“Taylor,” I say and smile at Allison. I can manage to be nice even if she can’t.
“Whatever. Nice outfit.” She flips open her cell phone and tilts her head, pushing the keys. “You know, the inmate-picking-up-trash look suits you.”
Fourteen pairs of eyes descend on me. I cross my arms in front of my orange T-shirt and blazer. I so should have changed even if it meant I had to take the late hit from Ludwig.
“Thank you.” I attempt to pay it forward. I swallow and smooth my jeans down. Then, I stare at the clock. But, the minute hand is moving even slower now than it does during one of Mr. Ludwig’s lectures.
“Duh . . . I was just kidding,” she enunciates. She rolls her heavily massacred eyes.
Oh, no, she didn’t.I feel a kaboom in my chest as if someone punched me. Am I dying? I search for the white light.
“Taylor.” Matt shakes my arm a bit.
Okay, I guess I didn’t die.
I stand up gingerly and slink toward the hallway and Mr. Ludwig.
Then, I stop and take a deep breath. “Annie,” I say, digging deep for my inner beast like I do when I’m driving toward the basket.
She stops texting and glares at me.
“I mean, Allison. My bad.” I fake giggle. “I was, uh, seeing how long it would take for someone to bust me for what I was wearing this morning. It’s an experiment for psychology to see who the most materialistic girls at school are. You know, the ones who take being shallow to a whole new level.”
Allison opens her mouth, as if to shut me down again, but then . . . nothing. Her lips tighten and she returns to her phone.
I let out a deep breath, feeling spent. I left a Violet-girl speechless. My classmates turn back to their Word of the Day and, I swear, a few actually chuckle and grin at me.
Then, the bell rings.
“Hey.” Matt pokes me with his index finger. “Nice one.”
I toss my bag over my shoulder and stand up, debating whether I should be like yeah, you know it or nah, it was rude of me.
But, a Violet-girl doesn’t give up that easily. Allison steps in front of me. “Didn’t mean to make you so upset,” she says.
I try to rally myself for my second comeback of the day, but my mind is blank.
“You should be happy. I mean, I cared enough to ask about your outfit.” She looks me up and down.
“Back off, Ally,” Matt says, rolling his eyes. “You’re just pissed Taylor made you look bad.” He grabs my hand and pulls me into the hallway. Once we’re out of the classroom, he looks into my eyes as if he and I are the only two people on the planet. This is pretty hard to pull off considering that this is happening during insanely busy in-between-classes time.
Zach steps in front of Matt.
“How’s my girl?”
I look into Zach’s big, brown eyes, think back to my made-up list of reasons for why Zach would participate in the 3B list, and cross my fingers. “Did the team threaten to beat up your sister?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” I turn around and leave Zach standing there. Alone.
forty-three
I push the Beachwood doors open after school and the bright February sun immediately warms my face. After a few cloudy, rainy days, the sun feels energizing. If I walk fast, I’ll make it home just in time to fit in everything. I worked out a plan during eighth period. Jessica and I are going to Skype tutor. Then, afterward, my dad and I can play Horse from four to four-thirty. After that, practice at five and Hannah’s at seven for more fittings. Then, back at my house by eight thirty to hopefully chat with Mom and find out what the heck is going on before she hits the sack. And finally, homework.
“No practice?” Matt asks, catching up with me.
“It’s late today.” I look around. “Where’s your numberone girl, Vi?”
“Wait, what—” Matt begins.
Before he can finish his thought, I feel a yank on my arm. Hannah. “Thank god you’re not at practice. I need you for some last minute alterations.” When I turn around to face her, her rosy cheeks are way blotchy. Blotchy cheeks on Hannah mean she’s mega stressed. “My house NOW.” She points at me with her crutch. Then, she glances at Matt and switches her voice to sweet. “Hey, Matt.”
“Hey.” Matt grins and his deep dimples pop.
“Sorry, Banana. But I have to help out Jessica and I have practice at five. I’ll come right over after prac—”
“This is important!” She slams her tricked out crutch on the floor. “Plus, Missy said that you said you aren’t walking the runway for me on Friday night after all.”
