“I’m fine,” I say, through clenched teeth. I gingerly stand up on my own and assess the damage. Sure enough, bright red blood is streaming down my shin.
“Do you want me to call someone?” Zach pulls out his cell phone, ready to dial nine-one-one.
“Seriously, I’m good.” I smile tightly through gritted teeth.
Zach follows me as I limp toward the silver bleachers to grab my duffel.
“Thanks for the game,” I squeak as I toss my bag over my shoulder and hobble toward the beach, desperately hoping that he hasn’t caught just how much warm, crimson liquid is currently rolling down my leg.
“Yeah. See ya,” Zach says. I give him a kind of nod-slashgrimace in response and turn away as another swell of pain washes over me. With each movement, the stinging increases, but I do my best to minimize any visible signs of agony in case Zach is still looking. Sixteen excruciating steps later, I hear the dribble of the ball in the distance.
two
Having now survived the second most humiliating moment of my life (the first was during a “pay what you weigh” dinner when my parents chose to hand over a buck and some major change instead of nickels and dimes like everyone else’s ’rents), I decide that even though the walk from the complex to Beachwood is a mere three blocks, I should take the time to clean up the blood still streaming down my shin. After unzipping my duffel, I pull out an extra sock and wipe away the blood, promptly turning my sock red. Then I pour some water on the sock and use it to dab the gash. Ouch.
The walk to Beachwood feels longer than ever before. My mind swirls with thoughts of Richland and their star center Nikki Rodriguez. And I’m about to lose it when I finally arrive at my high school, Beachwood Academy—B-Dub. Opting for the entrance closest to the gym, I push the door open to our brand new eco-friendly building (a recent donation from an ultra-successful alum, and one of the various interconnected structures that make up the high school portion of the campus).
As I hold the door open for my teammate Eva (who has dyed her hair more times this season than I’ve earned twenty-twenty games), Matt Moore barrels by me and scales the steps. He sails through the air and lands feet first on the freshly cleaned linoleum below (all signs point to Beachwood’s having an army of little elves who operate by the principle: “No speck of elite private school dust shall ever go un-mopped”).
“Hey, there’s my favorite English partner,” he says, straightening up. He looks at me with his deep brown eyes and seeing my slight limp, an expression of concern flashes across his face. “You injure yourself before practice even starts?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t hurt too bad anymore. And besides, we can’t all be immune to injury,” I tease him, loving the way his signature hoodie hugs his neck. Today it’s another gray one with Beachwood Lacrosse written across the front in white block letters. “You also here for practice?”
“Just getting in an early morning warm-up before I have to head home.” He runs his hand over his black buzz cut.
“So you actually have time to work out? You know, with all the partying and hooking up you do?” I joke. And honestly, who knows how much of that is right on the money? Matt transferred to Beachwood from Beverly Hills High earlier this year, and his background is a complete mystery (which means that it’s also prime fodder for the rumor mill). Given that the majority of my classmates started out together at Beachwood Middle, any new blood is a source of serious interest. And with the way that Matt doesn’t talk about his past, curiosity has only grown larger over time.
Sometimes I find myself wondering whether he’s hiding something—a terrible, dark secret or a crazy mistake. Other times, I just think that he likes to keep the speculation and rumors circulating. Not that that’s hard to do—ultracompetitive private school students have no difficulty concocting elaborate stories in seconds. (Our SAT writing scores are second in the state.) Naturally, every girl at school wants to be added to his supposed list of conquests. Except me, of course. He’s too short. And besides, if there’s any truth to the gossip, I don’t want anyone’s sloppy seconds. Or thirds. Or fourths, for that matter. Well, except for Zach’s. And he’s a one-girl-at-a-time kind of guy. (At least I hope so.)
Matt grins, showing off two deep dimples. “Taylor Thomas finally came up with a funny.” He takes a few steps backward and checks his watch. His face turns grim. “Gotta go. Dad’s waiting. See you in English.” Matt turns around and sprints across the lawn.
I hold the door for two more cheerleaders and then walk into our gym, bracing myself for our star junior guard Kylie’s inevitable hysterics. As always, I take in the multiple royal blue Wildcat championship banners that adorn the walls. Then I glance up at my dad’s framed number four jersey, challenging myself to play to the best of my ability. Although basketball has always come easy to me (I get it from my dad who was a tremendous talent—hence, the hanging jersey), I am constantly pushing myself to reach the next level of play, especially because it’s my fault that Dad never got to go pro.
