Page 9 of Exchanged

“The School of Mines has more programs than just mining engineering,” Dad answers. “And it’s close. And, as I said, Enzo could go there for free.”

Close. Free. Each word is half a pair of handcuffs tying me to a future I don’t want.

“Only downside is that it’s a sucky college,” I say.

Dad runs his tongue across the front of his teeth and turns to me. “I went there,” he says. “Your mother went there. Your Aunt Anna and Aunt Julia went there. What are you saying about us with that statement? Where would you rather go?”

I shrug. I have an answer to that question, though I haven’t told anyone: Burton-Clark Conservatory in Los Angeles. Mr. Campbell mentioned it to me last year. It’s small, private, and expensive, but it tops all the lists of best composition programs in the country. Their notable alumni include half a dozen of my favorite film composers. I’ve had the school’s website bookmarked since last spring, and I’ve nearly memorized their faculty list. The whole place has become my fantasy, a musical wonderland contrasted with the crushing practicality of the School of Mines. But unlike Garrett, my family doesn’t have the money to help me plant myself in a city on the other side of the country, so I haven’t told them about it.

“Garrett,” Aunt Liz interrupts, attempting to cut the growing tension in the room. “I bet the football team could use you this year.”

Dad looks at me for a second longer, then shifts his attention to Garrett. “She’s right. The senior lineup is crap.”

“Isn’t it too late to join?” Garrett asks.

Dad shakes his head. “Not with this year’s team. What position do you usually play?”

“I played wide receiver back home.” He gives me a condescending look, adding, “That means I can run fast and catch things.”

“I know what a wide receiver is,” I say.

I have no idea what a wide receiver is. I make a mental note to look it up when I’m alone.

Garrett and Dad devolve into football talk, and Dad’s anger and disappointment in me morph into excitement over the prospect of Garrett lifting our team out of mediocrity. Garrett tells a story about a play he made last season, his gestures expansive, and by the end, Dad is roaring with laughter and clutching Garrett’s shoulder. He’s never talked with me about music like that and has only listened with polite interest when I’ve tried to explain music theory and film scores.

Emma, uninterested in sports, pulls out a book and begins reading at the table.

As his story draws to a close, Garrett notices her and asks, “Is that the second book in the Centaurus Chronicles?”

Emma’s eyes widen, and the two of them spend the next few minutes in their own world, gushing about their favorite characters and the plot twists they didn’t see coming and whether or not the author will write a companion series.

“I tried to get Enzo to read it,” Emma says, rolling her eyes, “but he doesn’t like sci-fi. He only reads historical fiction and classics without a plot.”

“That tracks,” Garrett says without looking at me, and Emma laughs.

It’s the second dig from him in a row, and I don’t want to let it slide. But before I can think of something to say, Garrett turns to Aunt Liz.

“Thanks again for an amazing dinner. I should call my parents before it gets too late.”

He offers to help with cleanup, but Dad waves him off. “Go talk to your parents, and make sure to let them know I’ll be calling GYA tomorrow about all this.”

“Yessir.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Aunt Liz addresses the table, wide-eyed and gleeful. “Well, he’s a keeper.”

“Except he’s literally not,” I say. “Since he’s not the person we picked.”

“Enz hates him,” Emma teases.

“It’s okay,” Aunt Liz tells me. “You’ll find something you have in common with him, too.”

“I don’t care if I have anything in common with him,” I say. “It’s not like I’m jealous that Emma and Dad get along with the random dude spending the night in the guest room.”

Aunt Liz stands and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “Of course not.”

“We’ll see what GYA says about the whole situation tomorrow,” Dad says, stacking plates. Then, almost dreamily, as if he’s been charmed by the high school football star who joined us for dinner, adds, “It’s a shame he wasn’t assigned here. He would be a great fit.”

From what Garrett told us earlier, I know that he was, in fact, assigned here, but I don’t feel like explaining that to Dad at this point.