Head Games

by Nicole Leigh Shepherd

  “Whatever,” Hannah rolls her eyes. “Who is it this week? Dylan?”

  “Nope.” Violet winks and runs her thumb across her phone. “It’s Matt Moore tonight. He’s such a sweetie.”

  I almost puke. It can’t be. I know there are rumors about him. But . . . he’s different. (At least around me.) And so not Violet’s type. I mean, I hadn’t thought so . . .

  Giving us a little Miss America–wave good-bye, Violet sashays out of the room and slams the door behind her.

  “I probably should stop tearing up her clothes for fabric. But she’s such a brat.” Hannah giggles. Then she stares at the open computer screen. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” I close the laptop.

  She shoves next to me and opens it. Her mouth falls open. “Wait, Zach left you a post, and you didn’t tell me?”

  As I’m about to inform her that I just noticed it when Vi interrupted us, Hannah seizes the opportunity to quickly type “Why don’t you come over and kiss it?” under “How’s your knee?” Before I can swat her hand away, she presses enter.

  That did not just happen. My heart beats wildly and I can’t swallow. “What are you doing?” I try to push Hannah out of the way. But for a tiny girl, she’s freakishly strong, and I can’t budge her.

  “You have to show Zach how you feel.” She giggles.

  “This is not funny. He’s dating one of my teammates. If Kylie sees that comment, she’ll kill me.”

  “Correction: He was dating one of your teammates. He’s single now, remember?”

  I use my hips like I would to box out an opposing player and catapult Hannah a couple of steps to the side, managing to gain back control of the laptop.

  Except that’s when I realize I’m too late. There’s nothing I can do. The comment is already out there for all of Beachwood—and the world—to see. It’s official. Game over.

  ten

  Swish.

  The most amazing sound ever. The only thing that can distract me from the fact that it took five whole minutes for me to figure out how to delete Hannah’s comment. Five long minutes during which Zach and Kylie and the rest of Beachwood (okay, my cyber-friends, but still) could see just how desperate kiss-less Taylor really is for a guy’s attention on a Saturday night. Or at least that’s what they’ll think.

  My sweet sound is interrupted by a smack.

  “Foul,” Nick barks at Kylie, attempting a steal with hacks and skin-slapping.

  “You’re up eighteen to twelve. Stop crying. Loser,” Kylie counters, breathless.

  That’s when I see what’s got Kylie stressed. (Not that it’s hard to do.) He came. To the beach court. Zachary Murphy. I’m stunned that he and Kylie would be willing to hang out together, but I guess that’s one of the many weird things about their relationship. No matter how many times they’re “on a break,” they still hang out. If you ask me, Kylie’s a glutton for punishment.

  Having said his hellos to the members of the girls’ and boys’ b-ball teams who came out tonight, Zach runs onto the court. Play begins, and soon enough I feel his warm hand nudging the small of my back for position.

  Zach leans in closer. If he were just any opposing player (especially my rival Rodriguez), I’d throw him off and get into better defensive position. But this is Zach. And he’s touching my back. And I can feel his breath on my neck. And I don’t want it to end.

  Play continues around me, and Nick passes to Chris who alley-oops the ball to Zach, who, moving away from me, fakes right, steps left, and hooks the ball into the net. Zach tumbles into me as he lands and catches my forearm. My heart pounds. “Sorry,” he says before dashing down the court to play defense.

  I jog by Kylie, who is shooting Zach a look that would freeze fire, and set up underneath our net. Zach slides behind me, again placing one hand against the small of my back and the other in front of my face. My heart picks up speed.

  Kylie dribbles across half-court, attempting to outmaneuver Nick, who sticks close behind. She steps around Nick and fires the ball to Missy.

  Missy breaks toward the basket and immediately bounce-passes the ball to me, inside the lane. It’s on me.

  Zach moves closer.

  I freeze.

  Matt Connelly, another senior, slaps the ball out of my hands and takes off toward his basket.

  “What the heck,Taylor?” Kylie shouts my way.

  My chest tightens. Even at a Saturday night pick up game, nothing but the best is accepted at B-Dub. “Sorry, I don’t know what happened.”

