Foreign Exchange (9 page)

And now he says that he's modeled too?

“
Wait, what?” I ask him, my voice angry. “You're going to try to get on the class trip so you can interfere with Tristan's dream?”

Sawyer looks over at me with wide eyes, like he can't believe I'm calling him out on it.

Mr. Echols interrupts us, starting class, but I'm too upset to pay attention to a single word he's saying. This is why Sawyer's been talking to Amelia today. He's trying to get on the trip so he can stop Tristan from modeling, and who knows, maybe pick up a modeling job for himself, over there.

But there's no way, I tell myself over and over again. The trip has been confirmed for months. There's no way Sawyer will be able to go.

He passes me a note halfway through class. I consider ignoring it, but finally curiosity gets the best of me.

I’m seriously worried about my sister, Jamie. I have to tell you more about the program. Just hear me out. Please?

I keep my eyes from Sawyer for the rest of class. I'm sure he knows I'm angry, but he doesn't try to talk to me again, at least for now. I'm even angry at myself for getting so caught up in my feelings for him and not noticing all the things that Tristan's warned me about his competitive, selfish side.

Next class I have computer science. I race there and log
on to a computer so I’ll hopefully have time to check my email and go through and see what Sawyer may have seen before class starts.

There’s a really short
new email from Tristan in my inbox.

Jamie...don’t keep asking me about modeling, okay? It makes me feel bad, and I promise if there’s any good news, I’ll share it.

Tristan

I'm stumped by the message.

Maybe I'm losing my mind, but I really don’t remember pestering her about modeling. I scroll back through my sent emails, skimming each one quickly to see if I'd absentmindedly badgered her about how the modeling was going. There's nothing, until I open the most recent email that starts with: “
Hey, Tris
."

I pause, staring at it. I don't call her Tris. Everybody else does, but I've just never been into nicknames.
What the...

I scroll down, and the entire email is unfamiliar. I double-check that I'm in the Sent Items folder, and I absolutely am.

My heart stops.

Sawyer wrote this. I read through the email, holding my breath. Most of the first part is nothing special, just asking her about the exchange program. For another half-second I wonder if Sawyer really is concerned about Tristan. But then it moves on to modeling. Sawyer—posing as me—says:

So have you been modeling over there? Italy sounds cool when it comes to modeling, but probably not that easy to break into and it doesn't sound too safe. Where have you tried so far? Has anyone seemed interested?  It's probably good to lay off trying too many places until after I get there. Then we can talk all about it.

I can barely believe my eyes. No wonder Tristan got upset about me asking. I force myself to read the last paragraph, even though I'm itching to get out of class and give Sawyer a piece of my mind.

I have to tell you something. The day after you left, Sawyer hit on me, just like you always said he would. Don't worry, I told him in no uncertain terms that I never wanted anything to do with him. I hate telling you this by email, but I wanted you to know, just so you know you can trust me. Trust me, Tristan. Tell me everything, okay?

Love,

Jamie

I'm still stunned by the end of class, and haven’t been able to concentrate on a shred of my assignment.
I’ve changed my email password, and grab my book bag to race out of class the second the bell sounds.

By the time I find him near his locker, I'm livid.

“What the hell do you think you're doing, hijacking my email?” I ask, loud enough that everyone around us stops and stares.

Sawyer glances around, like he's bothered by
the attention, but I don't give a shit.

“
Nice one, by the way, pretending I was the one who ditched your ass so she would trust me.” This part I enjoy saying nice and loud. “I must say, you're pretty awesome at playing the nice guy. A great actor.”

Sawyer's stopped looking around and now keeps his eyes right on me, like the stares are no longer bothering him. Which makes me want to find something that I can say that
will
bother him. 

Before I get a chance, he says,
“Jamie, listen. Don't do this. I know you're mad and you don't understand, but—”

“
Oh, I understand just fine!” I tell him. “Too bad Tristan didn't ‘trust’ me”––I add air quotes––“enough to tell me all her modeling details. Better luck next time, Sawyer.”

With that, I spin on my heel and st
alk away.

