Page 24 of Exchanged

He didn’t bother to keep his voice down because he didn’t think the comment was offensive. It was just a fact—like, why would there be talented musicians in the Upper Peninsula? To him, if you want to go anywhere with music, you leave a place like this.

A week later, I found out that Katrina, Trevor, Marcy, Ryan, and I had all gotten into the honors orchestra. We felt like we had won the lottery, hugging and jumping outside the band room. It was the kind of moment during which a film composer would abandon instrumentals in favor of an upbeat pop song, smoothing the transition into the next scene, where we would carpool down to Ann Arbor and spend the entire spring break living on campus, rehearsing for hours on end, and making friends with musicians who’d come from across the state.

Ms. Ferris took care of getting the paperwork ready, including the bill for the registration fee, meal budget, and dorm stay. It wasn’t cheap. When Dad saw the cost, I could tell he was embarrassed. We’d had several slow months at the store, and I should have known it would be too expensive. He opened his mouth and closed it, and I couldn’t stand to see him say the words; as much as I wanted to go, I couldn’t handle making him admit he couldn’t afford it.

I pretended it had all been just an idea, a fun honor that I wasn’t really serious about. I told him I didn’t want to waste spring break in a stuffy dorm, rehearsing for eight hours every day. It wasn’t worth the money or the drive, I told him. He pretended to believe me, and we didn’t talk about it again.

Katrina, Trevor, Ryan, and Marcy went. They made friends and learned harder music than we’d ever played in our school’s band. The concert was streamed online, and I watched it. They sounded incredible.

I’m holding a brochure for Lawrence University when I hear voices from Ms. Ferris’s office.

“I received your transcript from your old school earlier this week. You may feel like a big fish in a small pond here at Irontown High.”

Garrett’s voice answers. “But when I fill out applications, do I use my class ranking here or from my old school?”

“Definitely Irontown. Your ranking at your old school was okay, but here…” I hear some clicking. “You’re basically at the top of the class.”

“Basically?”

A sugary laugh from Ms. Ferris. “Just because it’s a small town doesn’t mean there aren’t a few smarties here!”

Ms. Ferris is from Detroit, and she tells Garrett about how her mission here is to help kids get out of rural poverty. They talk about how amazing Ellison is, and how Garrett will have no problem getting in, especially if he leans into his year spent learning about the culture and values of rural America.

“What are your backup colleges?” Ms. Ferris asks.

“I don’t have any. Don’t need ’em.”

I can’t begin to understand the level of arrogance this guy must possess to assume he’s a shoo-in at one of the most selective colleges in the country. Last week I got my tenth punch on my Lakeside Coffee Shop punch card, and I had to work for that shit. Garrett, however, wanders through life expecting the world to bend over backward for him.

Eventually, I hear a chair slide against the floor, and then the door opens and Garrett walks into the lobby. He looks at me, and there’s no pretending that I didn’t hear their entire conversation. He walks past me into the hallway, and I follow, like some sort of investigative journalist reporting on a story that no one cares about: Man from Georgia too good for Irontown, has no safety schools!

“You’re not better than us,” I blurt at his back.

He turns around, hoisting the weight of the backpack slung over his shoulder. “Did I say I was?”

“‘Big fish, small pond,’” I say, using pissed-off air quotes. “Definitely implies you’re too good for Irontown.”

“I didn’t say that. Ms. Ferris did.” He gives me a smirk. “But anyway, I’m guessing you’re one of the people whose class ranking just got bumped down?”

I am, actually.

He shrugs. “It’s not your fault that you go to a crappy school.”

“Because the education system in the South is known for being so rigorous and progressive?”

He lets out a derisive laugh. “I just sat through a health class where the teacher put up pictures of chlamydia-infected junk, told us not to have sex, and left halfway through the period for a smoke break. That wouldn’t fly at my old school.”

That sounds accurate. Last year, Mr. VanPelt hardly ever showed up to my fourth-period class.

“Not all our teachers are shitty,” I say. “Ms. Virtanen is going to kick your ass in chemistry.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Especially since I’m so focused on the fact that the window next to my desk doesn’t shut, and it was literally raining on me yesterday. Ms. V told me to bring a rain jacket next time.”

Also accurate.

“I swear,” he says, “this whole shitty building is going to collapse, and I’m going to end up in the news as the first-ever domestic exchange student to die in a totally preventable disaster. The upside is that I get the experience of studying in a developing country without ever leaving the United States.”

“Yeah,” I say sarcastically. “If you die, you wouldn’t be able to go to your highly selective college in Atlanta and study pre-law and become a corporate lawyer, and that would be a huge bummer for everyone involved.”