“Thank you. I’ve worked really hard.”
He looks up at me, clicking his pen on and off. He hesitates. “I did an Internet search on you before you arrived.”
“I did one on you too, sir.”
This surprises him. “Find anything good?”
“I know that you did crew in college…but I don’t know anything about crew, so I probably shouldn’t have brought that up.”
He smiles. “I like that you’re straightforward. Honesty is very important to us.” I fidget in my seat as he keeps speaking. “Normally, I prefer to respect our applicants’ privacy, but sometimes we can’t help but hear something in the news.”
I feel like he’s sizing me up. “Yes, sir.”
“So I understand you’ve been in some trouble recently. The articles I read said you were taking Adderall that wasn’t prescribed to you, and you were forced to leave your school.”
“I made a mistake,” I say, clasping my hands in a bid to make them stop shaking. “I shouldn’t have taken the pills, but I take responsibility for what I did. And I won’t let my bad decision define me. I will keep working hard.”
He makes a note in my file. “Thank you for being honest. That tells me a lot about you.” Mr. Brandon sets his pen down and leans back in his chair to look at me. “We consider each applicant on a case-by-case basis, Taylor. As a matter of practice, we don’t admit any applicants who have a record of hard drug use. We can’t afford that kind of liability here on campus.”
“I understand that, sir.” My voice is now shaking along with my hands.
“Adderall is a bit of a different case,” Mr. Brandon says. “It’s not an illegal drug like cocaine or heroin, but it’s still serious. Use of prescription drugs by someone other than the intended recipient is happening more and more, and it’s not something we want to see here on campus. We’ll have to carefully consider your circumstances before agreeing to accept you as a student here.”
“I admit I’ve taken it a few times in the past, but I haven’t in over a month, and I don’t plan to again. I’ve been seeing a counselor.”
He makes a note in the file. “That’s good to know. Yale is a tough school, but we try to have fun here as well. We don’t want our students feeling like they are under so much pressure to succeed that they have to take pills.”
I bite my pinkie nail. “No, sir. I don’t want that either.”
I nearly do a cheer when he changes the subject. “So how do you like your new high school?”
“It’s okay, but I miss St. Andrew’s. Especially my soccer team.”
He picks up a paper from my file and studies it. “But you’re playing for your new school now?”
“Yeah, but we aren’t very good. Haven’t won a game yet.”
“Are you having fun at least?”
After thinking for a moment, I shake my head. “It’s hit or miss.”
“But you’re still playing?”
“I’m not a quitter.” Not this close to when college applications are due. “I really do love the game…just not this team. Some girls don’t pass the ball. They don’t work together. It’s not very fun.”
“Then why are you still playing for the school?”
Good question. I love soccer, but at this point, it’s just something to put on my résumé. That sounds shallow, and any other answer would ring false, so I choose not to respond.
Mr. Brandon picks up his pen again. “After you graduate high school, life is going to get a lot tougher.”
“That’s hard to imagine,” I say quietly.
“It’s important to do things you enjoy. You don’t want to end up on a path that you hate.”
“I don’t want that either.”
“So what do you plan to do with your business major?”
I nod, prepared for the question. “I want to work for my family’s investment firm.”
He looks a little bored by my answer. I don’t blame him. It bores me too.
“What about your minor in politics?”
I should say that I will run for office one day, but he must hear this same drivel all day long. He probably looks forward to hearing the random—like a guy who wants to major in art because he’s on a graffiti crew, or a girl who wants to join the Yale sailing team but might have to take a semester or two off because it’s her dream to sail around the world.
“I’m not totally sure what I want to do with the politics minor,” I say. He appreciated when I told the truth earlier, so I decide to just lay it all out there. “I’m not wild about business either, to tell you the truth. I hate math.”
“So do I,” he replies with a smile.
“Whatever I do, Yale is the best school to help me achieve my goals.”
“I can’t disagree with you there. All of our students take general education courses during their first two years here. It helps kids learn more about who they are and what they like.”
“That’s good to know. I don’t really know what I like.”
“That’s okay. I just turned forty, and I still don’t know what I want to do with my life.” He stares out the window at a parking lot.
I follow his eyes. A black car reverses out of its space and drives out onto the road. I worry my life is just like that car, reversing and heading out to some unknown destination. I don’t like the idea of not knowing where I’m going.
We sit in an awkward silence.
“I totally bombed this interview, huh?” I say.
He shakes his head. “It’s been a good eye-opener for me, to be honest.”
“How so?”
“Based on your background and what I’ve seen in the news, I figured you’d make excuses for your behavior, but you were completely open with me. I appreciate that. When you send in your application, make sure to include a detailed letter explaining why you were expelled and what you’ve learned from it.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. There have been times when we’ve accepted a student only to find out later he’d forged his transcript or she lied about her extracurricular activities. We had to rescind their acceptance letters. So it’s best to get everything out in the open from the start.”