Right after school we have our last trip meeting, and I head back to Mr. Echols's classroom. Matt's already there, and without a second thought, I take the seat beside him. I need to focus on what’s important to keep the plan safe—if I haven’t screwed it up for good.

“Hey!
Thanks again for helping,” he says.

“
No problem.” I force a bright smile in his direction, even though I'm still feeling far from happy.

Matt
goes on to tell me about how we had been collating the trip sightseeing schedules, and they're getting handed out today. “Hey, I was wondering if you want to go to a movie tonight?” he asks.

“
Oh. Um...I’d like to,” I say after too long of a pause. “I
really
would,” I emphasize, and try to cover all my real excuses of Eddy and my mom with: “I’ve just got so much homework. My teachers are being so strict about keeping up on everything before I go.”

He
nods. “Mine too.” He starts to go on about his overwhelming list of assignments, but I can no longer pay attention. Amelia is in the doorway. With Sawyer. They walk in and take two seats at the front of the class.

No
.

Sawyer glance
s in my direction, but I turn away.

Mr. Echols had
mentioned in class earlier that only people on the trip are invited to the meeting. I run a hand over my face, not believing this.

“Al
l right.” Mr. Echols stands and claps his hands together. “Everything is looking in order for our upcoming trip. Travel arrangements have all been confirmed. Thank you, Amelia.”

Every other person in the room looks over at her.
I can’t do it.

Mr. Echols
lists off a few more details, but I’m starting to lose him.

“I have our schedule of events here.” Mr. Echols puts
the stack of papers on Amelia’s desk, and she dutifully stands to dole them out. When mine arrives, I mumble thanks in her direction and do my best to avoid looking up at her. It’s still hard to concentrate on the words on the pages, but I try.

The Pyrenees Excursion. Right at the beginning of the trip. Day two. At least that will get me to Milan
before the sixteenth. If Sawyer doesn’t ruin things for me, that is.

“Look,
The Cathedral of St. Eulalia
,” Matt says from beside me. We’d just read up on that yesterday. He points at something on my paper, and the words finally start to come into focus. I can’t believe the amount of sites Mr. Echols has planned for us to see.

“And
Casa Batlló
,” I whisper. There are all sorts of excited murmurs going on around the room.

At the same time Amelia heads back to
the front, dropping her last paper onto Sawyer’s desk, Mr. Echols says, “Also, we have one additional student who will be joining us. Right, Amelia?”

“
Mierda
,” I mutter, under my breath. Somehow swearing in Spanish feels more like stress-relief than doing it in English. Maybe because I know I’m only saying it for my own benefit. I try to think of how to say
shit
not just in Spanish, but Italian as well. Then French. Do I know it in German? Oh yeah, that’s easy,
Scheisse
. I come up with six variations and say them mentally before my breath comes back to me.

Amelia stands
at the front facing the group and holds out an open hand toward Sawyer. It's an invitation for him to take her hand. And I can tell by the smug look on her face that Sawyer's trip depends on him living up to his end of the bargain. It depends on giving Amelia a leg up socially. Sawyer Bishop has to purposely touch her.

Sawyer stands, and looks back at me. My heart aches that I'd been so wrong about him. He's only using Amelia to get on the trip, and maybe he doesn't care
about her at all, but now I wonder if he was using me too. Maybe the whole thing was about undermining Tristan.

“
Don't.” I mouth the one word to Sawyer. I want so badly to believe this is all a stupid mistake. He stares at me for a long second, but slowly his eyes drift down from mine to the floor, and I know before he even turns away that he's going to Amelia. Even though I can't look, the sound of sucked-in air around the room tells me that he's done it. He's taken Amelia's hand, and in that second, confirmed that I mean nothing to him.

But
my heartbreak only lasts for an instant. Then I'm angry.

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Echols,” I say, jabbing my hand in the air. He looks at me with eyebrows raised. “I thought the trip was fully booked.” I don’t really care how venomous my voice sounds. I’ve been saving for this trip for over a year. I’ve planned every detail so I can finally track down my dad and get him to help my family. And
Sawyer
just waltzes in here, and he’s allowed to join in?