“Yes, I am.” My face twists.
“I’m totally one hundred percent counting on you.” She waves her crutch in the air.
“And who are you going to believe. Me or Missy?” I answer, my hands on my hips.
“Okay, you got me there. Just don’t let me down.” She crutches away, violently swinging her legs.
Urgh. I stomp toward the door. When I feel Matt following me, I stop and turn around. “Look, no offense,” I say. “But, I’m busy. So, if you have a bus or a Violet to catch, you should probably just go ahead and do that.”
Matt just stands there. And that’s when I realize the enormity of what I just said. What has gotten into me? Two mean moments in one day. I never act like this. “I’m sorry,” I quickly add. “I didn’t mean that . . .I guess I’m just stressed.”
“I’m going the same way you are.” He’s totally not fazed.
“Oh, okay. You should have just said that,” I reply, and resume my walk.
For a few blocks, we walk together in silence. Me: Patrick. Him: SpongeBob. Me: Yogi Bear. Him: Boo Boo. Me: Big Bird. Him: Elmo. Or to make a long story short. Me: Alone for the rest of my life because Zach three-B’ed me. Him: With Vi. Us: Just friends with a massive height difference.
Once we clear the sea grass and reach the beach, I leave the wooden path, shed my sneaks and sink my sore toes into the smooth sand. Then I pull out my phone to check the time. Don’t want to mess up my schedule for the night.
“You know, Taylor, it’s really nice what you’re doing for Hannah,” Matt says, perking up out of the blue.
I run my toes over the tiny, multicolored pebbles that line the shore.
“What do you mean?” As I glimpse at his tiny feet one more time to see if they grew since last week, I notice how worn out his Nikes look.
“Putting yourself out there for your friend.” He pauses. “But be careful.”
He plops down on the sand, balancing his arms on his knees in his cute compact kind of way. I follow and fall down next to him dangling my legs out across the sand, as long and lanky as ever. I check my phone again. I have twenty minutes until I have to help Jessica out.
“But, sometimes there’s a too-nice line. Today during English was the first time I’ve ever seen you put someone in their place.”
I lean back and sink my fingers into the cool sand.
“I get it. Wanting to make everyone happy. I do it too sometimes,” Matt says.
“When did you get all psychoanalyst? I thought your expertise was girls.”
“Seriously. I just get it, that’s it. Especially ever since . . .”
I wait for Matt to tell me, but he stops. So, I spill instead. “Me too. I’ve been trying to make people happy since . . . well, since birth. Ever since my dad gave up on his dreams of the NBA because I was born.” A white crest smashes into a cliff.
Matt turns his head toward mine.
I don’t know why I’m spilling everything, but once I start I can’t stop. “I feel horrible about it. And now I have the chance to be amazing at basketball and make it to the WNBA and make him really proud of me, so he never regrets what he did. Even though I know he does. Regret it. I mean. And I don’t know if I’ll ever make that right.”
Matt lets out a deep breath and nods. “Do you even like basketball?”
“I love basketball,” I say, without hesitation. What does he
mean by that? I’ve known plenty of girls that played for the wrong reasons, eventually quitting. But basketball is my life. I can’t imagine surviving without it.
Matt tilts his head and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. A breeze rustles my ponytail and a shiver runs up my back. Not a cold shiver, but a comfy shiver.
“I’ve always loved basketball. I’m the happiest when I’m out on the court,” I explain.
“But you’re happy at other times too, right? Like, right now?” He grins impishly. Then he pulls up his sleeve and rests his arms on his knees, revealing the scar that I noticed earlier.
I stare at the mark and wonder at the story behind it. “What’s this?”
“A scar.”
“Obviously, genius.” I roll my eyes. “But, from what?”
