Page 63 of Exchanged

But I don’t know if I am.

EIGHTEEN

During the second week of January, a blizzard hits. We wake up to snow pressing against the windows, so thick that the world has turned into an endless vision of white. School is canceled, and the snow is falling heavily enough that Dad doesn’t rope us into shoveling. The shop will close for the day.

Around midmorning, Garrett finds me and asks if I want to go to the Caving Grounds with him.

I consider the idea. “We’d have to be careful,” I say. “And not go in too far. This snow will cover any of the smaller cave-ins. We wouldn’t be able to tell if we were walking over a sinkhole until we were already falling through it.”

He agrees to stick to the abandoned neighborhood near the entrance, so we pull on tall boots and snow pants and our thickest gloves and hats and venture into the world. I have to heave my body against the back door to open it, and when I step off the stairs, I sink up to my waist in snow.

“Holy shit,” Garrett says, following behind me. “How is this possible?”

The storm is a big one. Several feet of snow rest on the windshield of Dad’s truck, and a snowdrift has pressed against its side, leaving only a thin line of red paint visible above one window. The falling snow is so thick that I can’t see the houses across the street, and the only indication of the street itself is a pair of ruts from an intrepid driver.

Garrett slings his camera bag over his shoulder, and we head through town. We see a few people outside, digging out their cars and snowplowing their driveways. It feels like a holiday. But once we snake our way through the woods at the end of Main Street and crawl along the downed oak over the barbed wire fence, the noise and activity fall away. We are in our own world.

The Caving Grounds feel like a wilderness, with only the very tops of old foundations poking out from underneath the immense snowfall. The forest here is a marvel, the wet snow clinging to every limb of every tree, sealing us off from town. Garrett takes photos of everything. We find another set of steps leading to nowhere. They’re wide and tall, flanked with ornamental pillars, remnants of a family’s wealth and stature.

“Sit down on that middle step,” he tells me. “That one right there.”

I do, and he takes a few steps backward, bringing the camera to his eye.

“Take your hat off for a second.”

I remove it from my head and hold it in my hands.

“Perfect.” He snaps a photo, then crouches down and takes another from a lower angle.

I don’t know what to do with myself: Should I look at him or off into the distance? Should I smile or pretend to be thoughtful? I can’t stop thinking about how he sees me through that viewfinder.

He pauses. “Relax, Enz. It’s a camera, not a firing squad.”

“Sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”

He lowers the camera. “You want to know a mindfulness exercise that will help you with every photo you’ll ever have to pose for?”

“What?”

“Close your eyes.”

“For the picture?”

“Just do it, dammit.”

I do.

“Whenever you get your photo taken, take a deep breath and think of the fact that your dad might be screwing your chemistry teacher.”

My eyes shoot open and I burst out laughing. “You’re the worst!”

He grins down at the screen on his camera. “I got a great shot of you, though.”

“Can I see it?”

He purses his lips in mock concentration. “Nah. Not yet.”

I reach down and scoop together a snowball. “You sure? My aim is pretty bad. I’d hate to see your expensive camera get damaged.”