“There are…extenuating circumstances,” Mr. Echols says.
“As you know, Miss Sheridan had to back out last week because of a death in the family.” He turns from me, raising his eyebrows again. I know the look. The look that says:
Why is this
child
bothering me with these silly questions? Isn’t it enough that I’m arranging the European sightseeing tour of a lifetime?

Sawyer
keeps his eyes down, but he's still grasping Amelia's hand. His face is hardened and void of emotion.

When Mr. Echols finally dismisses us, I say a micro-fast goodbye to Matt, and whisk out of the classroom before I explode into a thousand particles of anger.
I hear Mr. Echols instructing Sawyer about paperwork he’ll need to fill out before he leaves, so I’m surprised when I hear Sawyer’s voice behind me in the hallway.

“Jamie,
please wait!”

I stop in place but
take my time turning back around. “What?” I say, trying for evenness, but my voice is wobbly.

“I’m sorry
it had to happen so fast,” he says. “I need to explain...” I think he’s going to say more, but then Amelia’s high-pitched voice trills around the corner, calling his name, and he stops with his mouth open.

Amelia appears and
says, “Sawyer! If you want on the trip you need to fill these papers out now.”

I look at him, and he stares back at me. It’s his decision. I’ll listen if he wants to stick around and tell me, but if getting on the trip and ruining Tristan’s life is more important to him...

“Now,” Amelia says again, looking between Sawyer and me. We don’t take our eyes off of each other.

But then he does. He looks down and nods at the floor, and I know even before he’s turned away what he has chosen.

Chapter Nine

Before I get out of the school, I’m stopped by one more person. Jennifer.

“Hey, Jamie. Did you find out anything about that
foreign exchange program? I really want to contact them. Next year would be my last chance.”

“I’ll
email Tristan tonight. Sorry, I haven’t had a chance.” The thought of emailing Tristan and telling her how badly I’ve screwed up is not a pleasant one.

I take the back roads home,
even though there’s not much chance Sawyer would pass me. He’s with
Amelia
. I say her name in my head like I’m a temper-tantruming preschooler.

I round the corner onto my street half an hour earlier than I told Mom I’d be home. Usually when Tristan and I got home early, we’d sneak into her house and hang out there so we could basically just wave to Mom
on our way across the yard when it was time for her to leave for work.

I stop in front of the Bishops
’ house and look up at it. Jennifer’s voice is still on repeat in the back of my head, and as annoyed as I am by it, I can’t help myself. I want to help her. Besides, Sawyer says there’s a problem with the program, and even though I know I shouldn’t believe a word he says, I need to prove to myself that he was trying to get me worried for his own selfish motives.

I know Tristan had more than just that one brochure on the program. In fact, if I remember correctly, she had piles of papers.
I sneak around to the backyard of the Bishops’ house and dig under their decorative wheelbarrow until I find the spare key.

I don’t consider the alarm until the door’s open and it’s beeping madly at me. My hands shake
even though Tristan’s told me the code. Still, I have to type it in twice to get it right, and in the extra second it takes to cut out, I think I’m going to have a heart attack.

When I’d been here the other night, I’m pretty sure Sawyer had gone to Tristan’s room to get th
at brochure. I slip off my sneakers, and tiptoe in my sock feet through the kitchen, living room, hallway, and finally up the stairs. It’s eerily quiet in here, not like at my house, where if my brother’s not grunting something at us, our ancient fridge is offering a steady hum in the background.

At the top of the stairs, I glance toward Sawyer’s room
. I’m not sure what I want to do. Trash it? Search it for some kind of clue as to why he feels the need to constantly out-do Tristan?

Instead
I make myself head to Tristan’s room. It feels weird to go in without her. My house was practically her house, so she regularly hung out in my room without me, or anywhere in my house without me, for that matter. But her house is different. We were always on high alert for her Proper Parents to come home.

But no one’s home now, I remind myself, and they won’t be home for hours.

Tristan’s room looks the same as always, though a little tidier. Her walls are covered by shots of her from various modeling shoots. Some are enlarged, practically showing the miniature pores in her flawless skin.