  “Whatever.” Kylie snatches the ball from Matt and launches it at Zach. The ball ricochets off his foot and rolls onto the sand. He looks at her, bemused, and turns to Nick, shrugging.

  A squeak escapes Kylie’s lips. Then she takes control of the situation, declaring, “I’m parched. And it’s time for a water break anyway.”

  I mosey over toward Hannah, who’s just finished practicing her ollies at the adjoining skate park.

  “Did you catch all that?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I could barely concentrate on my skating with all the sexual tension going on over there. Zach’s totally been checking you out,” she says.

  I look down at my Nike shorts and pull my baby blue fleece sleeves over my hands.

  “In fact, I think he’s looking at you right now.”

  “Banana, will you cut it out? He’s not staring at—”

  “Hey.”

  I turn around and there’s Zach, jogging toward me, his dark brown hair tumbling onto his forehead in soft waves.

  Mouthing “told ya so,” Hannah beams at me and skateboards away in the direction of her boarding buddies.

  The second she leaves, I take a breath, preparing myself for the inevitable “So, Taylor, you know how you and Hannah are so close . . .” followed by a rambling explanation of how much he likes her. And how I, as her best friend, am in the unique position to help out.

  Except, this time the rambling explanation doesn’t come.

  Instead, he grabs my hands and pulls me onto the sand beside him. Our bodies tumble to the ground together, and my stomach drops. “You’re really good at basketball,” Zach says.

  “Wait. What?” I ask, dumbfounded.

  “You’re really good. I’ve never played against a girl as good as you.”

  “You’ve probably never played against a girl as tall as me before.”

  “I’ve seen you on the court. You’re good.” Zach looks up and moves his hair out of his eyes.

  He’s watched me play? I stare at the sand, tracing the shape of tiny basketballs with my index finger. Then I remember I’m supposed to respond. “Thanks,” I muster, my tongue sticking to the top of my mouth like glue.

  Then, Zach does something that I never in a million, bazillion years would think he’d ever do. He slides down toward my feet, looks up at me with his make-me-melt eyes, leans down toward my scraped knee, and kisses (yes, kisses) the Band-Aid. “Does that feel better?”

  My heart stops. He read Hannah’s comment. Maybe she does know what she’s doing after all. I nod, unable to recall how normal people are supposed to behave in these situations. But all I can think is, Zach kissed me! (Well, my knee anyway.)

  Then, silence. Weird, uncomfortable silence. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi . . .

  “Hey, Taylor.” Uh-oh, that voice. I know that voice. I turn around. Sure enough, Kylie has come to ruin my moment.

  Turning to Zach, she announces, “We need to talk,” and, grabbing his hand, pulls him to his feet. She then flips her golden hair over her shoulder and says, “See you at practice, Taylor.”

  “Bye,” Zach adds, following Kylie. And then—the icing on the cake—he winks at me.

  Just like that, the two of them take off, and it dawns on me: What’s worse than Kylie completely freaking out because I’m hanging out alone with her boyfriend? No reaction. Nada. Nothing. Like I’m absolutely no threat to her whatsoever. Like I’m Zach’s sister or cousin or something.


  I push myself off the ground and stand up. And then I remember. Zachary Michael Murphy kissed me. Beat that, Aunt Sally.

  Instead of trekking back to the court, I attempt to avoid all signs of Beachwood Academy by taking the bike path home.

  “Where are you going?” My heart skips a beat. Matt Moore, still wearing his adorable hoodie, sits on a small sand hill, a few feet away from a group of Beachwood girls, including an impatient Vi, who’s busy texting and rolling her eyes.

  “Oh my gosh, you scared me!”

  “Well, I guess you scare easily.” Matt grins.

  “I thought you were a murderer or something.”

  “Maybe I am,” Matt replies, his smile getting even bigger. “So, where are you going?”

  “Home.” I pull out my iPhone to check the time. Three texts from Dad—one checking in on me, another, reminding me of my ten o’clock curfew, and a third, reiterating that this is the last time I’ll be allowed to go to the beach with my friends if I don’t text him back immediately to let him know I’m okay.

