Page 33 of Exchanged

“We just hung out at Dana Hendricks’s place. Pretty chill.”

Dad’s eyes shift to me, and I can tell he doesn’t know what to make of the fact that I’m suddenly hanging out with people like Dana Hendricks instead of my friends from marching band.

“The halftime show was great,” he tells me. Then to Garrett: “And you played good tonight.”

“You were there?” Garrett asks.

“Of course.” Dad frowns like he doesn’t understand the question. He’s never missed one of my band concerts or oboe recitals. He’s even closed the shop early a few times to be there, something he’d never do for his own appointments.

Wrinkles form around the corners of Garrett’s eyes, and he doesn’t seem to know what to say. The broadcaster on TV 6 moves on to the second-biggest story of the day: that the approaching low-pressure weather system might include a wintry mix of precipitation.

We head upstairs and say good night to each other, something we’ve never bothered to do before. If that’s all the party has achieved, it was worth it.

Later, when I fall asleep, my dreams are a mess.

Garrett’s face in backyard firelight.

Garrett in his dirty football uniform, pressed against me.

Garrett not in his dirty football uniform, pressed against me.

Drunk dreams, I think when I wake up hard and sweaty in the middle of the night. It’s just the beer attempting to convince me of something impossible.

NINE

A woman stands in our entryway when I get home from school. She’s younger than Dad, dressed in a neat skirt, heels, and red-rimmed glasses. She clutches a clipboard against her blazer, peering at a bookshelf filled with 1930s-era pamphlets that teach women how to be good wives. Dad won’t let me burn them because they sell better than any other printed material in our store.

“Have you been helped yet?” I ask, slinging my backpack onto the floor behind the front desk.

The woman turns to me. “Is Mr. Rossi available?”

I yell over my shoulder for Dad, and the woman and I share an awkward silence. Her eyes slowly scan the hallway, with its shelves of antiques, and lands on the tuba upturned in the living room. She makes a note on her clipboard.

Dad appears behind me, wiping his hands on a cloth.

“Mr. Rossi?” the woman says, extending a hand. “I’m Lana Augustine. We spoke on the phone last month. I’m Garrett’s liaison with Global Youth Ambassadors.”

Dad warily shakes her hand. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course. Just a routine walkthrough,” Lana says. “We try to get around to all our placements to check on how our students are doing.”

“Even when they’re halfway around the world?” I ask.

“We have an extensive network,” Lana says. “I’m based out of Green Bay, and I’m checking on our U.P. placements today.”

I wonder how many other students were placed in small Michigan towns. My guess is zero.

Dad’s eyebrows knit together. “You don’t give notice before stopping by?”

Lana shakes her head dismissively. “That would defeat the purpose of a walkthrough. The goal is to gain an understanding of an ordinary day at home for our placement. Don’t worry. I’m just here for a quick check-in to ensure Garrett feels safe and comfortable. It’s a program requirement that gives our students’ families peace of mind, knowing their children’s homes are monitored by a third-party professional. So if it’s okay with you, could we do a quick tour of your lovely home?”

Dad eyes her. He nods.

We walk her through the living room. The dining room. The kitchen. She follows, jotting notes on her clipboard, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. When we return to the front hall, Darryl Maki, IHS’s calculus teacher, has settled himself in his usual spot on our couch, browsing a set of Bee Gees albums.

We lead Lana upstairs, and she pauses in the hallway. “Has Garrett expressed any concern about the lack of privacy in your home?”

Dad has morphed into his silent-and-angry lumberjack mode, and his eyes darken at this question. “Nope.”