Exchanged

Chapter 5

Mack and I decided to split up before the Exchange, and meet up again in front of the Needle. As we said our goodbyes, he held my hands in his, grasping them as if they were a precious gem. He looked into my eyes and tried to comfort me.

"It'll be all right, Elle," he said. Mack's hands were clammy. Beads of sweat were trickling down his forehead. He avoided eye contact, something he never did. Mack was lying to me.

I pulled my left hand out of his reach and placed my palm on his cheek. For a split second, I caught his eyes. But that moment ended as he pushed away from me and stalked back to the darkness of his alley.

Mack was afraid. He was hiding from an event that has yet to come. Unfortunately, I was completely delusional, and unaware of what was causing his anxiety. I placed this issue in the back of my mind for further contemplation later. I had other manners to assist to.

My heart pounded out of my stomach as I sprinted home. A pesky pebble caught me off balance in the way, and I collapsed onto the prickly dirt road. The rock tore into my breeches, leaving a large gap. My mother's going to murder me. I ignored the pain of the wound the rock created, and continued running.

My mother was searching for me through the window as I reached the front gate. I slipped through the fence and jumped up the steps. As I opened the door, I saw her standing there, grasping the straps of a long dark blue gown-my Exchange day clothes.

Oddly enough, the attire for Exchange Day was quite formal. Woman were draped in exquisite dresses, and fine jewelry. Men appeared freshly groomed in their black tie tuxedos. I find it ironic. Everyone dressed as if they were attending a wedding, when in reality, they were attending their funeral.

My mother, with gown in grasp, handed me the dress as I shuffled up the stairs to my sister, Opal, and my bedroom.

I entered my bedroom, an assortment of books, boxes, and beds, and saw my sister reclined upon a rocking chair, an heirloom from my grandparents. Held in her palms was a glass jar. Pine needles, weeds, and an unidentified pink cream was visible through the translucent container.

"What is it," I asked as I approached Opal.

"Healing cream," she confirmed. "Made it myself."

Her gaze fell upon my wound from earlier today. She unhinged the latches on the jar, uncapped it, and scooped some cream with her fingertips. Opal lifted herself out of the chair, and examined the injury. As she smeared the cream, I felt a tingling sensation. The scar began to heal and fade simultaneously.

"It's amazing," I exclaimed, still dazzled by its capability.

Opal beamed at this complement, and left the room, patting my head on the way out.

I stripped myself of all dirty garments: my beige breeches, tall black leather boots, and hunter green sweater. I stepped into the dress and slid it over my shoulders. As I looked in a slightly cracked mirror, and barely recognized my reflection. My hands glided across the gown, feeling its smooth dark blue velvet texture. The beadwork on the dress set off an image as stars in a morning sky. I decided to braid my mother's old necklaces into my hair. Although the outfit was breathtaking, I didn't feel beautiful. How could I on such an occasion?

As i grabbed my leather purse, something caught my attention. The cream was sitting there. On the rocking chair. Waiting for its next opportunity to heal.

I snatched the jar and stuffed it in my bag, along with other items- pocket knife, bandage, needle, and thread. I grabbed the rusted knob, and slammed the door behind me.