Head Games

by Nicole Leigh Shepherd

  forty-six

  When I finally return to practice, I quickly grab my jump rope from the hardwood floor in an attempt to make up for lost time. As I’m about to resume jumping, Coach Martie comes over to me. “Why don’t you take a break, Thomas?”

  I nod, find a spot on the bleachers, and pop a cross-legged squat on the sidelines. At first, I attempt to be a good sport and cheer for my teammates. But it only takes ten seconds of sitting there on the sidelines, watching my teammates playing, for me to fall apart. How did I get here? I think. This is my favorite season. This is basketball. And basketball is in my blood.

  Fortunately, Coach Jackson comes to my rescue. “Taylor,” she calls over. “Press break drill.”

  I jog out toward my spot on the foul line, ready to practice breaking the full-court opposing team’s defense. Richland always has a nasty press. In fact, during our game on Friday, they snagged four steals in the first quarter from their press.

  Kylie inbounds the ball to Tamika who chest passes to Eva. I wait for Tamika’s pick. Then, I sprint toward her.

  Coach Jackson tweets her whistle. “No. No. No, Taylor. Come on. Pay attention!” she shouts.

  Martie gives me a quasi-comforting smile. But in light of all that’s happened, I’m not entirely sure if she’s trying to make me feel better or if she just pities me.

  I know I wasn’t supposed to run toward Tamika, but I can’t remember this play. A play I’ve practiced and executed hundreds of times. And since Coach Jackson is giving me the kind of stare that Kylie gives the people who cross her before she’s about to incinerate them with her eyes, I don’t dare to ask what I missed.

  “Let’s try it again.” Coach lets out a deep breath.

  Unfortunately, things do not improve from there. In fact, we (and by we, I mean I) mess up the play four more times. Coach Jackson is so annoyed that she has us run four suicides (one per mess up), as she and Martie duck away for a water break of their own.

  “Thanks, Taylor,” Kylie says to me, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

  “Yeah.” Eva glares at me, tapping her finger on the side of a plastic water bottle.

  “What’s going on with you, Tay?” Tamika says, pityingly. “You’re completely out of it.”

  “Nothing.” I look down at the black line painted across the tan hardwood floor.

  “Are your parents getting a divorce?” Missy asks, gliding the lip-gloss wand across her bottom lip.

  “What would make you think that?” I ask, wondering for a second if maybe that’s why my mom has been M.I.A. so much.

  The girls gather around me for an impromptu team meeting. Kylie looks up from placing her ball on the metal rack.

  “Or are you in that really weird part of therapy when you realize everything in your world is a nightmare and you’re super messed up? I swear, it gets better after that,” Missy adds, twisting the cap back on the tube.

  “No therapy. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t go to therapy?” Missy looks at me like I announced that I haven’t taken a bath in three weeks. “Everyone goes to therapy.”

  I continue to stare at the floor and feel my heart pound.

  “No, seriously, tell me. Are you in therapy about the Zach thing?” Missy’s blue eyes bug.

  “That’s messed up,” Kylie says, smacking Missy’s side.

  Tamika rolls her eyes and lets out a loud sigh. “I’m so tired of hearing about guys, especially Zachary Murphy. We have a huge game on Saturday, one that could cost us our playoff bid. What are the guys doing days before a game? Not worrying about us.”

  And that’s when I find my voice. “Honestly, Tamika, when are they ever?”

  forty-seven

  When I finally arrive home after texting Hannah I’m too tired to make it (she was not happy), I scale the steps, eager to check on my mom. I gingerly open my parents’ bedroom door and peek inside. My mom’s lying on her bed. The glow of the television lights her face.

  “Hey,” I say to her, taking a seat on the edge of her king-sized mattress.

  “How are you?” My mom raises a cracker to her mouth, then makes a face and decides against it.

  “Good, Mom. But, more importantly, how are you? What’s going on?”

  She holds up her hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. Are you sick or something?”

  “I’m just busy. That’s all.” Her cell phone buzzes on her nightstand. She picks it up and motions for me to leave.

  “Whatever,” I swallow a lump in my throat and walk back toward my bedroom.

  But when I swing open my bedroom door, my dreams of a good pillow pounding are dashed. Turns out, someone else is already occupying the pillow area.

