Page 70 of Exchanged

It’s the Caving Grounds: hymnlike, haunting, and slow.

And it’s Garrett: the simple piano sonata I wrote after our first real date. It is ice and waves, pine branches and sunset, stormy eyes in the fading golden light, ending on a longing, unresolved chord.

It’s the soundtrack of my life, and I hope it’s enough.

Our Youth Ambassadors represent themselves, their families, and their homes while in the program. As such, GYA holds high expectations for both Ambassadors and host families. Expectations include:

Ambassadors will remain in good academic standing.

Ambassadors will avoid romantic relationships, focusing instead on making friends and connecting with their host families.

Ambassadors will present themselves to adults and peers with politeness, showing a willingness to overcome cultural differences.

Host families will maintain open lines of communication in regard to their Ambassador. Host families must notify GYA and the Ambassador’s parents/guardians of any significant changes in the Ambassador’s physical, mental, or emotional well-being.

Ambassadors will not engage in physical altercations. If an altercation does occur, Ambassadors will be subject to the disciplinary action of their host school and GYA.

—From The Global Youth Ambassadors Handbook,

Section 7: “Program Expectations”

TWENTY-ONE

The following week, as we stand outside of school, Garrett reaches for me, the skin on the back of his hand warm against mine. He holds it there, a question. For straight couples, holding hands while walking through the hallways of Irontown High is an announcement of their togetherness. For Garrett and me, it’s something different.

We step into the building, and he begins to move away, misreading my indecision as rejection, but I slide my hand into his and pull him close, our forearms locking together. He gifts me with his crooked grin.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

I don’t know what I expect to happen when the two of us walk down the crowded senior hallway to our lockers—maybe a homophobic riot or a pride parade—but in reality, it is neither of those things. Many people don’t notice, and most of the ones who do don’t bother reacting.

A few, however, do react.

Some basketball players standing in a group make jokes and snicker at us as we pass.

Ryan Beltrami fist-bumps Garrett and says, “Get it!”

A sophomore with bright pink hair claps her hands together and squeals.

Peter Reese sees us and does a double take, his lip curling in disgust. But he doesn’t say anything.

Then there’s Evan Hegge. On our way to chemistry class, I hear him behind us.

“I called it! Didn’t I tell you years ago that Rossi is a fag?”

I glance behind me. He’s talking to Dana Hendricks but is projecting his voice so everyone nearby can hear him. Garrett’s fingers tighten around mine, but we don’t turn around.

“Hey, Andersen?” he asks Garrett’s shoulder. “How long did it take him to turn you queer?”

“Ignore him,” I say.

“Because you seemed pretty straight at the beginning of the year,” Evan continues. “Well, I guess I never caught you checking me out in the locker room. If I had known, I would have been more careful.”

“Really?” Garrett says, dropping my hand, wheeling around, and stopping in the middle of the corridor. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re not really my type.”

“Because I’m not a pervert?”