustrating, fun.

I finish in the early morning. The piece is slow and melancholic, a haunting clarinet line floating above a swelling chord progression played by low strings. It is iron bluffs shrouded in fog and gnarled oaks grasping at one another over abandoned streets, and it makes me feel something when I play it back for myself. It’s still just a draft, and it’s not long, but it’s mine, original. Music that did not exist yesterday.

Above all, host families are responsible for the safety of their Youth Ambassador. Host parents should exercise sound judgment when deciding whether to allow their Ambassador to participate in activities that may be deemed risky. They are expected to act as their Ambassador’s guardians would, providing appropriate oversight and care (see Section 9: “Communication Between Families”).

Ambassadors should be reminded that they are living in a new and unfamiliar setting, where medical practices and facilities may differ from what they are accustomed to. Ambassadors should also take responsibility for their own well-being and avoid jeopardizing their year in the program.

—From The Global Youth Ambassadors Handbook,

Section 6: “Safety”

TWELVE

“There’s a chance he’s just not into you.”

A week after Garrett came out to me in the Caving Grounds, I’m walking home from marching band practice with Katrina and Trevor on what might be the last nice day of October. Dappled sunlight paints the tree-lined sidewalk, a warm breeze crackling the autumn leaves like old paper.

Katrina’s statement is harsh but true.

Garrett has been friendly yet distant, our interactions limited to brief snatches of witty sarcasm before he moves on to other people and activities. He spends his school hours with the football team, and when he is at home, he’s watching ESPN with Dad or playfully chatting with Aunt Liz or arguing with Emma about whatever sci-fi book she’s reading. I feel superfluous in these moments, an observer of the relationships he’s building with my family. I’m jealous of the rhythm they’ve developed with him, their inside jokes and easy ways of being together. Meanwhile, Garrett and I are like an oboe and trombone attempting to play a duet—two instruments that can’t seem to blend and were maybe never meant to.

And why would he act differently around me after the Caving Grounds? He’s always known I’m gay, has had the chance to develop feelings for me all along, could have used his abundance of cockiness to flirt with me, safe in the knowledge that I might reciprocate.

But he hasn’t, and he isn’t.

Which leads me to agree with Katrina’s horribly blunt assessment: He’s just not into me.

“I was thinking of inviting him to join us for Mario Kart tonight,” I say.

Trevor groans. “You want us to be your wingmen so you can get with your exchange brother? I want to beat your ass at Kart, not watch you flirt with Garrett.”

“Enz doesn’t know how to flirt,” Katrina says dismissively. “So you don’t have to worry about that. And Georgia is probably too busy to hang out with us.”

She’s right. Garrett has an exceptionally vibrant social life. When he’s not at school or football practice, he’s grabbing dinner with Ryan Beltrami and the cross-country team or chilling at Tyler Jorgen’s place or keeping up with his Atlanta friends on video calls. I think of what he told me on our walk home from Dana’s party: “There’s a lot you have to give up to make everyone like you,” and I realize I haven’t seen him hanging out with Evan since then.

“It doesn’t hurt to ask,” I say, pretending I don’t care either way.

Trevor sighs. “Fine. Invite him. But if he makes fun of how good I am at Mario Kart, we’re sending him back to the football team.”

To my surprise, Garrett joins us, canceling a call with his older brother Charlie. I find myself crammed between him and Trevor on my bed, each of us holding a controller and furiously maneuvering our characters on the small TV perched on my dresser. Dad went to Blue Harbor with Aunt Liz, and Emma is reading in her bedroom, so the house yawns dark and silent below us, making my bedroom feel like the warm blanket forts I used to make as a kid.

Garrett’s arm presses against mine, and I hazard a glance at him. His eyes are bright, a competitive glint in them as he mashes the buttons of his controller. On the screen, Trevor’s character hurls a volley of shells at Garrett’s and passes him to win the race.

“Fuck you!” Garrett says, grinning. He holds out a fist and Trevor bumps it.

Over the victory soundtrack blaring from the TV, I think I hear a noise downstairs and figure Dad is probably home. The doors are locked, though I can’t remember if I turned the porch light on for him. It’s getting late, but I hope he doesn’t tell us to wrap up. A tenuous thread of friendship seems to be growing between Garrett and us, and I don’t want the night to end.

“You know, Georgia,” Katrina says, tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth, “maybe you missed your calling. Maybe instead of football you should be playing e-sports or something.”

I get up and move to my desk to grab my water bottle. Trevor cues up another round, Garrett and Katrina banter about something stupid, and the TV is louder than it should be. I glance out the window and notice that Dad’s truck isn’t in the driveway. I think I hear a crash from below us and wonder if Emma finally knocked over the porcelain urn that roosts on a small table near the front desk. But the new round is beginning, and I settle back onto the bed, preparing to lose another race.

After the first lap, my bedroom door creaks open, and Emma slides into the room. She wears pajama bottoms and a baggy T-shirt and her face is white. She opens her mouth, then closes it.

“Emma,” Garrett says, pausing the game, plunging the room into sudden silence, “what’s wrong?”

Without the TV, I hear it: heavy footsteps, moving quickly.