The Exchange
Prologue

Normal high school. Normal state. Normal kids.

Then it happened. The Exchange. Our school was always so proud of being very diverse, with a Hall of Nations– every country that had a flag hanging was also represented with at least one student who had been born there.

And of course, we had foreign exchange students every year that I’d been there. At least, I think they were exchange students. They showed up, but you never much heard about the kids that got sent to their country in exchange.

Whatever the case, that year my family somehow got involved with The Exchange. We didn’t send a kid over, but we signed up for it and got one. I was a junior that year, and the girl we’d be getting would be sixteen as well.

Rachele Salvatore was sent to our house because we had an Italian last name too, and were more likely to be willing and able to pick up on what she would be trying to say. Well, and I was taking Italian for the second year, and always had a handy dictionary when it got desperate.

Probably the first thing I noticed when we found out we’d be putting her up was that my parents couldn’t say her name. I got a “Rachel” and a “Rachelle” before giving in and explaining it was “Ra-kel-ay,” because the ch came before an e, and it was just one of those odd Italian pronunciation rules (like c before i or e being a ch). You just had to know it.

Actually I probably only knew it because my friend’s Italian name in Italian class had been Rachele.

The first thing I noticed when she showed up was that she was way pretty. Classy, Italian features. Tall, thin build. Slightly olive skin that wasn’t overbearingly darker-than-yours-will-ever-be. Thick wavy hair that fell to her shoulder blades in a dark chestnut color.

Do I sound threatened? I’m not, really. Like I said, I’m partially Italian as well. Sure, the other majority of my chromosomes is those of the pale Irish folk, but who’s counting? My hair was thicker and longer than hers, and wavier, in a dark brown with natural highlights of almost any color throughout it all. I actually probably had a very American-looking face, at least that’s what I’ve heard. (My genes are a big European cocktail, did I mention that?) But I had inherited the Italian skin from my Italian father, so I wasn’t too much paler than Rachele. And, okay, I’m far from tall, and not totally thin, but I’m very good at fooling people into thinking I’m actually lacking that bit of baby fat.

In fact, Rachele probably shared that burden, because that’s supposedly another Italian thing.

Now, before we start jumping to Italian Conclusions, I’ll have you know my Godfather is a big, tall, redheaded Irish guy I’m not related to, not even by marriage. And I don’t really look Italian when you look at me, I’ve also been told. And I have a way not Italian name: Adrianna. I know, it sure looks Italian (thanks to The Sopranos), but it’s actually English or Polish, the way I spell it.

The last name is a little overbearingly noticeable, though. You forget that second n, and turn me into a stereotyped Italian Daughter of the Mafia.

Adrianna Borgata. Borgata? According to , it’s derived from the Italian word for “village.” But it means, “an organized branch of the Mafia; a Mafia family.”

Who would have thought your last name could foreshadow things to come.