On top of the possibility I could further trash Dad’s campaign, I’d almost rather be known as a druggie than a snitch. People will forget about pills, but a person’s character isn’t so easily forgotten.
When I was a freshman, the most popular guy in school was a senior lacrosse player named Davis. Everyone loved him, even though he was an asshole. One time during his senior year, he wasn’t prepared to take his U.S. Constitution exam, so he called a bomb threat into the school. Everyone was terrified as we evacuated. Until I was safely at the University of the South up the road, I really thought I was about to die.
After the bomb dogs finished searching campus, freaked-out parents showed up and hauled their kids away until the situation was under control. Then a rumor spread that Davis was behind the bomb threat. Pretty soon, all the students knew what he did. Since no one got hurt, some people didn’t think it was a big deal. Others, like me, thought it was a shitty thing to do. Just because nothing happened didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous. What if someone had been trampled in the rush to escape? What if a real emergency happened and the cops were busy searching for a bomb that had never existed?
I gave Davis the stink eye whenever I saw him and muttered “jerk” under my breath, but I would never have the guts to tell a teacher. It didn’t matter that lots of kids thought Davis was worse than a Lannister after what he did; no one would’ve ever trusted me again if I snitched. And you know anonymity wouldn’t work—someone would eventually leak that I was the person who turned him in.
In Davis’s case, a junior ended up stepping forward. He told the dean the truth about what happened. In return, someone put a dead fish in the ceiling above the boy’s bed and scratched SNITCH into the side of his car.
What sucks is that the boy didn’t do anything wrong. Ultimately, he did what was right.
But nobody saw it that way.
All they saw was a tattletale.
• • •
The next morning’s headlines:
Antidrug Senator Admits Daughter Is Drug User
Wallace Passes Lukens in Polls
I can’t breathe.
Out of Context
Apparently, when your name is splashed all over the news, your classmates revert to middle schoolers.
Before first period, when I walk down the hall, other students say, “Ooh” and “Busted!” like seventh graders.
Some guy I’ve never spoken to corners me in the hall. His eyes dart around. “Do you have any Ritalin? I can pay.”
I throw my tote bag over my shoulder to block him from getting any closer and dash away, trying to make it to calculus unscathed. Up until today, most people ignored me. Now, teachers shoot me glances—some of pity, some of suspicion. Have none of these people ever made a mistake before?
Nicole and Chloe see me, and Nicole starts whispering. Then she blurts out, “Do you use steroids too, Taylor? I’m gonna have to tell Coach.”
“You do that,” I snap back. “I’ll recommend that we all get tested. Hope your aim into a cup is better than your shots on goal!”
Her face goes white.
Chloe bites down on her lip as if to keep from laughing.
I charge away and don’t start breathing normally again until I’m sitting in class, thinking solely about equations. Things must be fucked up if I actually want to do math.
Third period, I have Crucial Life Lessons, which is the sorriest excuse for a class ever. We’re learning how to balance our bank accounts, when a paper wad hits me in the head. It falls onto my desk, so I unwrinkle it.
Ritalin? Can you hook me up?
I glance around to see who threw it. It’s the same guy from earlier this morning. I write NO!! in big letters, wad up the paper, and throw it back at him, but Coach Lynn—our teacher and girls’ softball coach—intercepts it with the finesse of a catcher.
She smooths out the paper. My heart is racing, and—oh God!—she’s going to call my dad, and he’s going to think I’m still involved in drugs.
But Coach Lynn looks up with a smile. “Good job, Taylor. Excellent life choice!”
“Teacher’s pet,” some girl whispers loud enough for everyone to hear, and the class snickers. Jeez, I was wrong. They didn’t revert to middle schoolers but to first graders.
Coach Lynn pockets the note and speaks to the boy who wrote it: “Caleb, may I see you after class?”
I look over my shoulder at Caleb. His need for Ritalin is scary. I never considered that prescription drugs could make a person behave this way. Between classes, I lean against my locker, swipe on my phone, and look up Ritalin addictions. I scroll through a webpage about it. Shit. This particular prescription drug acts like cocaine. Some people snort it to get high. I hope Coach Lynn tries to help Caleb.
Next I text Oliver. Dad is such an asshole.
I’m sorry, T.
I wait for him to say something else, something encouraging. But Oliver doesn’t text again. What else is there to say? This is not how I expected my senior year to be. All anyone sees is my one mistake.
Later in the day, as I change into shorts and a T-shirt, then slip on my shin guards, socks, and cleats, my hands shake like I’ve had ten cups of coffee. My eye twitches as I braid my hair into a plait. I stare at myself in the mirror. How did this happen? How did things get so out of hand so fast?
When I walk out onto the field, I’m the first person there, as always. Danny arrives a few minutes later to set up cones. Today, he’s wearing a T-shirt that says I’m Kind of a Big Deal.
I grab a ball and start juggling, then run up and down the field, dribbling. I lean back, strike the ball with my laces, and plant a shot in the upper right of the goal, putting all my rage into it. Nailing that shot feels great.