  “Hey,” Zach says, from his perch on my bed.

  I shut my door, take a deep breath, and open it again. Sure enough, Zachary Murphy is still there. “What are you doing here?” I ask. Zach is lying on my bed. Watching television. In my bedroom. And I’m not even dreaming.

  “Waiting for you, Spider.” He smiles, showing off his single dimple. “Since you’re blowing me off, I figured I’d wait for you in your bedroom before I train with your dad.”

  He sits up and pats a spot next to him on the mattress.

  Zach wants me to sit on my bed with him.

  “I’m not blowing you off,” I say, keeping my eyes downcast so I don’t have to look at him. My fear is that if I look him in the eye, I won’t be able to keep the anger flowing. It’s hard to stay mad at someone who makes me tingle all over.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, seriously, I’m not.” I would hate for Zach to think that. I would never blow off anyone. I’m the girl who always includes everyone. “It’s just the list . . .” I start to explain as I take a seat at my desk chair, which I promptly roll as far away from Zach as possible.

  Zach gazes at me. “I know I screwed up with the list and everything. But I was just going along with the guys. I can’t get you out of my head.”

  Peer pressure. I knew it.

  “No other girl gets what it takes to be an elite athlete.” He stands up and walks toward me, squatting in front of me so we’re nose to nose. “Nobody else gets it. Gets me like you do.”

  I stare at my pastel blue carpet. Zach is really the only guy at Beachwood perfect for me. And he pretty much just told me that he thinks I’m perfect for him. Maybe my friends would understand after all. You know, if I kiss him one more time.

  Then Zach does something that would seem to make my decision for me. He grabs my hand.

  I stand up.

  We’re still nose-to-nose.

  I take a step backward.

  Zach takes a step toward me.

  We step like this for a few more minutes until we resemble a couple from Dancing with the Stars. I shimmy toward my door. He follows my lead.

  “I’m really sorry, but I have a ton of homework,” I say. I can’t let Zachary Murphy distract me further from school. I’ve already used up all my excuses, especially in English.

  Zach bends down and nuzzles my neck, pressing me against the door. “I can tutor you . . .” he whispers.

  My knees buckle and tiny electric shocks run up my back. How can someone acting so bad smell so yummy?

  “Really, Zach. I’m sorry. . . .”

  “You’re making me crazy,” he whispers again and his hot breath tickles my neck.

  More tingles and flushes. Good flushes. Amazing flushes. Flushes that make me want to roll around with Zach for the night.

  He pulls away from me and grabs my Nerf ball, setting up for a shot. “Here’s the deal. If I make it, I get to hang out here with you as long as I want to. If I miss, I’ll leave.”

  He spins and takes a fade away shot. The ball hits the rim and bounces away from my closet.

  Zach shrugs his shoulders. Without saying another word, he gently kisses my cheek and walks out the door.

  I let out a deep breath and fall face first
on my bed. Now I officially don’t know what to think.

  forty-eight

  I sleep through my alarm the next morning and barely make it to school on time. I hightail it to my locker, and as I swing it open, a purple envelope falls out, hitting my Nike flip-flops. What the?

  Before I can open up the envelope, Hannah appears. “I’m only forgiving you for ditching me yesterday because you’re my BMF,” she says, shuffling around on her crutches. “Plus, I don’t think I can handle another letdown.”

  “I’m so sorry, Banana.” I look down at my black-and-blue “3B 4 a 3Peat” tank, warm-up jacket, sweats, and sneaks, and can’t help but smile. A Taylor Thomas outfit. I was way too tired this morning to coordinate another sexy, scarlet outfit. But, I did manage some red lip gloss. “Do you need me to carry your stuff around again today?” I ask her.

  “Nah, that’s okay. I’m ‘strong like bull.’” She does a mock-Arnold bicep curl and leans to the side to show me her Element bag covered in micro toy skateboards. Then, she notices the card. “What’s that?” she asks, pointing to it with her newly tricked-out-with-multicolored-sharpie designed crutch.

  “It was in my locker,” I answer. Glancing at the purple envelope, I see that my name is written out on the front in black marker.

