The Swap (16 page)

I do not move. I stay absolutely still. I close my eyes tightly and think about Jack and how he's probably in my bed, tucked under my covers.
He has it so easy!
I'm cold. I just sprinted up a mile-high mountain. I don't think I've been up this early in my life.

Gunner crouches down. He gets close. “I know how bad you want it, bud. Keep breathing. Just keep breathing,” I hear him say. “Let's go, bro. Fall seven times, stand up eight.”

My hands are freezing and trembling underneath me.

“C'mon, man.” He pauses for a moment, then gets louder again. “I'm telling you right now. Get. Up.”

I hear Jack's voice in my head—
“If you're going to be me, you can't be such a girl!
”

“Bro,” Gunner starts again. “If you don't man up, I'm going to get you up, how 'bout that?”

I feel his hulk hands on each arm. Gunner literally lifts me to my feet until we are standing face-to-face.

“Atta boy! Heck, yeah! Gritty, bro!” he hollers, grinning ear to ear, dusting twigs and muddy wet leaves from my shoulders and chest. “Your body can do anything, bud. It's just your brain you have to convince.”

I look back at him through the rising light. His face and hair are drenched with sweat; his ice-blue eyes are open wide. He's almost glowing. I think he actually
likes
this.

“Do it!” he demands.

“Do what?”

“You're a piece of work, kid.” He shakes his shaved head, still grinning. “Touch the flippin' rock!”

I follow his eyes to the smooth boulder jetting out from the cliff's edge. The sun is just beginning to rise over the green hills in the distance.

“Go ahead,” he says, giving me a nod. “Tag it like you always do or we stand here all day, and I don't think the old man is going to be too happy, bud.”

I manage a weak smile and begin to carefully step toward the ledge. My legs feel like spaghetti. I reach out and gently lay my hand on the cool rock. And it's so weird, but when I touch the rock, when I rest my hand against it? I swear, a chill goes through my body, and all at once it feels kind of awesome that I made it. That I'm standing. I take a long, deep breath and look down across the valley. The morning sky is this unreal pinkish-orange streak. I can see all the way into town. The view is wide open. It doesn't stop. Off in the distance I can even see the lake. It looks almost emerald green. I take a few steps closer to the edge and look down the sharp, grassy hill we just climbed up. And I'm thinking it's kind of crazy we are up here. That we are even up! That I am awake and that there are so many things happening when I'm usually sound asleep. Which is right about the same second I realize it's suddenly extremely quiet and—

“Hey!” I cry out, and whirl around. “Gunner!” I yell after him.

“Gunner!
” I shout. But it's too late; he's already taken off. I watch him bound down the mountain. He doesn't stop.

“You're a warrior!” His voice booms into the morning air. “You're a beast, bro. Do work!”

And I don't know if it's the fact that the sun is rising or the way it felt to touch the rock. I can't really explain it, but this feeling just comes over me, like, I can do this.

“I can do this!” I whisper to nobody but me. Then—“Yeah!” I yell out at the top of my lungs into the wide-open sky, off the mountainside. And run.

I run all the way back to the house. Blazing down the steep, grassy hillside, leaping over rocks and branches and slippery leaves, cutting across three backyards, and sprinting down the middle of Jack's now-sunny street. I run all the way, and I don't stop until I charge up the winding path and have my hand on the front door of Jack's house.

“Yes!” I say to myself, out loud. And sure, whatever,
you
try and not be proud. I let out a little bit of a squeal. I do. Which, of course, is exactly when I see him.

Gunner. He's bent over under the basketball net, his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

“That-a-boy, Jacko!” he tells me through his dimpled smile. “Way to suck it up and push through, big guy!”

“Thanks,” I tell him, and collapse next to him right on the pavement.

Gunner stares down at me. “What the heck are you doing, bro?”

“I'm resting!” I answer.