Not surprisingly, my self-directed pep talk is soon interrupted by the sounds of Kylie being comforted by her BFF Missy. Like Kylie, our star guard, Missy is a platinum blonde (Hannah insists that neither of them were born that way) and a fellow junior.
I guess Kylie heard about Zach’s recent status update. And from the looks of it, the decision was not mutual. With only a week to prepare for the Richland game, the last thing we need is for one of our best players to be having a complete meltdown. Unfortunately, if the last time Kylie and Zach had relationship trouble is any indication, then our team is in for a rude awakening.
Kylie used to be far less intense, back when she and I actually hung out together after AAU basketball games. Before she began dying her hair and having it blown out in perfect, Blake Lively-looking waves. Before she and Missy became BFFs. And before she had a fist-to-cuffs brawl with Natasha Morris, the Beachwood junior class president, right in the middle of B-Dub’s newly paved parking lot, simply because Natasha—who had never previously stepped foot in the gym—suddenly started being the loudest member of Zach’s cheering section. Kylie never got over it. She always thought that Zach must have been secretly cheating on her with Natasha. And ever since then, Kylie has been completely obsessed with catching him in the act, so much so that she’s officially become a permanent resident of crazy-town.
I keep my eyes cast down and walk toward the ball rack. Not that I did anything wrong. Zach just wanted to play some one-on-one. Most likely, he’s just setting me up to improve his basketball skills or to eventually chat all things Hannah or Chloe or Missy or Jessica or someone way hotter and smaller than me.
And anyway, Kylie has a completely different reaction when it comes to me. So, it’s not likely that she’s suddenly going to start perceiving me as a threat. Once she totally caught me gazing at Zach during Beachwood’s annual holiday charity drive, and she couldn’t have cared less. In Kylie’s eyes, I’m a total zero.
I grab a ball, walk past fellow freshmen Abby and Zoe practicing foul shots, and shoot outside the three-point line at the side net. Sure enough, Kylie’s violent sobs are still audible.
“Hey, girlie. Thanks for helping me out with my math homework last night.” Jessica, a sophomore forward, greets me at the basket. She drives toward the net for a layup. Then, she catches the ball and turns around, never breaking the conversation. “Did you hear about Kylie and Zach?”
“What happened?” I ask, pretending not to know. Out of the corner of my eye, I sneak a peek at Kylie and discover that she’s busy slamming a basketball against the concrete gym wall. Not good.
“Last night over dinner at Missy’s house, Zach told Kylie that he’s into someone else.” Jessica’s long, black ponytail sways as she sets up and shoots at the foul line.
“Really?” I exclaim, surprised to discover that the breakup may have been due to more than just Zach’s disgust with his crazy girlfriend. Oops, that was harsh. My injury must be getting to me. Time to regroup and
think nice.
Standing underneath the basket, I check my knee. It’s scabbed over, but still screaming.
“Yup.” She moves closer toward me, and I get ready for the inevitable: “Zach’s really into Hannah, etc . . .”
Like the time during seventh grade, when I was crushing on Michael Trono. I was still super naïve about the height thing and thought for sure Michael was going to be my first kiss. And for three weeks, Michael hung out with me. All the time. We even shot baskets together just like Zach and I did today. Actually, I did all the shooting. Michael kind of sucked. The whole time I swore he was going to ask me to Beachwood Middle School’s annual Holly Ball. Sure enough, two weeks before the dance, Michael walked up to my locker and said,“Hey,can you . . .”
Cutting him off, I fluttered my eyelashes and bellowed a big yes,beaming.
“Thanks. I really appreciate your help. Message me to let me know if Hannah says yes.”
Second lesson learned. Everyone likes Hannah. Not me.
“And get this,” Jessica whispers in my ear. “I heard that after he left Missy’s house, he called you hot.”
My stomach does a three-sixty. No one has ever called me “hot” before. Except maybe my mom when I’m sick.
“Does Kylie know?” I squeak.
