The Swap(10)

As a kid, I liked my name. Being named for a bird was unique. I read up on swallows, focusing on their positive attributes like their streamlined shape and their ability to fly all the way to Mexico in the winters. I ignored less-appealing factoids like the property damage caused by their habit of pooping off the edge of the mud nests they built on the side of homes and barns. (Really, this was a sign of a very clean bird, but I still didn’t like to focus on it.) Bird imagery became a personal theme, its form appliqued onto my lunch box, my backpack, and the sleeve of my denim jacket.

And then came middle school.

It was about four days into seventh grade when Kai Boyd, a short, sporty boy with a smattering of freckles across his nose (they gave his face a misleading innocence), approached me.

“Hey, Swallow.”

“Hey.”

“So . . . do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Swallow?”

Unfortunately, my naivete resulted in an honest answer. “Uh . . . yeah. Of course. Everyone does.”

“She does!” he shrieked. “She swallows!”

Maple Dunn was kind enough to explain my answer in a detailed, sexualized context. That’s when I shortened my name to Low (and, possibly, lost interest in sex). My parents were hurt by my rejection of the highly meaningful moniker they had chosen for me.

“Swallows are tiny little birds capable of great feats,” my father said. “Just like you.”

“You can’t change to please other people,” my mom added. “Do you want to live your life as a conformist?”

But I wasn’t tiny or capable of greatness. And I certainly wasn’t a conformist. (If I had been, I would have had more friends.) In the end, my parents understood my decision, but insisted on calling me Swallow when we were at home. I grudgingly allowed it. Mika Minty was now crossing the stage to a chorus of cheers from her popular friends and polite, supportive applause from her parents and brother. With the alphabetical roll call, I knew I would be next. I was prepared for the snickers and whispers. While the kids who had grown up with me already knew my full name, the others didn’t.

“Swallow Morrison.”

As I stood, a male voice rang out from behind me.

“And she does!”

There was a chorus of gasps and titters, stern looks from the school administrators on the stage. My face burned with anger and embarrassment as I moved toward our principal. All I needed now was for my multitude of parental figures to make a show of themselves, and my humiliation would be complete.

I heard a whistle—the shrill, two-fingers-in-the-mouth kind. To my knowledge, no one in my family possessed that skill. Looking into the crowd, I saw her. Freya was standing, smiling, clapping. Everyone saw her—beautiful in a summer dress topped with a jeans jacket, her blond hair gleaming in the faint glow of overhead pot lights. This cool, beautiful, stylish woman was cheering for me: tall, friendless Swallow Morrison.

“Go, Low!” she cried, and I couldn’t help but smile. I felt special, cool . . . chosen. (A month later, when we received the photo of Mr. Graph handing me my diploma, I was beaming.) Eventually, we got through the roll and our principal announced that we were all high school graduates. My classmates tossed their mortarboards into the air. I abstained because my ceremonial cap had to be pinned securely to my bushel of hair with barrettes and bobby pins. As my peers gathered their headpieces, I hurried off the stage and out of the gymnasium.

Outside, parents and guests milled about in the parking lot, huddling together in the June downpour. In the Pacific Northwest, it was not uncommon for May to offer beautiful warm weather, only to be followed by an unseasonable blast of winter in June. Juneuary, people called it, like it was clever and not just ripped off from some corny weatherman. It was difficult to find my family amid the sea of umbrellas, but I spotted them clustered under an overhang. My mom was deep in conversation with Freya.

My stomach flipped over. What were they talking about? Me, of course. They had nothing else in common. What was my mom telling her? I had been presenting a carefully curated image of myself to Freya, revealing personal information only as I saw fit. My mother could blow this for me.

I hurried up to them. “Hey.”

My mom swept me into a hug. “Congratulations, honey!”

I turned to Freya who hugged me quickly. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

“Freya says you’re an excellent potter,” my mom said.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” But I was pleased.

“Low’s my favorite student,” Freya added.

Other than a group of seniors Freya taught on Sunday afternoons, I knew I didn’t have a lot of competition. But still, I was warmed by the compliment.

“That’s so nice,” my mom said. “Can you join us for dinner, Freya?”

While I wanted to celebrate with Freya, the thought of bringing her back to our home filled me with anxiety. What would she think of our clutter and chaos? The plethora of parents bustling around the kitchen, playfully teasing and tickling each other. Our chickens, goats, and the pig? Would she judge us like so many others had?

“I’d love to,” Freya said, squeezing my mom’s hand, “but I’m meeting a friend.”

A friend?

Something dark and ugly filled my stomach, worked its way up to my chest and throat. It was jealousy. I’d experienced it years earlier with a brief middle school friendship. But this was deeper, more powerful. Because Freya had made me feel special, treasured, unique. She was mine and I was hers. And now I was finding out that she had a friend? Who was she? How had Freya found her? And could this mystery person offer Freya something that I could not?