The Swap by Megan Shull Page B

can just run it down and win it back. Show me some determination to put that ball in the goal.”
    My mind begins to race . . . Maybe I can help, you know? Maybe I can make Freckles stand out, try to do something to get her noticed .
    â€œEllie? Ellie! Are you listening?”
    â€œOh, yes, ma’am,” I say.
    â€œYou’re an extremely nice kid, Ellie, and sometimes you’re too nice. You have the speed, the skills. You can be very strong on the ball. You’re technically sound. You can dribble. You see the game well. I need you to take the attacking role, be tough up front. It’s a confidence thing.” She pauses and smiles, eyebrows raised. “You have wheels, Ellie. Let loose out there! Be creative on the ball. Make it fun.”
    She’s so positive and convincing. She’s more down-to-earth than any coach I have ever had. For just a second, I completely forget everything. Forget even who I am or where I am or . . .
    â€œWell, what are you waiting for, girl?” She smiles and jumps up. “Get at it!”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
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    WHEN I ENTER JACK’S ROOM, I am positive it’s Jack’s room because there is a license plate on the wall—not a real one, one of those fake ones you get for your seventh birthday—and it says jack. So yeah, at least I’m sure this is where I’m supposed to be.
    It’s not a huge room, but it occurs to me right away that it is also not just Jack’s room. There’s another bed. There is another bed and a thick piece of white tape right down the center of the gray carpet. The two sides of the room are almost identical. Each side has one single bed, one single desk, one bookcase filled with gold and silver trophies, and shiny medals hanging from ribbons.
    I stand sort of frozen for a few seconds, only three steps in, suddenly very aware that I should probably take off Jack’s smelly sneakers. It’s like a museum or something in here. You know, like you’re afraid to touch anything? It’s so . . . the opposite of my room, which even I will admit is a disaster area. The Prince of Thatcher’s room is pretty much the neatest room on earth! There are no layers of dirty, crumpled clothes covering the floor. Nothing is out of place. Not a speck of dirt. Everything is arranged just so. Both beds are made, the blankets smooth, not even one wrinkle.
    I walk into the center of the room, and for no other reason other than what else am I supposed to be doing? I walk down the white middle line of tape in my socks, like I’m a gymnast on a balance beam, wobbling and leaping, left foot, right, and when I get to the end? Yeah, I do it. I thrust my hands in the air, all smiles like those Olympic girls do on TV.
    Which is when I hear clapping.
    Which is when I die of embarrassment.
    Which is when I meet Brother Number Three, a little-bit-bigger version of The Prince. Pure muscle. Same dark hair. I can verify the muscle thing because, like Clark Kent next door, Brother Number Three is wearing—surprise! No shirt. Six-pack doesn’t describe it for the Malloy brothers. It’s more like twelve-pack. They’re built like an action heroes come to life. You can see every single tiny muscle popping out. Not an ounce of fat. And I am in the middle of reminding myself not to stare and not to turn bright red from complete you-saw-me-prancing-down-a-white-piece-of-tape-pretending-I’m-an-Olympic-gymnast humiliation when he speaks.
    Wait. No. He laughs first, then he shakes his head, then he speaks.
    â€œWhat’s up, stud?” he says. “I’m not even going to ask you what you’re doing in here, Nancy pants!”
    Thank goodness he is distracted by . . .
    â€œButter Baby got the flow chopped!”
    Without even thinking about it, I know what he means. I