“Seriously, you are getting soft, dude.” He laughs, then looks worried. “Bro, are you crazy? Do you want to get us all in trouble? Get up before The Captain—”

I watch Gunner's smile fade and his eyes wander, and I get a very bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. The bad feeling sounds something like this in my head:
The Captain is standing behind me, isn't he?

Yep.

I get up slowly, turn around, and wipe the dripping sweat from my eyes and face with the back of my sleeve.

“Nice of you ladies to join us,” says The Captain.

Why is he calling me a lady?
I wonder, confused. I glance at Gunner. Stryker and Clark Kent have suddenly materialized too. Each is standing up straight. Perfectly still. I copy them, shoulders back, eyes on The Captain.

“
Wanting
is different than
doing
,” he says.

“Yes, sir!” they answer together.

I'm slow, a second or two off. “Yes, sir!” I manage. I look sideways over at Jack's brothers. Nobody is laughing or joking right now. The sun is in my eyes. The world is waking up all around us. I can hear it everything. Like I am extra awake. A dog barking across the street. Birds singing over our heads—

“Men, if you can't commit yourself one hundred percent, morning after morning, day after day?” He pauses and looks directly at me. “If you aren't willing to make that sacrifice, you do not want it as bad as you think.”

“Yes, sir!” I blurt out awkwardly. Only this time I'm the only one. The boys all purse their lips. I can tell they're trying not to laugh.

I feel my head heating up and my heart racing. The Captain clears his throat. “Those who reach the top didn't fall there. Put in the work, boys. Train hard. Do it right.”

This time I'm ready for it.

“Yes, sir!” I say. I focus so hard on answering correctly that, again, my timing is a little bit off. A little too soon. A beat before the others.

The boys can't hold it in this time.

The Captain raises his eyebrows and lets out the faintest smile. “It's a lower-body day. Legs feed the wolf, boys.”

Legs feed the wolf? Huh?

“Go muscles, not show muscles,” continues The Captain. “Deadlifts, split squats, landmine reverse lunges, quick-feet ladder drills, sled pushes, box jumps—working on explosiveness, men. Heavy reverse sled drags for the finisher.” The Captain pauses and walks over to Clark Kent.

There is complete silence, and then The Captain finally speaks. “Jett,” he starts. “I trust you will follow the protocol? Do it right the first time.”

Jett! Of course he has a cool name.
I glance at him. Except for the shiny gold pendant we each have hanging around our necks, he's shirtless, and he looks like a gladiator the way his black hair is slicked back from sweat.

“Jack!”

Oh, no, they're talking to me
.

“All you,” Gunner says, directing me to do something—only I have no idea what!

“Uhhh.” I stall and look back at him, panicked.

Gunner nods toward the ground. “You know how we always start things out, big boy! Warm-up circuit. Let's get it goin'!”

In case you're wondering, this doesn't help.

They're all waiting for me, staring. Jett. Stryker. Gunner.
The Captain.

“Um.” I look blankly at all of them. Then—

Thank goodness. Stryker drops to the ground. “I'll go first!” he says, coming to my rescue. He starts busting out push-ups—he makes them look easy. Like army men, we all drop to the ground too. My hands press into the driveway's rough pavement. And it's so crazy, but after running up the mountain in the dark? I fall into a rhythm with the push-ups. It feels almost automatic, the way Jack's body easily moves. “One, two, three, four, five, six—” The boys bark out the numbers, so I do too, Jack's quiet, crackly voice mixing into the count. “Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three—”

Gosh, I never thought when I woke up yesterday that today I'd be pumping out push-ups in The Prince's driveway. Let alone
be
The Prince. We stop at one hundred. Stryker shoots me a smile. Nobody helps me.

I jump up myself.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

WHEN I WAKE UP IN
Freckles's room, in Freckles's princess-sized bed with my hands clasped tight around Freckles's frayed teddy bear, I am half-asleep and completely confused. A million questions run through my head. I'm sure you know them by now. You know . . .
Where am I? How did this happen? Why am I in a girl's body?
And sure, I'll admit it. The first thing I do with my eyes open is lift Freckles's fluffy comforter and look under the covers to see if—

Yep.

