Page 52 of Exchanged

I pretend to pay attention to the movie.

“You are going to apply, right?”

I shrug.

She reaches for the remote and pauses on an unflattering shot of Kate Winslet laughing, which is good because the soundtrack was about to slide into an oboe solo that I don’t want to miss. “Is it because of what your dad said?”

I nod, unable to tell her that it’s also because of what I said.

“It’s not that he thinks you aren’t talented or won’t be successful—”

I raise my eyebrows at her.

She reaches out and places her hand on my cheek, and turns my face so that I’m looking at her directly. “Enzo. Your dad believes in you more than anything in the world.”

“Then why is it so hard for him to imagine me getting into this school?”

“That’s the point. He knows you’ll get in. And that’s what scares him.” She shakes her head in exasperation at the confused look on my face. “God, sometimes I think the two of you need a translator. Enz, he’s scared of losing you.”

“Losing me?”

“He’s never lived anywhere but this town. He’s watched as his friends’ kids have grown up and gone away to college, and how they’ve never come back. The thought of that happening with you terrifies him.” The edges of Aunt Liz’s eyes crinkle with sadness. “I mean, think of your mom.”

I swallow. She never brings up my mom.

“You came back,” I argue, thinking about how she went to a college out east to get her art degree.

She sighs. “Yes. But not right away. I was gone for years.”

What she doesn’t say is that she moved back only because she didn’t want Dad to raise two young kids on his own. She’s not mentioning the career she gave up when she returned. While Aunt Liz does have an art workshop in her garage and teaches classes at the Arts Guild, most of her time is spent waiting tables at Cheeky’s Bar and Grill and picking up shifts at our shop. You can’t make it as an artist in this town.

“I could come back,” I say.

She looks at me long and hard. “You’re going to get a music composition degree from a prestigious conservatory and then move back here, and … do what?”

She’s right. And it’s not fair. It’s not fair that Irontown’s biggest export is its young people. It’s not fair that kids who grow up near cities don’t have to make the choice between being near their family and being near career opportunities.

“And making a career isn’t the only reason people leave home,” Aunt Liz says, continuing her argument. “I mean, think about what Garrett’s hopefully getting out of this year. He’s made new friends, gotten to know a different part of the country, tried new things. He’s probably learned something about himself.”

As I look around at this perfect living room, at my sister’s sleeping face, at my aunt, so warm and close, an intense, painful feeling boils in my chest.

Aunt Liz hasn’t looked away from me. “Enzo,” she says, “it’s possible to make other places your home.”

I spend the following day at my computer writing an oboe and clarinet duet. I want to create something I can play with Katrina, something that reminds me of our friendship. I pretend our life is a movie, and this score would’ve played while the two of us were dancing and being dumb at the end of Casino Night. The piece turns out upbeat and quirky, with rolling clarinet arpeggios underneath a playful oboe melody. It’s better than the last piece I wrote, a little more sophisticated and original.

She comes over, and we play through it. When we finish, she lowers her clarinet from her lips and says, “When you texted, I was worried you’d accidentally rewritten the theme from another Star Wars movie and I was going to have to be the one to break it to you. But, wow, Enz. This is something.”

“You like it?” This matters to me. Katrina knows music and is brutally honest.

She nods while replaying a tricky measure she missed the first time around. She gets it right this time and, satisfied, begins pulling apart her clarinet. “It even sounds like us, you know?”

Dad and Garrett return late Sunday night. Emma and I help them carry their gear inside along with the many pounds of deer meat they’ve cleaned and sealed in plastic. Dad got a big buck this year, and it will fill the chest freezer in the basement for months. He carries one last cooler inside, and then it’s just Garrett and me standing on the back stoop.

“How was it?” I ask, taking a seat on the top step.

He sits down beside me, and I catch the smell of deer camp clinging to his over-large camo jacket: woodsmoke, musk, and blood. “Pretty damn boring. Except cleaning the deer your dad shot—that was horrific.”

I laugh. “So hunting isn’t for you?”