Mr. Brandon puts his pen back in the cup on his desk and closes my folder.
I shut my eyes. I still haven’t been completely honest with him. The election is in three weeks. I am planning to tell Mom and Dad the whole truth right after that.
I thought the worst thing would be not getting into Yale, but what if I got in and then they rescinded my acceptance?
I have no idea what to do next.
• • •
I won’t lie.
Call me a snob, but being my father’s daughter has its perks.
On the flight home from Connecticut, I stretch out my feet in first class. Dad upgraded us using his frequent flier miles. The flight attendant serves me sparkling water, steak and mashed potatoes, and chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert.
Dad reads briefing paper after briefing paper on his iPad. He’s on the Senate Appropriations Committee on Foreign Relations, so his staff is always forwarding him information about overseas development. I glance over his shoulder. He’s reading a paper titled PEPFAR FUNDING CUTS. That’s the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief.
“What’s going on with AIDS funding?” I ask.
Dad lets out a long sigh. “I’m trying to keep it going at current levels, but some of the guys want to cut it. They don’t want to spend so much money on Africa when we could use the funding domestically.”
PEPFAR has always been a favorite project of Dad’s. At first, I didn’t completely understand why Dad would fight for it so hard when we have homeless, hungry people here in the United States, but then he explained that over the past thirty years, AIDS ran rampant in Africa, leaving twenty-five
percent of kids without parents. Kids without homes are more likely to join groups that promote violence. Without PEPFAR, the entire African continent could’ve destabilized.
But still, what about hungry people here in America? It’s a hard balance. It would be great to help everyone, but funding has its limits.
“Do you think funding will be cut?” I ask.
“I’ll get the guys to change their minds, but not without giving up something else I want.”
“That doesn’t seem right, Dad.”
“That’s politics for you. But don’t worry, we’ll figure out a way to keep it funded. It’s the right thing to do.” Dad flips the lid on his iPad, covering the screen. He nods at my laptop. “What are you working on?”
“Just finishing up my English essay that’s due Monday. It’s on Chaucer.”
“Ahh, the Cadbury Tales.”
I laugh softly. “No, The Canterbury Tales.”
“I know. But I always thought about Cadbury eggs when we were reading it in class.”
“Sounds delicious.”
Dad elbows me. “If only your mom would buy them for us.”
It’s such a comfortable moment between us, I rest my head on his shoulder. I can’t remember the last time I did this. I must’ve been a little girl?
He pats the back of my hand, then keeps his fingers there. Again, something that hasn’t happened in a long time. It feels awkward, but I like it too.
“So how’d your interview go?” he asks quietly. He must’ve been waiting for me to bring it up, because he hadn’t asked until now, even though we left Yale a few hours ago.
“Mr. Brandon was really nice,” I say. “Our conversation was very real.”
Dad nods. “I’ve heard that about the admissions office. They’re no bullshitters.”
“Exactly.”
“What did he think of your résumé?”
“He said it looks great. He didn’t mention any ways I need to improve it, but he said the committee will have to carefully consider my application, you know, because of what happened at St. Andrew’s… I may not get in.” My voice cracks. A tear slips down my cheek.
Dad squeezes my hand. “I’m proud of you no matter what.”
I wipe my nose. It’s nice to hear that.
“So what’s going on with Ezra Carmichael?” he asks.
Hearing my boyfriend’s name always puts a smile on my face. I shrug at Dad, hoping he won’t make a big deal of it. “We’re dating, I guess.”
“Does your brother know?” Dad asks.
“Not yet. I’m trying to figure out how to tell him. Ezra wants to do it in person.”
“Don’t wait too long. He deserves to hear it from you and Ezra and not somebody else.”
I take a long sip of my drink. “I like him a lot, Dad. I have for a long time. I know he’s got some stuff to work out, but he’s a great guy—”
“Of course he is,” Dad interrupts. “You forget I’ve known him since he was a little boy. Other than taking apart my lawnmower and always winning all your brother’s money at poker, I admire his character. What teenage boy asks permission from a girl’s father before starting a relationship?”
That makes my heart race. “Seriously?”
“Yes, he asked once a couple of years ago and again last week.”
I laugh. “What did you say?”
“I said okay. But I told him he’d better follow through and ask you out, because I won’t say yes for a third time.”
With a smile, I snuggle my head against Dad’s shoulder, and he leans his head back against the seat. His black hair has a lot more gray in it than it used to. Frown lines accentuate his mouth. I can’t help but think those lines are my fault. My mistake is blotting out everything my dad has worked for for eighteen years.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry. For everything.”
“I know,” he replies quietly. “I hate how the press is portraying you.”
The guilt might drown me.
“I’m worried about you,” he adds.