Before Jessica can answer, Coach Jackson blows the whistle, signaling the team to huddle up. Jessica and I race back over (well, she races—I do a weird jog-slash-hop thing) and take our seats on the bleachers.
Even though I’m worried about how Kylie’s latest meltdown is going to impact the team, and more importantly, even though my stomach is still swirling over the hot comment, I’m excited to hear what Coach has to say about our plan for dealing with Richmond.
“Okay, Wildcats,” Coach begins. “There’s something serious I need to talk to you about.” Tucking her Beachwood gray T-shirt into her blue mesh shorts, Coach scans the stands.
Joy. Coach heard the Zach and Kylie news. Ever since Kylie’s suspension (yup, due to her fight with Natasha), Coach keeps an eye on the Beachwood social scene. Now, whenever she hears about drama, she quotes some Henry guy who hung out in the woods for a while and says, “Success comes to those too busy to be looking for it.” In other words, if we’re too busy playing basketball to make drama, we’re bound to succeed.
That’s when we see Martie, athletic-director-slash-English-teacher-slash-girls’-soccer-coach-extraordinaire, enter the gym. Carrying a clipboard in her hands, she jogs on over to our little circle. She and Coach Jackson give each other a slight nod, and then Coach turns back to us, resuming her speech.
“Most of you know Martie for one of the many hats she wears at this school. And we’re very fortunate that even with all that she has going on, she has graciously agreed to fill a vacancy that just opened up here in girls’ basketball.”
Looking around, I see that the other members of the team have also begun shifting uncomfortably and casting furtive glances out of the corners of their eyes. It’s clear that they’re all thinking the same thing as me: What the heck is she talking about?
Continuing, Coach Jackson catches us completely off guard with her next announcement. “I have some bad news. Coach Bennington has had to take a leave of absence.”
What? What’s wrong with Coach B? Is she sick? Did something happen?
“Is she okay?” Tamika, our captain, asks, nervously twirling a thin braid.
“Yes. Coach B is fine. She just has some personal things she needs to take care of and has requested some time off.”
Martie pipes up. “So, Coach Jackson is going to take over as head coach, and I’m going to work with you as your assistant.”
Again, we all exchange puzzled looks.
Martie’s life is like an episode of my mom’s old TV series, L.A. High. Rumor has it that Martie grew up in Crenshaw, attended Beachwood years ago, and played for the U.S. national soccer team after graduation. Then, while she was away playing in the World Cup, her sister was killed in a drunk-driving accident. Now, as the first female athletic director at B-Dub, she’s a big success story. But . . . despite her many accomplishments, the fact is she has absolutely no basketball experience.
“No offense,” Tamika pauses. “I know you’re this amazing soccer coach and everything, but what do you know about basketball?” She crosses her arms.
Martie smiles gently. “I’m in the process of studying your plays, and Coach Jackson is doing a fabulous job of preparing me.” She hugs the clipboard to her chest. “Plus, I have some team-building activities up my sleeve that have proven to be very effective. If we learn to play as a team, we’ll win as a team. Teamwork transcends all sports.”
Team-building activities? This isn’t gym class. We need to prep for our game against Richland on Friday, the one where the SoCal Suns summer club coaches will be peppering the stands. The same game that if we win, we’re golden to earn our three-peat—for only the second time in Beachwood’s elite basketball dynasty’s history. And no Coach Bennington? Coach B is the Pat Summit of Southern California. She’s the primary reason I decided to attend Beachwood. I’ve been dreaming of playing for her ever since my dad took me to a B-Dub championship game when I was in second grade.
Ignoring the team’s frustrations, Coach Jackson continues. “If you are all willing to give this new dynamic a chance, I’m completely confident that we can continue playing as well as we would have under Coach B. With me focusing on the more technical aspects of the game and Martie concentrating on the mental part, we’re stacked. Martie is a phenomenal team builder and a pro at teaching mental toughness.” Coach pauses briefly, and—I could be wrong—but I think I see her eyes flick over to Kylie. “And um . . . those are aspects of our game that could certainly use a little help.”
