Head Games

by Nicole Leigh Shepherd

  I stiffen up. I mean, two days ago, this was my dream. Seriously, I had a dream that Zachary Murphy was standing in front of me in this same hallway, asking me out. Except, in the dream I was taller than I am now (if that’s humanly possible), my hair was chopped off like Eva from America’s Next Top Model season three (Hannah’s been TiVoing episodes for me to prepare for the fashion show), and I was waiting for a photo shoot, wearing white granny panties and a sports bra that made me look flatter than the Pacific Coast Highway.

  “I was wondering if you want to hang out tonight.” Zach leans against my locker and stares into my eyes.

  Although my first inclination is to blurt out, “Yes, I will hang out with you and marry you and have your babies,” I restrain myself. Unlike a basketball game, where there can only be one winner and one loser, this invite is far from clear-cut. If I say yes, I’ll be violating 3B, causing my basketball career to suffer and my friends to hate me. If I say no, then I’ll miss out on a once in a lifetime opportunity with a guy I’ve been mad crushing on. The only one guy who won’t make me feel ridiculous because of my height.

  “Sure, she’ll go.” Hannah wedges between Zach and me, waking me out of my Zach-induced trance.

  “Uh, wait,I uh . . .”I stammer.

  “I’ll text you later.” Zach turns around and walks down the hallway. Not a reaction. Not even a little smile. Guys like Zach are used to yeses.

  Once Zach is far enough away, I let the freakage commence. “What are you doing? I can’t hang out with Zach anymore!”

  Hannah rolls her eyes. “You’re telling me that you can’t hang out with the Zachary Michael Murphy??? You’ve seriously gone off the deep end.”

  “No, you don’t understand. Three-B,” I whisper.

  Hannah swipes the air. “They’ll get over it. It’s a stupid Kylie rule.” Then, she swings her Vans bag over her shoulder. “I have a serious problem. I need more silk fabric. Do you think Vi will notice if I dice up another Versace dress?”

  “Didn’t she just ream you for taking her shoes?”

  “Dude. That wasn’t me. That was her being certifiable. Anyway, so about the fabric, I’m thinking. . . .”

  As Hannah blabs on and on, I shut my locker and try to calm my trembling hands. This is so unfair. I finally somehow manage to snag Zach and I can’t even hang out with him because my team decided to enact a rule. A rule for cool girls like Kylie and Missy who have their choice of boys. Not me. Gotta love Beachwood Academy.

  twenty-seven

  Why my so-called B-Dub stock went up:1. The other guys on the b-ball team want to play one-on-one with me because I’m big.

  2. Zach told Chris Phillips he can kiss me without objection because I’m seriously desperate.

  3. My pay-it-forward strategy is working ☺

  4. Zach told the guys in order to play one-on-one with my amazingly talented dad, they’ll have to get through me first.

  5. Zach is telling everyone how much fun we had together!!!!

  “So, how’s the new couple?” Matt rocks back on the rear legs of his silver chair.

  “Who?” I act nonchalant, looking up from my list. “You and Vi?”

  “You and Murph.” He grins.

  “Who told you?” I shut my notebook, realizing my virgin churn in the Beachwood rumor mill isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  “Heard it around.”

  “No, really, who told you?” I lean toward him, catching a whiff of something spicy like cinnamon. When did Matt start smelling yummy? I peek at his feet again. Still small.

  “No one in particular,” Matt says, playing with the strings on his Beachwood Lacrosse hoodie, the same hoodie he wears pretty much everyday.

  “You okay?” Matt asks, showing off his deep dimples. I resist the urge to stick the eraser end of my pencil in his cheek canyons. Too cute.

  “Yeah, I guess I’m just stressed,” I say, flipping my pencil between my long fingers like a baton. “Been a long day and it’s only fourth period.”

  “Shouldn’t you be spreading the word about you and Murph? I figured you would want everyone to know about you guys since he’s the man and all.” Matt stretches his hands behind his head.

  “Shouldn’t you be choosing what party to attend tonight?” I decide to go for it and poke Matt with the eraser end of my pencil. He shrinks back, but I can’t tell if he actually minds. “Anyway, I’m giving up guys for a while.”