“You have nothing to worry about. I’m good. But I feel terrible about what’s going on with your campaign,” I say. “I wish I could help somehow.”
“I want you to focus on you, okay?”
“Okay,” I say with a small smile.
After that college interview and all my conversations with Ezra, I like the idea of figuring out what I want. What I need.
I just hope I figure it out before it’s too late.
Relaxing
“I don’t think Ezra and I need your prompts anymore,” I tell Miss Brady.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, we’re dating now.”
Miss Brady smiles. “I’m glad you have someone to talk to. How about friends?”
“I’m getting closer with Alyson and Chloe from the soccer team. They’re different from my old friends, but I like them.”
“Different how?”
“They’re more laid-back. Like, Chloe never talks about her plans for the future except for how she wants to travel. With my old friends, and with Ezra—my boyfriend—it seems like we only talk about the future.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, if that’s what you want to concentrate on. But don’t spend so much time thinking about the future that you forget to live now. High school needs to be a balance of serious and fun, just like life.”
• • •
It’s Friday night, and Ezra is coming over to hang out. When he arrives, Marina answers the door and calls up the stairs, “Taylor! Ezra’s here.”
I love how when my parents are here, Marina walks from room to room and makes quiet announcements, but when they’re gone, she shouts like a normal person. It makes this house feel more like a home.
I finish my makeup and check my hair in the mirror, then jog down the stairs. Ezra’s not in the foyer. I poke my head into the living room. He’s not in there either. Then I hear his voice coming from the kitchen.
“Mustard, please. Thanks.”
I find him standing at the island, relaxed in a navy-blue pullover and loose, worn jeans. Marina hands him a sandwich cut into triangles.
When he sees me, he sets the plate down and gives me a broad smile. I rush into his arms for a long hug.
“Mmm,” he says into my hair. “I missed you. It’s been too long.”
“I just saw you this morning for coffee.”
“I was going into withdrawals. I need a kiss.”
I grin and get up on tiptoes to give him what he wants.
Marina clucks her tongue. “None of that hanky-panky in my kitchen.”
I break away from my boyfriend but keep my arms stretched around his neck. “Did you just say hanky-panky?”
Marina’s response is to shoo us out of the room.
We twine our fingers and go down the steps into the basement, taking his sandwich with us. Ezra slips off his work boots, and I turn on the TV.
It’s campaign season, so of course, the first commercial to pop up is one for Harrison Wallace. “Like you, the most important thing in my life is my family.” The commercial cuts to pictures of Wallace’s perfect blond wife and three perfect blond kids. They’re in a kitchen, cooking together. “This election, my vote is for better healthcare. I want to build more hospitals and bring better healthcare funding to Tennessee. Vote for me, Harrison Wallace, for senator, because your family matters.”
I shut my eyes. It’s a brilliant commercial. It would be in poor taste for Wallace’s campaign to come right out and attack me for being a drug user, but he can get away with playing up his own family. That commercial was the most wholesome thing I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t be surprised if homemade apple pies and lemonade started flying out of the TV.
There’s no room for e
rror in Dad’s campaign. I understand enough about politics to know that if we were in any other part of the country, say New York or California, my mistakes wouldn’t become as major a campaign point. Because let’s be honest, elections in the South are all about family values. They’re about tradition.
Ezra bumps his knee against mine. “You all right?”
I paste on a fake smile. “Definitely.”
“Liar. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“Fine. It’s been a long week, I’m tired, and I’m hungry.” I side-eye his sandwich.
With a laugh, he passes me a triangle, and we chew, content in the silence.
Since Mom and Dad aren’t coming home tonight, there’s no rush to fool around before they get back. I love just relaxing with Ezra on the couch, on the rug, in the armchair. We keep moving around the room as he play-wrestles with me and tickles me, but I always end up in his lap again, kissing his lips, curling my fingers into his hair.
My smile is real now.
He slightly lifts my top and runs his warm fingers over my lower back. Heat flares in his green eyes. I want to take this further, but Marina could walk through the basement on her way to the laundry. I hope she wouldn’t be doing a load of clothes on a Friday night, but you never know.
“Let’s go to my room,” I say between kisses.
“You are insatiable.”
I playfully push his chest. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No, it’s a very, very good thing. I love that about you.”
“You love that I’m horny?” I tease.
He bursts out laughing. “I love that you always go for what you want. I wish I could do that.”
I roll my eyes. “I hate it when you sell yourself short. You can do whatever you want, Ez.”
“You don’t get it. I can’t.”
I take a deep breath and lay it out there. “I was doing research online, and most colleges offer help for people who have learning disabilities.”
He winces when I say that, although I don’t entirely get why. It’s not like it’s something he can help; it’s a genetic thing. I guess it’s sort of like mental illness. It’s not rare by any means, and it’s not anything to be ashamed of, but people are still scared of the stigma that comes along with it.
Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) Page 16