He continues to stare at the crashing waves and lets out a deep breath. “I’m sure you heard all the stuff about me being broke and all. Well, it’s true. All of it.” He shifts in the sand. “A little less than a year ago, me and my dad were going to Whole Foods to pick up some groceries.” He lets out another breath. “At some point on our way, there was this huge slam. When I came to, I was in the hospital and my arm was all bruised up. But, besides that and a few cuts on my left leg, I was okay. My dad, however, wasn’t. He took the bulk of the impact because the car plowed us on the driver’s side.”
I reach out to touch his arm. “Oh, god. What was wrong with him?”
Matt flinches at first at my touch, but then composes himself. “He was . . . uh,” he looks me directly in the eyes. “He was paralyzed and in a coma.”
“I’m so sorry.” I begin rubbing his arm.
Now, he shivers. “Yeah, me too. But, honestly, my dad’s lucky to be alive.”
“How is he now?” I picture the scene and can’t help but imagine how I’d feel if it were my mom or dad.
“He’s beating the odds. I knew he would.” He grins.
“He sounds like a tough cookie.”
“Oh, definitely. That’s my dad.” His grin grows larger for a second, but then he shakes his head. “But he’s on oxygen twenty-four-seven and we’re constantly at the emergency room because we can almost never get his breathing stabilized at home.”
“Oh, god.”
“Yeah, docs say they don’t know how much more time he has.”
“I’m so incredibly sorry,” I say again, wondering what it must be like to have to take care of your own parent.
“You kind of get used to it.” He rubs his eyes. “But, my life used to be a lot easier before the accident. After the medical bills piled up because my dad lost his job, we moved from our house in Beverly Hills to a tiny, decrepit apartment outside L.A. I came to Beachwood because they gave me a free ride for lacrosse. So I’m officially a charity case.”
My stomach sinks. “No, you’re not. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” I stare at his school-store-bought sweatshirt. I guess clothes aren’t really at the top of the list when you’re worried about food and stuff.
“Enough about me and my depressing life.” He straightens up. “All I’m saying is it’s good to be nice to everyone, but sometimes you have to be nice to yourself too.”
I mull this one over and over. I mean, I do do a lot for everyone . . . Then I jump up and blurt out, “Enough upsetting stuff.” I put my hand out and help Matt up.
The second he’s on his feet, I realize that I’m still holding his hand and abruptly take mine back. Totally embarrassed, I quickly begin shuffling down the beach. Despite our height disparity, Matt matches me, stride for stride. And sometimes, I swear, I think I feel him reaching for my hand. But, I could be completely imagining it. Or worse, Matt just wants to add me to his growing 3B list.
Can’t believe his name was on the list too. How could someone who seems so sweet be so full of it? Plus, if he’s trying to hold my hand again, what is he hoping for? More points? Are there any nice guys left on this planet?
As we approach my house, I try to think of what I’m supposed to say in a situation like this, but Matt beats me to the punch. “I’m so sorry, Taylor. I gotta go. I’m late for the bus and my dad needs me.” And with that, Matt Moore sprints down my street.
Good-bye, Matt the Mysterious. Hello, my Great Aunt Sally future.
forty-four
“Finally.” My dad’s face lights up as I walk through the back door. He points the remote at the flat screen.
For once in my life, I ignore the screen flashing to black and head toward the winding staircase.
“We need to talk,” he blurts out.
I freeze, and then retreat back down the beige steps. My heart races. He’s finally going to drop the bomb about what’s going on with Mom.
“What’s up?” My heart is beating so hard I can hear it.
He crosses his arms in front of his worn out and ripped blue Beachwood Academy tee. “Did you settle everything with Kylie?”
Kylie? Wait, what? The whole Kylie thing seems as if it happened a million years ago. I jolt my memory. “Yeah,” I say.
His eyebrows almost touch his hairline. “And . . .”
I glance at the microwave to check the time.
“Eek! Dad, I have to help Jessica with her math.” I charge up the steps.
“Wait, Taylor. Saturday’s game is huge.” He chases after me. “Why don’t you meet me outside and shoot some free throws? You did miss five out of nine attempts the other night. Then we can play some one-on-one and work on your fade away before Richland on Saturday.”