  Matt chuckles.

  “Wait. You think that’s funny?” I sit back.

  He laughs again.

  “It’s not funny.” I cross my arms.

  He grins and his cute canyons pop again. Dimples are my weakness. A few years back, it began with Twilight’s Kellan Lutz’s, then it was Zach’s solo crater, and now I can’t help but notice Matt’s. In fact, the more that I think about it, Matt kind of resembles Kellan Lutz.

  “What?” I ask, forcing myself to concentrate on the conversation.

  He looks at the ceiling. Then his chocolate M&M eyes meet mine. “Do you like Zach?”

  “Sure. I mean, he’s an athlete and he’s as tall as—” I pause wondering if Matt’s sensitive about his height handicap.

  Matt isn’t shaken. Nothing shakes Matt. Not a lacrosse championship game or a scholarship or a fight on the field. Or even Beachwood Academy . . .

  “Then, if you like him, go for it.” He shrugs.

  “It’s not that simple.” I chew on my bottom lip.

  Matt shakes his head and smiles. I recently noticed that Matt smiles a lot. “Why?”

  “We’re doing this three-B for a three-peat thing.”

  “What’s the heck is three-B?” He pops a piece of Big Red gum in his mouth.

  “Ball before boys for a three-peat.” I grin proudly. “Don’t you guys ever do anything like this? You know, make a pact to give up distractions for a season?”

  “That stuff never comes before sports.”

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Weren’t you at the football game last fall when Nick Solerno and Matt Connelly gave each other a serious pounding after the game?”

  “That’s football. Those guys are tools.” Matt grins. “I just don’t let outside problems get in the way of my game. I have a lot riding on lacrosse.” He looks down, suddenly serious.

  I think about asking what he means by that, but instead decide to switch topics, since he looks so sad. “Hey, did you write any more poems?”

  “Nope. Been busy.” He yanks his sweatshirt sleeves to his elbows, exposing a huge pale pink scar on his forearm.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the scar. “It’s huge.”

  He peeks at the puffy scar and pulls his sweatshirt sleeves back down to his wrists. “Nothing.”

  “Did you get it from lacrosse or something?”

  “Yeah. Lacrosse.” Matt’s eyes stay downcast.

  I gotta get him out of this funk. “Can I see some of your old stuff?” I reach under his English books for his black leather notebook, causing his Beachwood planner to fall on the floor. I lean over to pick up the open planner and notice tomorrow’s date circled, along with the entry, “Doctor with Dad, 4 p.m.” What the heck?!? The appointment below it then catches my attention: “Violet, 6 p.m., 555-9176.” All of a sudden, my palms feel sweaty.

  Matt pulls the planner out of my hand and gives me a look like I violated his trust. All I wanted to do was help. . . . I didn’t mean to . . .

  “Okay, class. Return to your seats. Word-of-the-Day time is over,” Mr. Ludwig yells above the classroom din.

  As Mr. Ludwig resumes his usual droning, I stare straight ahead at the whiteboard, wondering what’s really going on with Matt.

  What’s wrong with his dad? Did his family used to live in Beverly Hills? Does he now carry a free lunch ticket because his parents can’t even afford to feed him? Does he travel on three buses everyday for two hours from downtown L.A. just to get to Beachwood so he can play on the lacrosse team? If so, what the heck happened?

&
nbsp; But more than anything, I keep coming back to one question: Why oh why is he messing with Tornado Violet?

  twenty-eight

  “Hey.” Zach stops by my locker after school. “So, where do you want to hang out tonight? The movies? Santa Monica? We could grab something at In-N-Out Burger.”

  I take a deep breath. Zach is even more uber-tempting (if that’s possible) when he’s dangling In-N-Out Burger in front of me. But I have to say no. I don’t have a choice.

  “I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.” I cautiously look around to see if any of my teammates are within sight distance. I’m dead if anyone spots me with Zach.

  Zach continues to talk. “Why? Because of the three-B thing?” He rolls his eyes. “Let me guess, it was Kylie’s idea.”

  “No, but I—”

  “I’ll text you around seven after practice?”

  “Uh. Really. I shouldn’t—” I try to interject.

