Sell Out

by Tammy L. Gray

  I grabbed the sheet next knowing it took Ms. Yarnell ten minutes before she was completely absorbed in whatever she did on her computer. “Principal Rayburn will suspend us.” He’d already pulled the seniors together and warned this year would be different. But then again, he’d made the same threat the year I was relentlessly tormented. It didn’t mean much. “And if he doesn’t, Coach will make our lives a living nightmare.”

  “He won’t suspend the entire senior class. The man’s already on probation with the school’s board of directors. A board my father’s the president of, if you recall. Besides, we’ll be back in time for practice. No harm. No foul.” Blake’s tone carried the same edge that surfaced when he got agitated.

  Invisible shackles locked my wrists. The same shackles I felt every time Blake laid out some crazy scheme I didn’t want to do. I popped my neck to each side. At some point, I had to start saying no. “I can’t do it. Sorry.”

  Chugger’s face dropped into a frown. “Then it won’t work. Word’s already out, Cody. If you don’t come, the entire senior class will be busted. Besides, you owe us.”

  A chill inched up my neck. “I owe you?”

  Chugger leaned closer. “We’ve put you in this position. Now it’s time to take one for the team.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” My hands curled into a ball. I’d earned everything I’d been given.

  “He means we have to stay united, all participate or it’s pointless.” Blake scowled at Chugger, who begrudgingly returned to his task. “You’re the captain. The team’s not going to go without you.”

  “Yes, they will. I may be the captain in name, but you’re the leader of this team, and we all know it.” Because Blake “reminded” anyone who forgot, and the memory jog was rarely pleasant.

  “Then do this for me. In a few weeks the weather will change, and wrestling will be all we eat, sleep and breathe for the next four months. With everything going on with Lindsay and my parents, I need an escape.”

  Recognition clicked, calming the flame that Chugger had stirred. I’d barely seen Lindsay and Blake together since school started. “Everything okay with you two?”

  He hung his head, his shoulders rolling down into an uncommon slump. “We’re taking a break. Things were getting too serious, and we just needed to step back for a little while.”

  Suddenly senior skip day didn’t seem so shocking. Blake and Lindsay were an establishment at school. The class sweethearts since freshman year. Our very own Ken and Barbie. They obviously hadn’t confirmed the split because news like that would have spread through the school like a virus.

  Chugger’s shocked expression said it all. “Lindsay’s back on the market?”

  Blake lunged and would have gotten the collar of Chugger’s shirt if I hadn’t intercepted the move. Although part of me wanted to see Chugger laid out, I held down Blake’s arms and squeezed.

  Our classmates whispered and watched because it was Blake. And they noticed everything he did. Thankfully, Ms. Yarnell tapped wordlessly on her computer.

  His stare was murderous. “I said we’re taking a break, you moron, not that she’s available.” As he attempted to struggle out of my rigid hold, Blake’s ears turned bright red against his blond hair.

  Blake stopped thrashing, but his nostrils still flared. He pointed his finger. “I better not see you look in her direction. You got it?”

  Chugger threw his hands up. “Got it. Sorry man, I just assumed you broke up with her.”

  “Nobody broke up. Just drop it.”

  Blake settled in his chair, but his muscles were tight and his breathing shaky. He turned to me, his blue eyes hard and flinty. “You coming or not?”

  Though his words offered a choice, his stare told me there was no option but his. The gauntlet was thrown, and we both knew I wouldn’t pick it up. No one challenged Blake without consequences.

  I forced the nagging voice in my head to still. Nine months until this nightmare would be over. I could do it. I could play the game for just a little while longer.

  “Yeah, fine, I’ll go.”

  SKYLAR

  Liver Cancer.

  It’d been two years and ninety-five days since my father’s doctor had uttered the words. Sixty days since it had returned, inoperable this time. Fifty days since my father canceled his sold-out European tour. And twenty-eight days since we packed up our villa in Germany and moved to Asheville, North Carolina.