I grin as I retrieve the ball from the net. The other players start arriving and doing their random warm-ups. Alyson heads to the goal, jumping to slap the overhead beam. It’s her tradition.
“Can I take some shots on you?” I ask, and she claps, appearing happy for the practice.
For the next several minutes, I run hard, dribble hard, and kick the ball at our goalie. She stops four out of my seven shots. We smile at each other.
Then Coach steps out onto the field, and for once, he’s not having a love affair with his phone.
He calls, “Taylor!” and gestures for me to run his way.
I pick up my ball and jog with it. “What’s up, Coach?”
“Listen,” he starts. He sighs, looking everywhere but at me as he chews his gum. “I can’t let you practice today.”
“Um, what?” I’ve been looking forward to practice all day!
“Your father made a statement about what happened at your old school.”
No shit, Sherlock. “Yeah, so? What’s that got to do with soccer?”
“I’ve had parents calling. They want to make sure you’re not sharing drugs with their kids.”
“Excuse me? You’re joking, right?”
“Three upset parents called. I can’t let you practice. Not until this is sorted out.”
“What does the principal say?” I demand, because there’s no way I’m quitting without a school professional telling me that I have to. And Coach Walker is not a professional anything, particularly the way he’s handling this.
“I haven’t spoken with Dr. Salter yet, because he was unavailable this afternoon, but I have an appointment to talk with the school board at their Monday meeting. That’s when we’ll decide if you can stay on the team.”
Coach Walker went over the principal’s head? Really? “But we have a game against Hendersonville on Saturday!”
“I’m sorry, but you should sit the game out. Come to think about it, you should probably come to Monday’s meeting too, so you can explain to the board that you’re clean now.”
Clean now.
Great, just
great.
“We need you on the team, Taylor,” Coach says. What he needs is the extra paycheck he gets for coaching.
I storm off the field, trying not to listen to Nicole’s laughter. Alyson and Chloe stare over at me.
“Coach, what’s going on?” I hear Alyson ask, her voice full of desperation. I’m upset too. We were starting to form a really good defense together.
I retrieve my bag from my locker and head for the Swamp. Students don’t have assigned parking spaces at Hundred Oaks, but all the seniors park around this sunken expanse of concrete that’s filled with water and mud. It’s gross. As I trudge through the Everglades to my car, I see a crowd of people waiting.
“That’s her!”
“There she is!”
People charge at me with microphones, cameras, and notepads. They start taking pictures of me. Flash, flash, flash, flash. I lift my hand to shield my eyes.
“Taylor! Do you have any comment about your father’s statement?”
“Do you take pills?”
“Do you sell them?”
“How is your father handling your addiction?”
“Do you think your father could still run for governor after this?”
I try to break through the reporters and run back toward the school, but it’s a mob. They’re too close. Doesn’t this school have security or something?
“Get away from me!” I shout, trying to pass two men.
“Talk to us then!” one of them retorts.
“Look, what I did is not a big deal compared to what’s happening in Yemen or the homeless problem in our country. And what about veterans’ affairs? There’s an issue you can focus on. Now go away.”
The reporters suddenly let me pass, but the cameras keep clicking as I enter the school.
As soon as I’m inside, I go straight to the school office to report what happened. The principal isn’t in, but his assistant assures me that she’ll inform him, and the police department will put up signs warning the press not to come on school property.
That helps me breathe a little easier, but anger still rumbles below my skin. How could Dad talk to the press like that? Whenever anyone googles me in the future, this is what they’ll find. What college would consider me now?
I go home to a nearly empty house. Mom is at a Nashville nursing home volunteering. Dad has meetings in his Chattanooga office, which is more than two hours from here, so he won’t be home anytime soon.
Marina emerges from the pantry and lays her clipboard on the granite countertop. “Want me to start making dinner, baby?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Very good. Just let me know when you’re ready.” Then she picks up her clipboard and returns to the pantry, where’s she no doubt doing some sort of complex inventorying process.
I sniffle. I’m terrified that if I let myself really cry, I’ll catch a cold, and I won’t get rid of it for weeks. That happened to me last January. I was so stressed out over school, I couldn’t stop crying, which in turn kept making me sick.
My eye twitches. I take a long, deep breath. I need to calm down. Get my mind off everything that happened today.
I need a friend.
My phone buzzes at that very moment. Ezra sent me a picture of a cute German shepherd puppy and a text: you ok??
How sweet…
The next thing I know, I find myself jogging up the stairs to my bathroom. I yank off my soccer clothes and take a quick shower, then pull on jeans and a clean, white button-up blouse.
I hop in the Beast and take off for Brentwood—to the Carmichael residence. Brentwood is a Nashville suburb about twenty minutes from where I live. The drive there is lined with trees and mansions that get progressively bigger and bigger.
When I arrive at Ezra’s house, or should I say castle, I park in the semicircular driveway next to the fountain and stare up at the white mansion, which was rebuilt in 1866 after being almost completely destroyed in the Civil War. Ezra’s dad loves telling the story to anyone who will listen. Even though Mr. Carmichael is very important to my father’s work, Dad always dreads going to their parties, because he knows Mr. Carmichael will corner him and tell him about the house for the gazillionth time.