“I’ll be out in fifteen minutes,” I shout as I reach my room. I quickly change into my practice clothes and boot up my computer.
I let out a deep breath, swallow the lump in my throat, and face a pixilated Jessica, who’s waving and smiling at me through Skype.
“Hey, Tay. You ready to tutor me?”
After another deep breath, a few flushes creep up my back and I say, “Yup.”
So much for Matt’s advice. Taylor the People Pleaser strikes again.
forty-five
Jessica’s Skype tutoring session ends up lasting way longer than I expected. So long, in fact, that I have to cut out my computer duties entirely, or else skip hoops time with Dad. Naturally, given all my recent basketball mishaps, I choose practicing with my father over commenting on people’s posts. But even then, I only make eight free throws before I have to sprint to practice.
I arrive at practice a couple minutes late to the sound of Coach Jackson saying, “Okay, girls. Grab one of the jump ropes Coach Martie laid out on the court. Richland ran circles around us the last time, and believe me, that won’t happen again.”
The team groans and one by one we pick up our jump ropes. As I’m uncoiling a blue one, I decide I like Martie’s team building much better. Still, I quickly find a spot in the rear corner, as far away from everyone as possible. Despite my lack of interest in jumping rope, it’s officially time to get into my zone.
Coach Jackson blows the whistle and twenty plastic covered jump ropes smack the ground like ticking clocks. At first, I embrace the sweating and the heat build-up. I mean, there’s always that point in practice where you want to quit but you force yourself to cross your limit and boom, you feel euphoric. Except this time my breath leaves my lungs like I’m sucking on a vacuum. What, the???
Coach immediately notices that I’ve stopped jumping. “Taylor, are you up for this?”
“Yeah,” I say as I grab the handles and begin again. Coach is right that we can’t let Richland cream us another time. Maybe my plan isn’t so well-advised though, because once again, I begin to sweat and feel my heart speed up. I stop mid-jump.
“Come on, Taylor,” Tamika says, wiping the sweat from her face with the back of her hand.
I start up again and catch sight of Kylie looking at me out of the corner of her eye.
“You look really pale, Taylor,” Eva gasps between breaths, staring at me as the jump rope swings around and around.
The pasty comm
ent. That’s it. I must be having a heart attack. Thank you, Internet research for saving my life. A lightening bolt rips through my stomach.
I stop for good, drop the rope, and walk toward the hallway. I think to myself: All I need is a drink. Just one drink. After that, I’ll be fine. And honestly, what else am I supposed to think? I have no choice. I have to get back on the court. Our big game is Saturday.
On my way to the hallway water fountain, I almost topple into the boys’ basketball team as they’re coming in from their beach run.
As I bend down to sip the water, I feel a gentle graze against my hip. When I look up, Zach’s amber eye-sprinkles meet mine. He smiles.
I choke on the water.
“Taylor, are you choking?” The boys’ basketball coach approaches me. I feel my face flush, and I gasp as I attempt to catch my breath. My cheeks burn like I stuck my head in an oven.
“I’m fine,” I squeak and lower my face into the water fountain again. But, it’s not working.
“Do you need the trainer?” The basketball coach leans so far into the water fountain that he’s almost nose to nose with me. So close, in fact, that I can smell his Old Spice.
“No.” Gasp. “Really.” Gasp. “I’m.” Gasp. “Fine.”
“Are you sure?” He tilts his head like a concerned parent.
I nod.
He abruptly turns around. “Show’s over, boys. Into the weight room!” The entire boys’ basketball team files by, some snickering, some staring. Most are clearly disappointed that the girls’ center is not going to need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from their ancient coach.
Zach lingers. “You feeling okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I avoid his eyes and dip my head in for some more water.
“Are you still upset about that stupid list? The whole thing was bogus.”
A shiver (the kind that only Zach can cause) runs up my spine. When I look up, he’s smiling.
“Come on, lover boy,” the boys’ coach yells.
I dip my head back into the water fountain. And this time when I look up, Zach’s gone.
Head Games Page 14