Page 32 of Exchanged

“There’s no way I could ever get used to being around guys who are that straight,” I say.

He’s quiet for a few steps. “You probably could,” he tells me, “if you had to. The shit about my ‘accent’ gets tiring, though.”

“They do that a lot?”

“All the fucking time. They stop me in the middle of every other sentence to have me repeat random words. Then they all laugh and act like they made a hilarious joke.”

He doesn’t have that strong of an accent. Mostly there’s something warmer about the timbre of his words, like his voice is a legato French horn surrounded by staccato flutes.

“I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“And I’m not the one with the accent! That’s all yooou guys.”

“Not true,” I say.

“Enzo.”

My name is bright and clear in his voice, and I like the sound of it.

“I need at least one person in this town to understand what I’m talking about.”

“Except I don’t,” I say.

“There it is! Dohhn’t. How do you not hear it?”

I can kind of hear it, but I love how incredulous he is. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Say the word boat.”

“Boat.”

“Oh my god.” His voice is raised now, echoing off the sleeping houses. “How do you not hear the difference between the way you say boat and the way I say boat?”

“I hear it. But only because you have an accent.”

A frustrated roar erupts from the back of his throat, but he’s smiling. A full smile. It transforms his face, the expression so different from his usual cocky one-third grin.

“Okay,” he says. “When you watch a movie, do you ever think, Huh. The way they talk sounds different from the way I talk?”

“No,” I lie.

“Really? You’ve never wondered why they actually pronounce their th sounds?”

“Not fair. Only real Yoopers talk like that.”

“So you do hear it!”

We’ve reached the front path of my house. We follow it around back. The kitchen light is on, and I experience a moment of panic. “Shit. My dad is going to know we’ve been drinking. Do you have gum or something?”

“Enzo. You had a couple of beers. He won’t be able to tell. And the gum would be a dead giveaway.”

The tone in Garrett’s voice reminds me that he’s done this before, that I’m the lame one who never parties.

We find Dad in the living room, watching the late-night broadcast of TV 6, “Upper Michigan’s News Source!”

“Hey, Mr. Rossi,” Garrett says so casually that it makes me wonder how many times he’s done this with his own parents. “How was your night?”

Dad looks away from the news story—something about how a library two towns away is honoring Vietnam vets. “It’s Joe, bud. And my night was good. You two have fun?”