Still a girl.

I shut my eyes again, tight, and try and imagine what my brothers would do if they were me—or, I mean, whatever. If they were
here right now
. Jett would probably say, “C'mon, man!” and tell me to throw on a smile. Tell me to toughen up. Take it. Not be so soft.
Not be soft about being a girl
. Ha! That makes no sense whatsoever!

I laugh and flip over onto my other side. Honestly, I never thought I'd say this, but I actually really miss my brothers. The three of them are all the type of guys you want to be around. They teach me everything they know, they challenge me every day, push me pretty hard. We're all chasing the same dream, and we'll do anything to get there. They know what it takes to get tougher and better.

I can't wait to be reunited with the boys.

“Forty-eight more hours,” I say out loud. I stretch my arms up over my head in a yawn. Whatever. I mean, things could be worse. I am lying in a massively comfortable bed with the softest sheets, under cozy warm covers. I let my head sink back into the pillow. The sun is streaming in the window and—

I bolt upright.

If it's late enough that the sun is out . . . I turn, almost in a panic, and look at the alarm clock on the night table beside the bed.

Ten thirty.

“Whoa,” I whisper. I don't even remember the last time I was able to sleep this late.

Breathe, Jack. Breathe
.

I fall back again, close my eyes, and picture what the boys are up to. Same thing every morning. It plays in my head like a movie: sunrise race up to the rock, knuckle push-ups in the driveway. Leg day in The Cage. I open my eyes and look at the button eyes of Freckles's faded bear.

“I hope Ellie's okay,” I whisper. Yes. I am officially nuts! I am talking to stuffed animals now. Ha. And holy smokes, my breath smells like feet. “Sick, buddy.” I laugh. “Mix in some toothpaste, ya scrub!”

Apparently I'm chirping myself without my brothers around.

I flop over, push Freckles's tangled hair out of my eyes, and I lie sprawled out, my face smushed into the mattress for a solid ten minutes until it hits me. I know just what to do.

It takes me a good forty-five minutes to thoroughly clean Freckles's room to The Captain's standards. First I sort through all her wrinkled-up clothes. I can't tell what's clean or dirty, nothing really smells, so I just pretty much fold them and put them away in her dresser or hang them up in her giant closet.

Yes. Even underwear. You're welcome.

Underneath the piles of clothes I find four empty science-experiment-looking glass cups.

“Gross!” I whisper, and line them up by the door. Gatorade? Or . . . I hold one up to my nose—maybe Hawaiian Punch? Moldy, dried orange rinds, a half-eaten cookie, a shriveled-up apple core. I lob them like little basketballs across the room—“two points!”—into the trash. Books straightened and stacked, soccer gear piled up, seventeen stuffed animals and three dolls, squeezed together like best friends, side by side, lining the entire far wall. Last, I get to work on the bed. I can't see an unmade bed and not make it. It's automatic. I could probably do it with my eyes closed: take the sheet, lie it flat all the way from side to side, line up the edge of with the bottom of the mattress, pull it tight, tuck in forty-five-degree hospital corners, smooth out the wrinkles with my hand. Shake out the comforter, lay it out across the mattress top, line it up twelve inches from the pillow, plump the pillows and place them at the head of the bed. Teddy bear front and center. Why not?

Afterward I sit on the very foot of the bed, on the edge, and inspect my own work.

“Not bad.” I shrug. To be honest, though? Freckles's room would in no way pass The Captain's inspection. The garbage needs to be emptied, the carpet vacuumed, and . . . I look around at the dolls and the stuffed animals, the books jammed into the bookcase, the candy on the bedside table, three soccer balls . . . there's just too much stuff in here for The Captain's liking. The Captain does not like stuff.