The Swap Read Free Page B

everything is clicking, everything is right in the world. The puck goes to where I want it to go, my feet move the way I want them to move. It all flows. I just love to be out there. It’s what I’m built for. It’s what I do best.
    After, in the locker room, I sink into my seat, soaked in sweat. Usually there’s a high. All the boys feel really good. And as soon as we’re off the ice, we’re on to the next thing. Nobody’s talking hockey anymore. Someone cranks the music, and as we change, we talk about girls and school. We talk about everything but hockey. The guys are always joking and chirping and throwing tape balls in the garbage. And I’m so spent—not just physically, but mentally too, which is kind of awesome, because in the fifteen minutes before I leave and throw my bag in the back of my dad’s truck, in those fifteen minutes I have no worries. None. I get my gear off, get dressed, dry my skates, pack up, and laugh with the guys. I do not have a single worry in the world. I’m free.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................

    MY MOM DRIVES OUT OF the Sportsplex, and I sit in the front next to her and pretend everything is totally normal and totally fine as I listen to her questions.
    â€œHow were tryouts, honey?”
    â€œDid you have fun?”
    â€œHey, what do you think of sushi takeout for dinner?”
    The thing is, there is a big lump in my throat and it’s hard to answer because the minute I try to talk, I know my voice is going to give it away. So I sort of nod and shrug my shoulders and look out the window. I manage to hold it together until the second we turn into our driveway.
    â€œSweetheart,” my mom starts, and I feel the tears building up. “What’s going on?”
    I open up my mouth to answer, but instead of words, only sobs spill out.
    She turns toward me. “Oh, honey. Hey, what’s wrong? Did something happen at tryouts?”
    â€œNo!” I tell her, but now I’m crying so hard she can barely understand me.
    â€œAre you having trouble with your friends?”
    â€œNoooooo!” I lie again, and shake my head. “I’m okay, I’m fine,” I sob.
    â€œOh, Ellie, honey, it doesn’t sound like you’re fine.” My mom takes a deep breath, reaches over, and with her hand moves the hair out of my eyes. “Did someone say something to you?”
    â€œNo, just—” I stop for a second. I’m so embarrassed. I try to take a breath, but . . . yeah, I just burst into tears all over again. I get out of the car and shut the door and start walking toward the house.
    â€œEllie,” my mom calls after me.
    I turn around and shout, “It’s none of your business!”
    Talking to my mom this way doesn’t make me feel better at all. I go upstairs to my bedroom and, with all my sweaty soccer clothes still on, crawl under my covers and bury my face in my pillow and cry until the pillow is wet and my nose is running. Then, finally, I sleep.
    When I wake up, I look in the mirror on the back of my door. My eyes are all puffy and I have the worst headache. My hair is messy and wavy, and my stupid freckles are still there. I flop back onto my bed and stare up at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers that are still plastered all over my ceiling from when I was a baby. Can you make a wish on plastic star stickers? I do. I wish I could be someone else, like, confident and strong, and not so worried about what everyone thinks all the time. But who wishes on dumb stickers?
    I guess I do.
    At the same exact moment I make my pathetic sticker wishes, there’s a knock at my door.
    â€œEllie, honey?”
    It’s my mom.
    I don’t answer.
    I don’t even know what to say.
    â€œEllie, are you sleeping?”
    â€œNo,” I say. My voice is muffled, though, because I am