  Hannah squeals. “You gotta let me see it!” She hobbles behind me into my homeroom. I take a seat at my desk, and she leans over as I carefully peel the envelope open and pull out the white card inside. On the front is a simple red heart sketched using a crayon. Inside, scrawled in black ink, it says, “Taylor. Meet me at the beach courts at 8 p.m. on Friday night.”

  “Oh my god!!!!!” She yanks on my arm, teetering on her crutches. “What are you going to do? Are you going to go?”

  I scan the card. No signature. I shove it inside my notebook. A year ago, even a week ago, I would be totally blissful. But not today. Today it makes me feel flushed, hot, and weird. And besides which, I have a basketball game to think about.

  “Taylor! You have to go!” Hannah urges, interrupting my thoughts.

  I’m so on edge that I almost jump out of my seat at the sound of her voice. “Uh, no. I don’t know. . . .”

  “Uggh. You’re unbelievable,” she says before hobbling out of the room.

  As soon as she’s out the door, I sneak a peek at Matt from my seat who’s chatting with Abby outside the door, feeling awkward about spilling my life story to him yesterday on the beach.

  Matt catches me looking at him and grins, showing off his dimples. I’m such a sucker for dimples.

  He walks over to me, squats down, and lowers his voice, “Do you have any plans on Saturday night?”

  “Huh?” I ask, leaning on my notebook.

  “There’s this poetry slam thing going on at a coffee shop that I wanted to check out. Do you want to go?”

  “Uh . . . I, uh.”

  “Never mind.” He takes off toward the doorway even though homeroom isn’t yet over.

  “No. Wait, Matt—” I flip around in my chair, causing my notebook to fall off my desk. Out tumbles the card. I grab both, and when I look up, Matt’s gone.

  Before I can jog out the door to look for him, Abby stops me. “Taylor, did you do your bio homework?” she asks.

  Bio happens to be the one class I actually did my homework for. (Granted, I did it while Jessica was independently practicing math problems during our Skype tutoring session.) And I can’t leave a teammate hanging. “Yeah. I grab my purple Five Star one-subject notebook. “Everything is right here.” I open up to the page and hand the notebook over to her. “Let me know if you have any questions.” I smile.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  Then, I sprint out the door. But instead of finding Matt calmly walking down the hallway, I catch him holding Nick against the lockers by his throat. What the?!?

  “Say you’re sorry,” I hear Matt shout. He punches Nick in the face with his free hand. A group gathers around the fight.

  Nick is visibly shaking.

  “Say you’re sorry!” Bam! Matt slams Nick against the locker.

  I push through the growing crowd.

  “Sorry!” Nick squeals. Matt lets go and Nick falls down to the ground.

  As Nick unsteadily pushes himself up, giving Matt a look that says, “Dude, you’re crazy,” a security guard grabs Matt. He then hustles them both through the crowd toward the administration office.

  Hannah crutches up next to me and squeezes my hand. “That was crazy. I got here a couple minutes before you did.”

  “What happened?” I ask. “I was just talking to Matt in homeroom.”

  “I’ve never seen him like this. Nick was messing around, calling Patrick ‘stump man,’ and kicking his wheelchair. Matt saw what was going on and freaked out. Then, he grabbed Nick and shoved him up against the locker until he apologized. It was crazy,” Hannah recounts. “What did you say to him to make him flip out?”

  “Me? Uh . . . nothing,” I insist. “It’s just that Matt . . .” I stop myself. Even though I know the real reason Matt lost it, I can’t spill his secret.

  Sweet Matt Moore brought to blows. What is going on?

  forty-nine

  Matt’s seat is empty during English class. As I hear notebooks rustling open to the Word of the Day, I wonder: Did he get suspended? Or worse, did he get kicked out of Beachwood for good? What will he do?

  “Taylor, can you please bring up your notebook, so I can check your Word-of-the-Day progress?” Mr. Ludwig asks from behind his cherry wood desk.

  Eeek. I’ve been so busy helping out Hannah, practicing with my dad, tutoring Jessica, and prepping for Saturday’s basketball game that I haven’t done my homework since last week. I open up my notebook and slowly walk up to Ludwig’s desk.

  He looks down at the blank pages. “There’s nothing here except silly lists.”