  Zach winks and walks away before I can say anything else.

  A few seconds later, Chris Phillips walks up to my locker. “You busy, Tay?”

  “Nope,” I say, staring into my locker in an attempt to figure out what I have to bring home today. Between all this Zach attention, helping Hannah out with her designs, my anxiety about the upcoming Richland game, and geometry time with Jessica, I can’t even remember what I have for homework.

  “I was wondering . . .” Chris begins.

  I struggle to distract myself from Chris’s all-consuming hotness. English: Word of the Day and critical essay. Need notebook and Catcher in the Rye. Check. History: Read chapters seven and eight. Need textbook. Check. Do I have math?

  “Do you want to hang out after practice?”

  Yeah, I definitely have math homework. Wait a second. What?!? Did Chris Phillips just ask me to hang out? I turn to face him. “What did you just say?”

  “I said, do you want to hang out after practice?”

  “Wait, what?” Did Christopher Phillips, the freaking senior homecoming king, just ask me to hang out?

  “Maybe you should get your ears checked, Tay. What I wanted to know is if you want to hang out after practice?” He leans against my locker.

  I stare down into Chris’s baby blues and think that I must have fallen asleep in class and woken up in an alternate universe, one where it’s normal for Taylor Thomas, the towering giraffe who spends her time pleasing people for fear of being disliked, is suddenly catapulted to ultra-hotties-love-her land. I shake myself. This is Beachwood. Not Oz. And I’m a member of the basketball team, first and foremost. “Ah. Chris, I don’t know.”

  “Great. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  What’s with cuties not taking no for an answer?

  twenty-nine

  “Who wants brand new three-B tanks from American Apparel?” Eva charges into Richland’s locker room, holding up a large shopping bag.

  I’m staring at my locker, attempting deep yoga breaths. This is it. Today is do or die. When the scout from the SoCal Suns picks me over Rodriguez for the center spot, the doors to California basketball heaven open up to me. And Dad can finally rest assured that giving up basketball was worth it.

  “This is exactly what I needed to help me cope with the number of scouts here today.” Tamika pulls a tank out of the bag and shakes it out.

  “Yeah, me too,” Kylie says, rolling her eyes.

  “Be glad your entire future isn’t riding on this game,” Tamika says, whipping Kylie with her tank.

  “Believe me, Captain T.” Kylie grabs a tank and whips her back. “My time will come this spring on the softball field.”

  “Come on, Tamika, you’re going to do fab,” Missy says, pulling her straight platinum hair up into a high ponytail. Leave it to Missy to always look her best. Even if it’s on the basketball court.

  I grab a tank for myself. “Love it. Can’t believe you got them to make these so quickly. Thanks, Eva.”

  “I figured we could wear the tanks under our jerseys today,” Eva says, squishing the shopping bag down now that all the shirts have been taken. “You know to remind everyone that although today is all about the scouts, we’re also a team.”

  “Good stuff, Eva,” Jessica says, pulling her tank over her sports bra. “Fits perfectly.”

  “You’re right, Eva. This game means more than the scouts. This is a must win game if we want to three-peat.” Tamika is suddenly serious. “If we lose, we have to pray for a tie for the conference and a rematch. And the last thing I want to do is have to rely on maybes.”

  “Yeah,” I say, letting out a deep breath. I rub the soft cotton fabric of the tank in between my fingers for extra good luck.

  “Hey. Where are Zoe and Abby?” Kylie asks, looking around.

  “They’re at the JV game,” Tamika answers.

  “Too bad. I guess it’s just you, Taylor. Did we ever initiate Taylor properly to the team?” Kylie looks up at me.

  “Do you really think ten minutes before beginning our warm-up for the Richland game is the best time?’ Tamika raises her left eyebrow.

  “Total stress release.” Kylie smiles mischievously. “Shaving cream or the shower?”

  I slink toward the door.

  “She’ll be too wet to play if we toss her in the shower,” Missy adds.

  “Then, shaving cream it is!” Kylie pulls four bottles of shaving cream out of her bag (somebody planned ahead) and Tamika grabs my waist.