  Matt tosses a red cup on the sand and grabs my hand. “I hate you for making me want you so much.”

  “Dude, love the Edward Cullen quote, but I think you have the wrong person,” I laugh and quickly snap my hand back. I text my dad back, letting him know that I’m on my way. The last thing I need is for him to worry. Then I glance back at Vi, who’s still pacing around on her phone, probably making the uber-important nightly club decision. I widen my eyes as I catch sight of Vi pressing what looks like the “End” call button on her phone.

  “Why don’t I walk you home?” He walks down the dune.

  “I’m good. . . . And anyway, I don’t feel safe being accompanied by a vampire.” I try to crack a smile, but I’m starting to feel slightly woozy again.

  “Fill me in on Murph on Monday.” Matt smirks. “I saw you guys on the beach.”

  “And fill me in on all the partying you do this weekend,” I add, giggling.

  “Come on, Matt,” Vi says, walking back over toward the group.

  He shrugs and jogs over to her, giving one final look in my direction. I’m surprised to see that the two of them look so cute together. They’re just about the same size.

  Steadying myself as I resume my journey home, it occurs to me: Hannah’s with her new skateboard gang. Zach’s with Kylie. Matt’s with Violet. And Taylor Thomas is walking home with a kissed boo-boo.

  eleven

  Fifteen minutes later, I scale the steep driveway toward my front door, taking a moment to think future-WNBA-player thoughts as I stretch my long legs before heading inside. Then I text Hannah and deep breathe like I learned at the Sun Salutation Yoga class my mom dragged me to this summer. (Tell my mom you feel stressed sometimes, and she’ll have you yoga-ing it up before you can say “downward dog.”)

  I open the door to find my dad, still dressed in his collared shirt and khakis from a round of golf this morning, sitting in his favorite recliner in front of the flat screen TV in the great room. “Is Mom home?” I ask, hoping that she’s around to hash out the details of the fashion show with me.

  “She’s asleep,” my dad says, mindlessly playing around with the golf club on his lap. My dad plays a lot of golf. I guess it’s a diversion. So he can forget about his glory days as a star guard at Beachwood and UCLA, and his two seasons playing professionally in Europe. Before my being born ruined his dreams of making it to the big time . . .

  He places the club to the side of the chair.

  “So, Spider, did you have fun with your friends?” Urgh. The infamous spider nickname. At least it’s been shortened from the original “Daddy Long Legs.” (Get it? Really long legs? Dad says I’ve had them since birth.)

  “Yup.” I take two steps at a time. Dad’s been trying hard lately to “connect” about something other than basketball. I think our basketball relationship works just fine.

  “Did you run today?”

  “Yup.” I stop mid staircase.

  “Did you shoot and practice left-handed layups?”

  “Yup.”

  “Not just at practice. Did you stay after?”

  “I played at the beach courts tonight.”

  “Good. Did you hear about Rodriguez?”

  I turn around.

  “She had a thirty-thirty game last night.”

  I toss my duffel by my door. “Want to shoot some baskets?”

  “That’s my girl,” he beams.

  twelve

  I wake up early on Sunday morning, tired from shooting hoops until all hours the night before, and push myself to run two miles on the beach. When I come home, I enter through the back door, hoping no one is there. I don’t know whether it’s from forcing myself to work so hard lately or from all the pressure I’m under to win that spot on the Suns and keep the Beachwood Basketball dynasty alive, but I’m beginning to feel lightheaded.

  I run up the stairs and plop down on my bed, marveling at how I managed to make it successfully up to my room without a parental run-in. Just then, my dad appears at my bedroom door, wearing swim trunks, a T-shirt, and a towel around his neck. “Hey, Spider! I’m about to go out back for a swim. Want to do some drills after lunch?”

  I suck in a deep breath and suppress my initial urge to turn him down. I mean, I’m absolutely beat. But, it’s my dad asking, and I just don’t have the heart to tell him no. “Meet you out back at one,” I say.

  “Perfect! That’s my girl.” He breaks out in a huge smile, and even though I’m beyond tired, it’s worth it.

  “Is mom up yet?”