  Allison and her friend Brooke (Missy’s fashion show bud) giggle.

  “I’ve . . . uh. I’ve . . .”

  He draws a circle in his grade book. “That’s another zero for this week, Miss Thomas. With this and your missing critical essay, that brings your average down to a C minus.”

  My stomach knots up.

  “Since Matt is out today, why don’t you join Brooke and Allison?” Mr. Ludwig’s wipes his parched lips. Gross. “Maybe you can learn from the two of them how to finish assignments.”

  Fabulous. I grab my notebook off Ludwig’s desk and drag a chair next to Allison. Brooke glances at me and then looks at Allison, “Didn’t know it was our job to provide remedial support.”

  Allison giggles.

  With all the Matt craziness and everything else, I don’t have the patience for this. I begin furiously scribbling in my notebook, attempting to (1) ignore them and (2) catch up on my Word-of-the-Day assignment.

  “What? No witty comeback today, Teri?” Allison attempts to provoke me.

  I practice my yoga breathing.

  “Really, Teri? You don’t have any brilliant one-liners you want to share with me?” Allison continues to mock me.

  “I save them for people who are worth it. You know, people who can actually remember little things like other people’s names from one day to the next.” Take that, Allison, I think.

  “Whatever,” Allison says, pushing her circular glasses (used to make her look smarter) up the bridge of her nose. She turns to Brooke. “So, we had the best time last night.”

  “Where did you go?” Brooke asks, twisting her pen cap in her mouth as if it were a lollipop. “I was completely bummed that I had to miss out,” she sighs.

  I keep one eye on the doorway in case Matt walks by and write myself a note to finish up my Word of the Day.

  “We hit Hyde with some up-and-coming actor who can’t get enough of Vi,” Allison giggles, keeping her iPhone underneath the desk so Mr. Ludwig doesn’t catch her. “And get this, Matt met up with us after.”

  No wonder he ditched me for the bus. Must have had some three-B scoring to do. I sigh and pu
ll my knees to my chest.

  “Did you see Matt’s fight this morning?” Brooke asks. “Nick totally had it coming.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Allison adds, her eyes heavy after an all-nighter with Violet (or should I say, after a night of trying to get Vi to view her as more than an errand girl). “Matt’s so random lately. I mean, he used to hang out a lot when he first came to B-Dub, but now he only comes out once in a while.”

  “I know what you mean,” Brooke says. Leaning closer to Allison, she whispers, “But, you know, he’s so hot, he can come out with me whenever he wants.”

  My ability to concentrate on Brooke and Allison’s dissection of all-things-Matt is suspended by the appearance of Matt himself. He and Mr. Ludwig stand together in the front of the classroom. “Sure, Matt,” I hear Mr. Ludwig say to him.

  Mr. Ludwig opens up a binder and hands him a few papers. Then, he relays page numbers, which Matt swiftly scribbles in his English notebook.

  It takes everything I have not to jump up and avalanche him with a billion questions. Never having had a parent permanently messed up, I can’t imagine what Matt must be feeling after watching Nick diss someone in a wheelchair. But I want to know. And help.

  “Thanks, Mr. L,” Matt says, placing his notebook underneath his arm.

  “Hey, Matt,” Brooke yells from behind me. “Nick had it coming.” She smiles, twisting her pen in her mouth like a lollipop.

  Matt keeps his head down and walks out of the classroom. Immediately, I raise my hand.

  “Yes, Taylor?”

  I walk up to Mr. Ludwig and try not to be too obvious about my intentions. “Can I have a bathroom pass?”

  Mr. Ludwig doesn’t even look up as he scribbles across a pink pad. Ludwig is one of those male teachers who never hesitates to write out a hall pass to girls.

  I grab the pass and sprint out the door.

  Matt’s about to cut the hallway corner when I yell, “Hey!!!”

  Matt turns around and faces me.

  “What happened?” I ask, when I reach him.

  He leans against a locker and I notice his right knuckles are scabbed. “It was nothing. Nick’s a prick.”

  “No, I mean what happened to you. Are you suspended?” All of a sudden, I’m noticing things about Matt that I never really noticed before. Like how he totally resembles an Abercrombie and Fitch model (a short one) when he leans against a locker.