Page 82 of Exchanged

Garrett sighs and takes it. “Yeah.”

I try to give Garrett a semblance of privacy by calling my own dad at the same time. He answers on the first ring.

“Dad,” I say, “can you pick Garrett and me up at the police station?”

“Are you hurt?” he asks. Then, giving me no time to answer: “What happened? Is Garrett okay?”

“We’re fine,” I say. “I’ll … explain when you pick us up.”

“I’ll be there in five.”

I hang up to find Garrett stuttering half sentences into the phone. “… made a mistake … didn’t realize it was trespassing … at the police station.”

His father is shouting, his voice rolling out of the phone’s speaker in furious waves. After listening to several minutes of nonstop rage, Garrett pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up.

“There,” he says. “I called him.” The cops might read Garrett’s move as rebellious, but I can see the fear churning under the surface of his face.

I open my mouth to reassure him, but then the door opens and Dad is striding into the room looking like a confused wild boar, unsure whether to be upset or relieved. Jim shakes his hand, greets him by name, and starts explaining how he found Garrett and me sitting on a stone staircase in the Caving Grounds. He uses the word trespassing four times and mentions letting us off easy three times. Dad listens, nodding, his face a restrained mask, but he’s clutching his hat, crushing it in his fist. Jim tells Dad that we’re free to go with him, and Dad thanks him, apologizing for us, ashamed.

Dad doesn’t say anything as we walk from the station. Neither Garrett nor I want to sit in the passenger seat, so we slide into the back of the truck, and Dad drives us up Main Street to our house. He remains silent as we pass the Episcopalian church, then the Methodist church, and as we pull into our driveway. He shifts into park, removes the keys from the ignition, props his hand on the passenger seat, and turns to us.

He looks at Garrett, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet and gruff. “For five hours, we thought you were seriously hurt or…” He can’t finish, so he restarts. “You left your phone at home and didn’t tell anyone where you were going, and you disappeared. We thought—” He swallows, again unable to finish, so he turns to me. “And you. How did you know where Garrett would be? How did Garrett know how to get into the Caving Grounds in the first place?”

“I … I showed him. In the fall.”

“How many times,” Dad asks, “have you gone in there?”

“Just a couple.”

“Oh, good,” Dad says. “I’m glad you only trespassed a couple of times.”

“I know,” I say. “It was really stupid—”

“Stupid?” Dad shouts, his worry erupting into anger. “You could have gotten yourselves killed in there! Did you ever stop to think about why the Caving Grounds are fenced off with barbed wire? Did you ever stop to think that old mine shafts and the foundations of abandoned neighborhoods shouldn’t be your personal playground? Enzo, I raised you to be smarter than this! And, Garrett…” Again, he seems unable to finish any sentence directed at our exchange student. Instead, a frustrated roar rumbles from his throat, and he turns away from us. He pounds his fist into the steering wheel, then in his original, dangerously soft voice says, “Get inside.”

Garrett and I scramble out of the truck, and Dad follows us through the front door. The house is dim, with gray light streaming through the windows. In the living room, Emma and Aunt Liz sit side by side on the couch, staring at the floor. They look up when we enter. Aunt Liz’s face is red and blotchy; Emma’s eyes are wide and glassy.

“I got ’em,” Dad says. “They’re okay. They are idiots in a shitload of trouble, and we need to clean up Enzo’s hands. But they’re okay.”

Neither Aunt Liz nor Emma says anything, but their eyes land on Garrett.

I look from them to him, my heart beginning to pound. “What is it?”

Aunt Liz stands, smoothing her hands over her thighs. “Lana Augustine from GYA called while you were all still at the station. Garrett … they’re kicking you out of the program. Your parents are flying in tomorrow morning to bring you home.”

For the rest of the night, our house is as silent as an audience sitting between two movements of a horrific symphony, suspended in uncertainty while the orchestra flips the pages of sheet music, preparing to shock them with another dissonant chord. We were supposed to have so much more time. We should have had the rest of spring and all of summer. We should have had prom and graduation and a weeklong June camping trip. Instead, Garrett leaves tomorrow.

“I knew something like this would happen,” he tells me. “I’d been thinking about how weird Lana Augustine’s visit was, and finally, last month I found out that my dad has been donating a shitload of money to GYA. Since we were never formally arrested, I doubt that the program would have even heard about our screwup in the Caving Grounds, but I’m sure my dad let his friend on the board know right away.”

He locks himself in his room to pack. Emma parks herself in an armchair in the living room with a book, staring, vacant-eyed, at its pages. Aunt Liz tries to make dinner but gives up after five minutes and orders pizza. Dad roams from room to room as if he’s taking inventory of all the things he’s about to lose. No one talks. We don’t know what to say.

In the morning, everyone except Garrett wanders into the kitchen, and it’s evident no one slept for more than an hour or two. Dad and Aunt Liz stand at the island, sipping coffee while Emma and I halfheartedly poke at bowls of cereal. Rays of pastel sunshine burst through the windows, taunting us.

We hear the sound of a rolling suitcase above us, and we spill into the entryway. Garrett shuffles down the stairs, bags in hand, and comes to stand before us. He dressed up in khakis and a sage polo, as if he’s planning to impress his parents or appear in court. No one knows what to say or where to look, but Garrett eventually addresses Aunt Liz.

“I guess now is an okay time to give it to them. Before my folks get here.”

Aunt Liz nods and—while Dad, Emma, and I watch in confusion—steps into the dining room, reemerging with a large package wrapped in brown paper that she must have tucked away.