  “Nope. I’m sure you’ll catch up with her. See you at one!” He partially closes my room door—I’m assuming so that my mom can’t hear me from the master suite down the hall—and begins to make his way outside to our backyard pool.

  While still lying on my bed, I toss off my Asics running sneakers, throwing them onto my light blue carpeting, wherever they happen to land. Then I calm my breathing and grab an orange foam Nerf ball from my nightstand.

  “With two seconds left and down by one, Thomas has the ball in the paint.” I commentate like Nancy Lieberman, holding the ball up in the air in front of me. “She fakes left. But, will she dunk?” I push myself up off the bed, spin, jump, and dunk into the basket that is hooked on the door to my walk-in closet. “Thomas did it again! And the crowd goes wild!” I jog in place and raise my arms in victory. Then I hold one arm out, pointing at the corkboard above my desk in homage to the amazing players whose pictures fill my board: Diana Taurasi, Becky Hammon, Lisa Leslie, Candace Parker, and various Olympic Dream Teams.

  I throw myself down on the chocolate brown couch by my picture window, and, after a half hour of catching up on my various social networking obligations (and confirming that Zach and Kylie are both still listed as single), I decide to attack my closet. If I’m going to go through with the fashion show for Hannah, I might as well practice my strut. Assuming fashion shows are anything like basketball, the more practice, the better. Right?

  Making my way to the back right of my walk-in, I find the way-too-tiny vintage L.A. High hand-me-downs my mom stuffed in there in case I ever wanted to “embrace my girliness.”

  But, can I really do this? Can I really walk the runway in front of the entire school?

  Rallying myself, I pull the black-and-white Chanel strapless prom dress from L.A. High Season Three off the rack. Then, I channel my inner Hannah, shed my running clothes, and squeeze into the dress. Next, I pile my hair on top of my head and spritz hairspray all over to keep it in place. I think that’s how my mom does it. The dress is super short and I can’t zipper it up all the way, but I’m determined to make it work. I sashay back and forth across my closet, turn, and watch myself in my mirror. Once I’m done with my strut, I pull another dress off a hanger. Take two.

  Later, my cell phone buzzes in my hand. I wipe my eyes and realize I fell asleep on my bed, dressed in my mom’s designer duds. I tap my phone and wipe my eyes a second time.

&n
bsp; FR: UNLISTED

  WHATCHA DOIN? ZACH

  Then, I read it over. And over. Before it registers, the phone vibrates again.

  FR: UNLISTED

  CAN I STOP BY?

  My thumbs run over the N and O keys. He can’t come over. I just woke up, and I’m sitting on my bed, with frizzy hair, in a crinkled dress. Whenever I’ve imagined this moment, I’m as perfectly styled as I was for the eighth grade graduation dinner when Hannah did my hair, clothes, and makeup. No way am I a hot mess. But, before I can hit send, the doorbell rings.

  thireteen

  I’m not the type to run around freaking out whenever I’m caught off guard with a surprise. But Zachary Murphy just dropping by? And on a day I look disgusting? That definitely calls for some major freakage.

  I drop my phone and catch a glimpse of my reflection in my mirror. I stop dead in my tracks. It’s worse than I imagined. I didn’t realize that it was possible to attain this level of bed head. And this outfit? Forget the school fashion show. Sign me up for the circus.

  My mom’s voice comes through the white intercom box to the right of my closet door. “Taylor, are you in your room? There is a boy here to see you.” Of course, now my mom decides to wake up.

  I open my mouth to say something, but my tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of my mouth. Bad hair, nasty morning breath, and Zachary Murphy at my doorstep. Great.

  For a second, I consider hiding. But, it’d be just my luck that my mom would bring Zach up here and the two of them would find me kneeling behind the shoe rack in my closet. Guess there’s only one thing to do. I toss off the too-short slip dress and throw my running clothes back on. Then I pull my hair on top of my head and pop a piece of Eclipse gum into my mouth.

  In super slow-mo, I turn my doorknob and open my bedroom door. I slide along the wall until I emerge in the open balcony overlooking the foyer and duck behind a giant plant. Gently, I separate two huge green leaves to take a peek.