  And now, we had one day before our new normal began. Mine at Madison High, while my father’s would be at Mission Hospital, undergoing an experimental chemo that would hopefully save his life.

  Descending the stairs in our new home, I glanced at the dozens of framed albums that signified my father’s music career. Gold. Platinum. Multi-Platinum. Pictures with presidents and foreign heads of state, A-list actors and directors, and my personal favorite, the one he took with eight-year-old Brent Williams for the Starlight Children’s Foundation.

  Meeting my father was Brent’s wish. A day with Donnie Wyld—international rock legend and lead singer for the band that shared my name, Skylar Wyld. Brent sang on stage, signed autographs, rode in the limo and had the time of his life.

  I touched the glass, my gaze lingering on the man who could captivate millions. We’d both need my father’s determination if we were going to get through these next few months.

  I found my dad in the kitchen. He sat at the bar, elbows propped with his head resting in his hands.

  “You’re awake.” I kissed his cheek, his late afternoon shadow scratching my lips. The deep purple under his eyes reflected his exhaustion. The pain was getting worse.

  “Yeah. Can’t sleep all day.”

  But he was sleeping all day. Going to bed early, getting up late, taking three to four hour naps. I knew the tiredness was due to his medicine, and I prayed every night this new medical trial would work.

  I grabbed three plates from the cupboard and started setting our kitchen table. “When is the wicked witch getting here?”

  “Skylar.” My dad rarely scolded me, but he’d made it clear I needed to watch my attitude with my aunt.

  “Sorry. When is Josephine getting here?” My tone was anything but remorseful. The woman had invaded our lives. Not only was she here several times a day, taking up the little time my father was awake, but also she was pushy and pessimistic, and rearranged our kitchen after I’d spent two hours unpacking it.

  I’d barely known Josephine as a child. We only saw her twice a year and, every time, she pushed me aside, interested in spending time with only my dad. Plus, I distinctly remembered my mom and dad fighting after one of her visits. Something they almost never did. Now, I understood my mother’s irritation. The woman was impossible to like.

  Daddy sighed, fatigue etched in the lines of his too-thin face. “Any minute now. We need to discuss our plan for tomorrow.”

  My entire body flinched. “Let me go with you. I’d be much better company than your sister.”

  “No, Skylar. We’ve been through this. I won’t let you be my caretaker. It’s bad enough your life is getting turned upside down at seventeen. You don’t need to take my illness on as well. That’s why we moved here. So I could have Josie.”

  I wanted to yell how unfair he was being. That I was old enough to be of help to him. How moving us back to the States was a mistake. But I settled for saying, “This sucks.”

  I missed everything about Germany. My old house, the lack of paparazzi, Ricky and the rest of my dad’s band. We were like family. I’d grown up with their kids. And now they were half a world away, replaced by a woman who grated every one of my nerves.

  “I’m sorry, Skylar. I wish this wasn’t happening either. But your life shouldn’t stop just because I’m sick. I want you to reconsider Paris. You already took your SATs, and Ms. Stapler says you are well ahead of any other senior.”

  I eyed my father. His publicist had recently updated his style, chopping off his signature shoulder length hair for
a more trendy style. He still wore the earrings and multiple leather bracelets, but I missed his old look. I didn’t miss this old argument, though.

  “I need to graduate. Officially.”

  “Ms. Stapler is a certified teacher and has been your tutor since you were ten. She’d write your diploma without a second thought. You could start applying to ESMOD fashion school now, and be in the seat by January.”

  I loved that he supported my passion to study in Paris, but my mind was made up. “I can’t design clothes for teenage girls when I’ve hardly met any of them. High school sounds so, I don’t know, different, romantic. Normal. I want the experience.” And I wanted to be near my dad, even if he was pushing me away.

  My father did a weird grunt-huff thing. “I’ve done high school. Nothing romantic about it. Just a bunch of kids with too much money and not enough to do. Been there, Skylar, and it’s not something I want you anywhere near.”