I can’t imagine having pictures of myself
this close up everywhere around me. Then again, maybe if I had glossy dark hair and a winning photogenic smile like Tristan’s it wouldn’t bother me so much. My hair is more mousy-brown than blonde, and when I smile for pictures, my round cheeks make me look like I’m still twelve years old.

In some of
Tristan’s shots, I swear she looks like a twenty-year-old supermodel, and I think again of her being in Milan. She’s modeled a lot, but the most impressive place was an hour away in Detroit. I’m excited by the idea of her experiencing a place so far away and different.

Like I’ll be doing in
only a few days. I just have to make sure Sawyer doesn't get in our way.

Right on top
of Tristan’s desk there's a whole stack of papers she’d given her parents several months ago. I move the brochure like the one I’ve already got from the top of the pile and flip through a few other pages. It makes me feel better just seeing all this information and knowing Tristan's with a legitimate program that knows what they're doing. Maybe they don't know how to keep their email program from bonking out, but neither do I, so I can hardly blame them for that.

I find a parental consent form that looks identical to the one
my mom needed to fill in for my Spain trip. There are application forms, more pages of information on the program, maps of host family locations, and testimonials. I scan all of it, feeling better and better by the second. There are snapshots of students being hugged by their host families, and pointing at different European monuments. For just a second, I can picture myself and Tristan in those photos. Finally, in a stack of informational pages, I find a contact phone number.

I don’t want to
take any of the papers in case the Bishops need them, so I reach for a pen from Tristan’s desk drawer. I have to move a lot of junk aside to find one—notepapers, hair clips, and lip gloss. Who has ten tubes of lip gloss in their desk drawer, but not a single pen? Oh, right. My best friend.

I have to dig to the very back of her drawer, and finally I find one under a box of condoms. My face heats up as I pull out the box. I remember Tristan telling me about her first and only time having sex. It was with a cute
young photographer she met and then dated after a photo shoot. I’d gone with her to buy the condoms when things started to get serious, but I never had the guts to ask Tristan to let me have a look at them.

I don’t have to ask permission now.

I pull open the already opened end of the box, and I’m expecting a stream of them to fall out, like I’ve seen on TV. But there are only two condoms inside, with a perforation tear line between them.

I let my thumb feel the round shape of one, but now my mind is somewhere else. I check the package and it says there were ten in here. Where did the other
eight go?

But then I realize something else. This isn’t even the same package as Tristan and I had bought together. We’d spent at least half an hour nervously giggling in Walgreens before we’d finally settled on a type with extra-lubrication—For Her Comfort.

I squint down at the Bareskin pack of Trojans.

Tristan hadn’t wanted to talk much about her first time. All I knew was that she hadn’t enjoyed it and didn’t want to do it again. She’d seemed embarrassed and maybe a little depressed about it, so
it wasn’t something we talked much about. I figured one day she’d be ready to try again, especially because in groups she always acted like sex was no big deal. Or maybe the next time she’d be in love, and it would be different because of that.

I’m about to
replace the box, feeling suddenly bothered more than curious, but as I feed the two condoms back inside, a small piece of notepaper inside the box catches on them. I pull it out and open it, and there’s a note scrawled on the paper.

Let me know if you need some more “help
.”

-
       
D.B.

I have a sick feeling in
my stomach, and drop the note like it’s on fire. Eventually, I steel myself and pick it up. I don’t want to believe that Tristan had been having sex regularly without telling me, but even if she had, who is D.B. and what “help” is he talking about? Did he help her to enjoy sex? If so, why wouldn’t she tell me?

The part that bothers me the most, though, is that this doesn’t seem like a love note. It seems more like a business proposition.

I need to stop thinking about this. Before putting the condoms and her pen back, I jot the phone number of the exchange program below the note. I’ll keep it and just ask Tristan, straight out. She’ll probably appreciate my boldness, and the more I think about it, maybe she was looking for an opener to tell me all about it.

A
s I’m checking my watch to see how much time I have before Mom has to leave, there’s a rumbling sound. I crinkle my forehead, knowing I should recognize it, but can't place it.

T
hen I do.