I climb the porch steps, passing between two behemoth white columns, and ring the doorbell. A maid dressed in a blue uniform answers the door, and after I tell her my name, she ushers me into a yellow parlor. This room, with its cherry hardwood floors and lush white sofas, makes me feel warm and relaxed.
A minute later, Mrs. Carmichael sails into the parlor, looking fabulous as always in a pink dress-suit the color of a ballet slipper, beige pumps, and perfect makeup. I’ve always admired her work. She travels all over the country doing serious fund-raising for St. Jude’s pediatric cancer research.
Like a perfect lady, I stand to greet her.
“Taylor!” she says, graciously shaking my hand. “What a wonderful surprise. How are your mother and father?”
“Great,” I lie.
“We’ve been following his campaign. A few bumps here and there, but everything seems to be going smoothly for the most part.”
Lies, lies, and more lies.
She’s still awkwardly shaking my hand. I hold my breath, waiting for her to chastise me for my behavior. But she doesn’t, probably because Mrs. Carmichael is waaaay too formal to say anything to my face. Instead, she and her friends will gossip about me later, like when they whisper about Jack Goodwin dating the help.
Mrs. Carmichael finally releases my hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“I stopped by to see Ezra. Is he home?”
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows pinch together. “He doesn’t live here anymore. You didn’t know?”
How could I possibly know that with a brother who keeps secrets like a defense attorney and Ezra being an Internet-phobe?
“Where can I find him?”
“He has an apartment over on Ragswood Road.” She sniffs.
Is she sniffing because Ezra’s living in an apartment, or because the apartment is on Ragswood Road? Probably both. “I need to see him.”
Her eyes light up. “Let me write down the address for you, Taylor. Lord knows, maybe you can talk some sense and get him to move home.”
Mrs. Carmichael must be desperate for Ezra to come home if she’s willing to let me—a person on the front page for abusing prescription drugs—go see her son.
Twenty minutes later, I arrive at his building. A “Checks Cashed Here!” establishment is on the opposite corner. The train tracks are on the other side of that. A heavy freight train chugs by, rattling the apartment building’s windows.
This must be the place, because Ezra’s shiny black Range Rover is parked out front between a rusted red Nissan Sentra and a Ford pickup with faded white paint. It looks like a diamond nestled between two lumps of coal. The SUV was a high school graduation gift from Ezra’s father.
My boots clang against the metal stairs as I climb an outdoor staircase four flights to 4B. I knock on the door. A few seconds later, a curtain moves in the window to my right. Suddenly, the door is whipped open. Ezra’s face is blazing with confusion and embarrassment, especially when he spots the overflowing bag of trash outside his neighbor’s place.
With a deep breath, he pulls the door open to let me in. He’s wearing dark, frayed jeans and a gray Henley. He’s barefoot. He looks so good. I swallow hard.
I walk into the living room. It’s about the size of our foyer, but it’s nicely furnished with a leather couch, beautiful wooden end tables, and a glass coffee table. Unlike his clothes, I doubt his mother picked out this furniture. It’s masculine and very much Ezra. Especially the large TV tuned to ESPN. I smile when I see a bunch of random bolts, screws, circuit boards, and gears strewn across the coffee table. What’s he taking apart and putting back tog
ether?
He looks around the living room as if embarrassed.
“I like your place,” I say. “But you need some throw pillows.”
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I needed to see you.”
He clears his throat and gestures at the couch. We sit. I scan the walls—he’s hung a few pictures of friends. I spot one taken in Mexico, when he, Oliver, and Jenna were on that mission trip in high school. I smile when I see one of me, him, and Chickadee as a baby chick.
“Your couch is really comfortable. Did you buy the furniture yourself?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs a little. “I had some money left over from graduation, and construction pays okay… So what’s going on? Why’d you stop by?”
At his look of deep concern, I lean over and bury my face in my hands. “You saw the news today.”
He sets a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah. That sucks.”
Somehow, he knows the right thing to say. He doesn’t tell me it will all blow over soon or that my dad’s just saying this shit because he wants to be reelected. It is what it is.
“People at school were such dicks today. I hate it there. And now my soccer coach is questioning whether I should still be on the team, because parents think I’m gonna give their kids drugs. God!”
His hand continues to massage my shoulder.
“I fucked up. My future is over.”
“It’s not.” He gently rubs my back; it feels so good. “You can do anything you want. Unlike me…”
That’s new.
His comment makes me think I don’t know the whole story about him leaving school.
“Why’d you take a leave of absence from Cornell?” I ask. “For real this time.”
“I can’t talk about it.”
Taking his hand, I weave our fingers together. “You can talk about anything with me, Ez. You know that.”
“Not about this.”
“Why not?”
“My father…he would get pissed.”
“So what? You’re an adult. You don’t even live with him anymore.” I check out the little apartment. It’s not bad. The privacy and independence seem great. A bag of potato chips sits on the coffee table. I love the idea of having potato chips in the house.
Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) Page 11