  I resisted an eye roll. Daddy was a bad boy turned good. A rock star who spent his weekends with his only daughter and never drank anything stronger than black coffee. His constant traveling forced the homeschool thing, but sometimes I wondered if Daddy would have insisted on it anyway.

  “Madison has the highest academic ratings in the county,” I reminded him.

  “It also has the highest median household income. I know these kind of kids.”

  We stared at each other, hoping we could change one another’s mind. “I’m not leaving until you’re better. If you won’t let me stay home and help, then I’m going to Madison. It was our compromise. Remember?”

  His long sigh told me I’d won. “You’re so much like your mother. Stubborn.” A shadow passed over his face, and his eyes stared off into an old memory. “Sometimes I look at you and think she’s standing right there.” Sadness coated his voice.

  I slipped into his arms, squeezing him as tightly as his pain threshold would allow.

  My mom died in a car accident when I was ten. She’d been the love of his life, the reason he gave up partying and became the father I knew. It took a year after her death before he smiled again. But we survived that tragedy, and we’d survive this one. We were fighters. And we had each other. Nothing else mattered.

  CODY

  Everyone deals with chaos differently. My way was music. So, pulling up to the radio station Monday night was the only thing that salvaged my foul mood. Every senior in our class was skipping tomorrow, along with half the juniors on our wrestling team. I wouldn’t let myself think about the retribution that would come at practice.

  The station halls were quiet, the offices empty—a reminder that my nine o’clock gig was not the prime spot whatsoever. I didn’t care. The anonymity I had behind the microphone gave me a small taste of freedom every week.

  I waved at Joe in the booth next to mine. He had the eight to nine hour and represented the metal heads. I was more classic rock, with only a few current artists. I preferred the obscure songs. The ones that never made it onto billboard charts. But, then again, I knew all about existing in someone else’s shadow.

  Twenty minutes flew by as I put together my digital playlist. That was the other thing I loved about working at a small station. The producers let us pick our songs.

  A knock on our shared window told me I was up next. Joe took off his headphones and my “on air” light flashed.

  I pulled the microphone forward and let my troubles melt away. “It’s CJ your Monday night rock wizard, playing all those songs you won’t hear anywhere else. Tonight’s theme is one that rock legends have used to change the world. Resistance. From protesting wars to social injustice, these men and women have made their mark on American culture. First up is a band you all know I love, Skylar Wyld with their 1983 hit, “Going Nuclear.” Don’t forget, phone lines are always open. Tell me your best story of resistance, and I might just put you on the air.”

  I hit play and sat back while Donnie Wyld’s electric guitar blazed out one of the best song openings I’d ever heard.

  The phone line popped red and I smiled. My audience was growing every week, with more and more people calling in with their stories.

  “This is CJ. Who am I speaking to?”

  A male voice filled the line, and I could tell in the first sentence he was flying high. “Hey, Dude! That was a killer set you played last week. I downloaded every song.”

  “Nice. Glad you enjoyed it. Are you calling me with a story?”

  “Nah. But since we’re talking about resistance, I wanted to see if you’d play that song ‘Fight for your Right’ to p-a-r-t-y.” He sang the title and burst out laughing.

  I rolled my eyes as he continued to crack himself up. Stoners were stupid. I’d never get the appeal. “Sorry, man, that song spent way too much time in the top 20 to be on my radio show. But I’ll do you one better. Here’s ‘Dying Inside’ by Saint Vitus.”

  The guy was likely too jacked up to get the message behind the song. But maybe someone out in my air space would hear the pain in lead singer Scott Weinrich’s words even if he or she couldn’t always hear it in mine.

  The phone light popped red again, and this time it was a seventh grader who staged a running of the pigs down her school’s hallway in protest of bacon in the lunchroom. I laughed so hard I had to run a commercial and gave the girl two tickets to Six Flags.