Tamika lets out a deep breath (guess she doesn’t think that’s too terrible of an explanation). At almost exactly the same time, Kylie emits a shrill gasp. Only I don’t think it has anything to do with what Coach just told us. Nope, she’s gasping because of the shape that just whipped across the gym toward the men’s locker room. Zachary Michael Murphy. And I’m pretty sure that he just winked at me.
three
We’re going over our baseline play for the zillionth time when it happens.
“Hey, Zach, there she is.” Hoots and catcalls echo from the direction of the boys’ locker room.
I survey the court, my eyes landing on Kylie. Although she’s supposed to be watching the court while waiting her turn to take over the guard position, her eyes are glued on Zach. With the type of death stare she’s giving him, I wouldn’t be surprised if her eyes started shooting laser beams.
“So, did you have to stand on a dune to kiss her or what?” I hear Nick say.
I freeze. Kiss? What is he talking about? And standing on a dune? I’m definitely the tallest girl here by five inches. I’m the only one that a guy would have to climb a dune to reach. Kylie switches her glare to me. I’m frozen like Rodriguez when I drive past her toward the basket.
“Taylor? Are you listening?” Coach Jackson shouts, tucking the basketball under her arm.
“Yeah, sorry.” I jog to my spot, which for me means standing under the net with my hands up. Sometimes this is all I have to do to sink ten baskets a game. See, I’m not only the tallest girl at Beachwood; I’m also the tallest girl in the entire conference.
After I jog to my position and raise my hands, I feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead and on the back of my neck. Tamika passes me the ball. I bank it off the backboard into the basket.
Kylie steps onto the court to take her turn. With a scowl plastered across her pale pink glossed lips, she launches the ball at me as hard as she can. It snaps into my palm. I turn toward the basket and finish my layup. My heart hammers inside my chest and a droplet of sweat rolls down my back.
If Kylie’s looks could kill, I would be one dead—wait a sec. Make that Jessica (who is standing directly in front of me) would be one dead forward.
�
��Jessica, how could you? You’re my teammate! You and me in the locker room after practice.” Kylie points and glares at Jessica.
Jessica turns around and shrugs her shoulders at me like she does during tutoring when she can’t figure out a formula.
I pick up the ball and toss it back to Kylie whose tense face flips faster than a cheerleader at halftime. She grins sweetly at me.
Of course Kylie couldn’t possibly think Nick was talking about Towering Taylor Thomas. And honestly, I’m not quite sure either. I mean, Jessica is five feet eight.
four
FR: BANANA
WHERE R U?????? MAJOR NEWS ABOUT FASHION SHOW!!!
I wonder what could possibly be going on with the show that Hannah would want my help with. It’s not like I know anything about style or fashion design. Nope, that’s definitely her department.
I toss my duffel bag over my shoulder and hightail it out of the locker room before I witness the unsheathing of Kylie’s claws. (I mean, I know I can take her one-on-one, but what spews out of her mouth is way worse than any fist fight). With Jessica trailing on my toes, she must be thinking the same thing.
Poor Jessica. At the end of practice, Kylie looked flustered, red, and definitely ready for battle, kind of like the time she caught Amanda Maisley helping Zach study for his history final after school. Yes, just studying. The next day during lunch, after Amanda stood up to chat with Missy (not realizing, of course, that Missy was in on one of Kylie’s schemes), Kylie deviously left a packet of ketchup on her seat. When Amanda returned, she sat down and . . . splat. Amanda was sent home three hours later after a teacher finally informed her she was walking around oblivious to a big, red splotch right there.
But what tipped off Kylie’s craziness and set all-time psychotic records was the infamous Chloe Simpson incident. It’s supposedly the only “proven” Zach cheat. But I don’t believe it ever happened. Chloe’s such a nice person; she’s always messaging me and has been helping Hannah out with the fashion show. Anyway, rumors swirled around Beachwood that Chloe kissed Zach at Surfrider Beach while Kylie was away skiing in Telluride over Winter Break. A week later, someone hacked into Chloe’s page and sent embarrassing wall posts to all her friends divulging their biggest secrets for the world to see. Seriously humiliating stuff. Poor Chloe spent the entire month of January trying to clear everything up. Just when things were looking up for her again, the hacker hit her Twitter account, sending tweets about some made-up deep dark secrets. She shut her accounts down and hasn’t been the same since. You just don’t mess with Kylie and her crew.
Head Games Page 2