  Pretty soon, white blobs are flying all over the locker room. It doesn’t take long for me to lose count of how many times my face gets smashed with a towel pie. For a second, I allow myself to dream that this is the revenge that Kylie had planned all along. I mean, it’s a few minutes before I’m supposed to go out on the court for one of the most important games of my life, and I’m completely covered in shaving cream. What else could she possibly do to me?

  Just then, I double over as my stomach gets hit with an assault of shaving cream. I look up and see Kylie, staring at me with a smirk on her face and a glint in her eyes. That’s when I realize: This isn’t over.

  thirty

  “All set.” The ref stands between me and Nikki Rodriguez. She’s taller than the last time we met and, if possible, even more imposing. This is gonna be fun.

  Rodriguez snarls at me. I nod back at her, remove the last remaining bit of shaving cream from my hair, and quickly glance over at my dad. He’s on the edge of his seat, staring out at the court. Seated to his right is the SoCal Suns coach. She’s dressed in a purple jacket with a tiny yellow sun.

  Then I bring my focus back to the court. Time to concentrate on the only thing that matters at this moment: the orange ball.

  The ref points to us and looks at the clock table. “Ready,” he says. Then, he tosses the ball into the air. Rodriguez gets to it first, reaches up, and taps it back to her guard.

  “Four,” the Richland guard shouts, holding up four fingers.

  Rodriguez sprints behind me. The Richland guard fires the ball to her before I realize what she’s doing. Rodriguez easily lays up the ball.

  “Get in the game, Taylor! Come on!” Coach Jackson screams from the sideline.

  As Rodriguez passes me, she sneers. “It’s all mine.” Then she nods at the SoCal Suns coach.

  I take off, finding my spot underneath the basket, and shove Rodriguez for position.

  Kylie dribbles down the court. “Wildcat Two!” she screams.

  Good. This is my play. I’ll show the SoCal Suns coach what I’ve got. I sprint toward the foul line with my hands up. Kylie looks at me, as if she’s considering passing the ball, but then turns abruptly and fires the ball to Tamika.

  Wait. This isn’t a Wildcat Two. I cut for position. With Rodriguez on my tail, it’s almost impossible to break free. I look to Kylie for a pick. She turns her head. What the heck? She’s supposed to pick for me. Guess the whole shaving cream fiasco wasn’t her version of adequate revenge after all.

  Tamika sets up for a jump shot, but Rodriguez m
anages to block it. Then she grabs her own rebound and takes off.

  As I sprint down the court, I look at the Suns scout as she furiously scribbles notes. Please, please, pick me.

  As the game progresses, Kylie continues to ignore me. Unfortunately, unlike last time, Coach doesn’t notice (and Coach Martie’s too busy flipping through the play binder). Like everyone else, she just thinks that Rodriguez must be playing amazing defense. And that’s not to say that she isn’t. But that’s definitely not the whole story.

  Eventually, I become frustrated, play sloppy, and foul-out late in the third quarter. I take a seat on the bench and watch as the seconds tick away. Now, with seven seconds left, we’re getting slaughtered by Richland 42-30. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

  To pass the time, I make a mental list of reasons why this situation blows:1. I’m warming the bench, unable to prove to anyone that Kylie screwed me over. Big time.

  2. I am going to lose the center spot on the SoCal Suns to Rodriguez, who is going to rub it in my face like crazy.

  3. If Richland beats us, we won’t get to walk away with the playoff spot.

  4. Hopefully, we’ll play Richland again for the three-peat next week

  5. I really don’t want to see Rodriguez ever again.

  6. Kylie is ruining my life.

  The buzzer rings, and the Richland players run to center court, yelling, “We did it! 42-30 baby!”

  Then—the icing on the cake—the SoCal Suns coach approaches Rodriguez.

  I promptly bury my face in a towel. Just then, I feel a tap on my back. Coach Martie sits next to me. “You okay?”

  I shake my head and bury it again.

  “Remember, everything happens for a reason.” She pauses.

  I keep my head in my towel, wiping away the tears that are beginning to form.

  Martie continues, “During my sophomore year, I was approached to play soccer overseas for the summer. I was so nervous, I couldn’t sleep a wink the entire week before the scout was coming to watch me play. Of course, I ended up hugely stinking up the tryout.”