Page 1 of Exchanged

ONE

He doesn’t look European.

Gray joggers. Backward baseball hat. Black sweatshirt embossed with some kind of bird that looks suspiciously like a sports logo. He carries an overstuffed, unzipped backpack on one shoulder, earbuds protruding from his ears. His hair is rust red, and freckles cover so much of his skin that he appears tan.

I’m not sure what I expected—a beret? a turtleneck and silk scarf? a dog-eared novel in hand?—but this isn’t it. There was no photo of Davit on the Global Youth Ambassadors website, only a short bio with information to help him find a good host-family match. We picked him because his profile made him seem friendly yet nerdy, describing his perfect day as one where he could practice his violin, go for a hike with his family, and settle in for a complex board game.

In person, he looks more athletic than I thought he would.

He has the square jaw of a lacrosse star and the thick arms of someone who spends more time lifting heavy things than opening books. Wearing crisp brand-name shoes with the tongue pulled out, Davit walks through the airport like a guy who’s used to having others clear his path.

“That must be him!” Emma says, hitting me with the WELCOME TO MICHIGAN! sign clasped in her hands.

Though Davit will be a senior like me, my sister, an incoming freshman, is ready for a new best friend. Her mane of curly brown hair tumbles over her shoulders, and her eyes shine with enthusiasm.

She’s probably right, as there are only six other people on the arriving flight: an elderly couple, two parents with their toddler, and a middle-aged woman in a pantsuit. We watch as the seven of them file through the arrivals gate, which, in our tiny airport, is the same as the departures gate.

Based on appearance alone, I may have more in common with Pantsuit Lady than with Davit.

Dad beckons Davit with his own handmade welcome sign, looking every bit like a Northwoods lumberjack in his flannel shirt and wool hat. The signs seem unnecessary since we’re the only people waiting in the arrivals/departures lobby, but whatever.

Davit eyes the half-asleep TSA officer at the security checkpoint, and I wonder what he must be thinking. After twenty-seven hours and three separate flights, here he stands in an airport the size of a small bank looking for three strangers who will serve as his family for the next year in a town he definitely hadn’t heard of a month ago.

I doubt Davit Kancheli from Tbilisi, Georgia, chose Irontown, Michigan, as his top choice to study abroad.

Georgia is a country in Eastern Europe or possibly Western Asia. I’m not totally sure. From the photos I found online, it looks mountainous and exotic and filled with old-world charm, like something out of a Disney movie. Irontown, on the other hand, is none of those things. The Global Youth Ambassadors Handbook says that students in the program are encouraged to explore cities they’ve never heard of, but I imagine most select New York or Los Angeles. And since not everyone can be placed in one of those cities, they end up disappointed in Michigan.

We’re excited, though. Dad and Emma show it in more obvious ways—like the welcome signs—but I’ll be the one taking Davit around town, introducing him to people, giving him the rundown on Irontown High School. It’ll be fun to have someone who shares so many of my interests living right across the hall. Maybe we’ll perform violin and oboe duets, talk about books, play board games.

Davit notices us and saunters in our direction with the casual confidence of someone willing to spend a year half a world away from their home. He pops his earbuds out and stuffs them into his pocket before stopping a few feet in front of our small group. He lifts a hand in greeting.

“Hey.” His eyes drift across the three of us, lingering for a second longer on me than on Dad and Emma.

This already feels awkward.

“Welcome to Michigan!” Emma says, raising her WELCOME TO MICHIGAN! sign. “I’m Emma!”

“Thanks.” He gives us a one-third smile. “I’m Garrett.”

There’s a pause, like an unexpected rest in the middle of a concerto’s climax.

“Garrett?” Dad asks, his face wrinkling in confusion.

“Is that the American name you chose for yourself?” Emma asks.

“No. Just my normal name.” His accent is slow-moving honey, vowels twangy, consonants lazy. If his voice were an instrument, it would be a French horn, warm and mellow.

“Huh,” Dad says. “GYA had your name listed as Davit.”

I try to smooth over the uncomfortable moment. “Long flight?”

“Not really.”

We fall into stuffy silence, since he has nothing to share about his twenty-seven-hour-long journey from the other side of the planet.

“You get a lot of sun in Georgia?” Emma tries, referencing Garrett’s warm skin.

He laughs. “You could say that.”