The Bishop
s’ garage door.

I chuck Tristan’s pen
and condoms back into the drawer and race for the stairs. I make it to the bottom landing, but I’m too late. I hear the latch click and back up into Mr. Bishop’s office, holding my breath.

It’s Sawyer, I can tell by his humming as he enters the house.

The plastic from the alarm box clicks as he flips it open, but then he says, “Huh,” I guess when he realizes it’s not armed. The Bishops must forget to arm their alarm system sometimes, though, right?

My lungs are burn
ing, but finally Sawyer’s steps move toward the kitchen. I slowly, silently, let out my breath. He’s gone for several minutes, but I can’t chance going out the front door. I don’t know how that stupid deadbolt works.

I could explain why I was over here. I probably could do that.
But I need to talk to Tristan about everything first. So I hold my breath again when he comes my way, when he rounds the corner, and heads up the stairs to his room.

And then…his door closes.

I peek around the corner and glance up the silent stairs. Then I tiptoe at lightning speed back along my path through the living room and kitchen, bend down to grab my shoes, and…

They’re gone.

I spin every direction searching for them, but they’re not here. Did I take them to Tristan’s room? I don’t think so. So have they disappeared into thin air?

There's a sound
from somewhere in the house, could be upstairs, could be anywhere, but I can’t stick around to figure it out. I’m out the door and racing across the lawn in my sock feet, not looking back.

Chapter
Ten

That night, Sawyer texts me.

It’s not
anything with Amelia. Please let me explain.

It takes me a second to realize that he’s not talking about
me breaking into his house, or him trying to sabotage Tristan's modeling, and I actually laugh out loud when I read it again.

No, it's not anything except his willingness to use girls in order to
get what he wants.

The nice thing is, I wasn’t
actually lying to Matt. I do have a lot of homework to keep me busy. Plus, I want to work on my Spanish verbs until I can say them in my sleep. I start with writing my reflexive verbs, to show changes in emotional state.
Fastidiarse
(to become annoyed).
Irritarse
(to become irritated).
Exasperarse
(to lose patience).

As pissed off as I am at Sawyer for being slated to go on the trip, I will
not
let him ruin things for me. I press so hard writing
enojarse
(to become angry) that I snap the end of my pencil.

That’s okay. I’ve got plenty of pencils.

I keep looking down at the notepaper I brought back from Tristan’s, wondering who is D.B.? Could Tristan really have been sleeping with some guy regularly without telling me? I've been debating all night about what to write to her, not just about this, but do I tell her that Sawyer’s on the trip? Do I tell her it’s my fault because I didn’t listen to her?

Below
D.B.'s note is the phone number for the foreign exchange program. It must be my overly helpful nature, but I can’t help wanting to make sure this will work for Jennifer.

When I pick up my cell
to dial, there’s another text from Sawyer.

I’ll trade you your shoes for five minutes
of your time. We need to talk.

So that’s where
my shoes went. He knows I was in his house. But I can’t talk to him until I figure out more about what’s going on with Tristan.

The number
for the exchange program has a Detroit area code. Surprisingly close for an international program.

A
fter two rings, someone picks up.

I glance at my watch. It’s
ten after five.

“
Don Bristolle,” he says.

“Oh. Um
, is this Bristolle Foreign Exchange?” I can’t remember the exact name, but I’m pretty sure I’m close.

M
r. Bristolle clears his throat and assures me I have the right number.

“Yes, well, I have a friend
, my best friend, actually, and my neighbor, and well, she’s with your program. Tristan Bishop?” I hate the way I’m babbling like a little kid. I take a breath and try to calm down. “I’m, uh, I’m hearing so many wonderful things about it. I tried to email, but my emails keep bouncing back, and I just wanted to get some more information?”

As I’m babbling, something comes over me
and suddenly I’m not doing this for Jennifer. I’m doing it for me. I’m pretending, just for a second, that I could really do something like this—enroll in a program in Europe for three months, maybe even finally be able to get to know my dad. When I take another breath, there’s dead air for a couple of seconds before Mr. Bristolle says, “Our server has been down, but it should be fixed shortly.”