The Swap(2)

Finally, a week later, she texted back.

Hi. Classes start next Monday at 4. Bring a friend!

Ha.

I had one more problem. Or should I say, I had sixty-two more problems.

I decided to steal the shortfall from my younger brothers. I didn’t feel guilty as I rifled under their twin beds for their piggy banks. They were nine and eleven; they had significant birthday money and no expenses. When I got a summer job, I would pay them back . . . if the little brats even noticed the money was missing. And I would have held up a bank to get the cash I needed. I would have rolled an old lady. These pottery classes, my meeting with Freya, had to happen. It was fated.

? ? ?

That Monday, I drove my battered 1997 Ford F-150 SuperCab pickup truck from school to the address Freya had texted me. I hadn’t fussed with my appearance; there wasn’t much point. But my hair was washed, my lips were coated in enough cherry ChapStick to give them some sheen, and I’d doubled up on deodorant . . . which was a good thing. My anticipation had me sweating like a hog.

Freya’s isolated home was stunning—a cedar-and-glass structure perched on a rocky cliff above the ocean. It was surrounded by arbutus trees, their naked limbs straining toward the water, and seaside juniper perfuming the air with the tangy scent of gin. The building wasn’t large, but it was sleek, modern, and expensive. The opulence of Freya’s home did not surprise me. She was clearly a somebody, her effortless glamour indicative of wealth. This house, with its ocean view and modern architectural design, would be worth millions. My curiosity about her was further piqued.

I parked in the drive and headed toward the pottery studio. It was a small cottage nestled in the trees about fifty yards to the right of the main house. With its clapboard siding, multipaned windows, and wood-shingled roof, it must have been a remnant of the home’s previous iteration. A chalkboard sign mounted next to the door read: Welcome to the Studio, in a swirly script.

My height allowed me to view her through the window at the top of the door. Freya wore black tights and a loose denim shirt—her pottery smock—her blond hair pulled back in a stylishly messy bun. I watched her plunk a heavy bag of gray clay onto a slab table, arrange her various tools into plastic containers. She was preparing for my arrival, and I found it oddly touching. Before I became mesmerized by my observations, I knocked briefly and entered.

“Hi.” Her smile was broad and white and sincere. “I’m Freya.”

She held out her hand, and I took it. It was smooth and warm, her grip strong from the clay work.

“I’m Low.”

“I’m so happy you came.” Her eyes flitted behind me. “Just you?”

“Yep.”

But she wasn’t disappointed. “One-on-one always works best. Let’s get started.”

Freya handed me a man’s plaid shirt that was too big even for me. As I rolled the sleeves, Freya sliced several one-inch pieces from a block of clay using a wire with two wooden handles—a garrote. We began by “wedging,” pressing the clay into itself, making it malleable and releasing any air bubbles. I watched Freya intently, copying the movement of her small but powerful hands. Afterward, we filled two metal containers with warm water from the back sink and moved to the wheels. Here, we encountered our first hurdle.

“Are you right-handed?” she asked me.

“No, I’m left-handed.”

“Oh.” Her brow furrowed. “You’ll turn your wheel clockwise then. I’ll try to do a left-handed demonstration, but I’m not very ambidextrous.”

“It’s okay,” I assured her. “I’m used to learning everything opposite.”

And so we began. Freya chatted as I got used to the feel of wet clay spinning beneath my hands, of the force of my touch to morph it into a vessel. She had moved to the island just four months ago, she told me. It was her husband’s idea. She had a husband. Of course she did. A beautiful woman her age would not be single.

“He wanted a fresh start,” she elaborated, eyes on the perfect clay cone taking shape upon her wheel.

“And you?” I asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Her hand slipped over the top of the mini mountain, palm compressing it into a small, round hill. “I don’t want to be here. But I have no choice.”

“That makes two of us,” I muttered.

She looked up at me, a slow smile spreading across her face. She saw me. She really saw me. I was not simply a misfit teenager, tall and awkward and outcast.

I was a kindred spirit.





2


Mondays quickly became my favorite day. After school, I drove toward Freya’s waterfront property, pulling over at the secluded boat launch to eat a snack in my truck. Thankfully, my job as egg collector provided a share of the profits, which I promptly spent on meat. My mom was a vegetarian, and since she did most of the cooking, so were the rest of us. This diet was not the most satiating for someone with my height and metabolism, so I would often buy burgers or subs loaded with ham, turkey, and salami—no onions. I was conscious of my breath in the small studio environment. After checking my teeth in the rearview mirror, I drove to Freya’s home, arriving each day at precisely four o’clock.

She was always there, always prepping, as if she were as eager for our sessions as I was. Her smile, when I entered, was bright and welcoming even if her blue eyes were sometimes sad, sometimes red and puffy (From allergies? From crying? From a hangover?). Each time, I tried to hand her a ten-dollar bill, and each time, she waved it away. “We can deal with that later.” Eventually, I stopped offering and slipped most of the money back into my brothers’ stashes.