  What could I say? I was a sucker for those who stood up for their beliefs.

  Maybe one day I would too.

  SKYLAR

  I fingered the small silver locket I never took off. I wore it for courage, maybe. But mostly because it reminded me of my mom—Brianna Da Lange. Inside, her picture was next to mine. Two redheads with big green eyes. Only hers were fearless. A supermodel at fifteen, she blazed down every runway from America to Paris, and here I trembled as I stared at Madison High.

  My heart fluttered with a mixture of anxiety and adrenaline. A real school. Filled with teenagers and drama and the unknown. But it was also the first genuinely normal thing I’d ever done. And for some reason, normal brought peace. The idea that life could exist away from the flash and glamour of the band. Where maybe I could have two living parents, and a dog named Spot. Where no one was sick and pushing me away.

  I flipped the locket, turning it over to read the inscription for the hundredth time.

  Soar like wings of eagles

  I could still hear her voice in my head. Make every day count. Make every moment matter.

  If my mom had the courage to move to America alone with a three-year-old until my dad wised up and quit drinking, then I could face a building full of strangers.

  Forcing my feet to move, I left my car and pushed through the metal doors. They creaked and closed behind me with a loud click. A click that echoed through eerily empty halls. There were no crowds mingling or running to class. No gaggle of girls huddled in a circle telling the latest gossip. Just rows and rows of untouched maroon lockers, and a linoleum floor so shiny the fluorescent lights seemed to bounce off its surface and into my eyes.

  With shaky hands, I pulled my wrinkled schedule out of my bag and walked over to the locker I’d been assigned. My dad and I had come two weeks ago on a Saturday to meet with Principal Rayburn. We’d asked for complete anonymity with the faculty and students, and he assured us no one would know. It was a promise I desperately hoped he could keep.

  It took two attempts with my combination, but the door finally budged. My school supplies consisted of one massive five-subject notebook, a handful of pens, and three folders. I almost bought one designed with a picture of my dad’s guitar and Skylar Wyld etched in script across the bottom but decided I was tempting fate.

  Metal slammed against metal, and my gaze shifted toward the sound. He was far away, almost to the end of the hall, but I could tell he was struggling. He juggled three books while attempting to shove his giant backpack into the locker.

  Nerves prickled my skin, but I walked toward him anyway. This was it. My first interaction. “I can hold those f
or you.”

  His chin jerked upward, and the books went sprawling. Wiry glasses nearly followed, but he quickly pushed them back in place.

  I’d always wondered if stereotypes existed in schools the way they were portrayed in books and movies, and now I was staring right at one. His button up, short-sleeved shirt had two pens sticking out of the top pocket and was tucked into jeans that didn’t quite reach his ankles, which was odd, because he was shorter than I was and almost as skinny.

  My internal makeover fairy begged to intervene.

  Reaching down, I picked up the scattered books one by one, and held them out to him with a nice-to-meet-you smile. He stared like I was carrying razor blades and not textbooks. I pointed to the backpack jammed halfway in his locker. “You can finish that now.”

  “Huh?” The guy turned back to his locker. “Oh, yeah.” He shoved and pushed until the backpack disappeared.

  “I’m Skylar, by the way. This is my first day here.” I looked down the hall, hoping he was the first of many to suddenly appear, but no one else walked up. “Where is everyone?”

  “Like you don’t know,” he said without turning.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Mr. Friendly reached for the books in my hands.

  When I pulled them away, he scowled. “Just get on with it. I’d like to actually make it to class on time today.” Under his breath I heard him murmur something about senior skip day.

  “Did you say senior skip day?” I handed him the textbooks, and he put two in his locker before slamming it shut.

  “Who did you say you were again?”

  “Skylar.” I pulled out my new schedule and handed it to him. “See, first day.”

  He skimmed the information and passed it back to me. “You have Yarnell for first period. She’s a stickler on tardiness, but I doubt it will matter today. Come on, I’ll show you.”