Okay. So that was weird.
• • •
I definitely went through my first day of school in a haze.
I don’t remember seeing any of these people yesterday. Which is odd because my calc teacher has the most Biblical beard I’ve ever seen. Seriously, this guy could’ve given Moses a run for his money. How did I miss that?
After first period, I go to the school office to find out who the soccer coach is, and the receptionist directs me to the athletics hallway where I find the office that says “Coach Walker—Soccer.”
I knock on the door.
A man opens it, and I sigh, relieved that he doesn’t have a Biblical beard. He’s a normal guy, probably in his early thirties. He is chewing gum and wearing the typical coach’s uniform: khakis, a ball cap, an unflattering polo shirt the color of corn.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Hi, I’m Taylor. I was hoping to talk to you about the soccer team.”
He smacks his chewing gum. “For the school newspaper or yearbook or something?”
“No, I play. I know tryouts probably already took pla—”
“We’ll take you.”
“What?” I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Don’t you need to know if I’m any good?”
He shrugs. “We’ve only got twelve girls this year. We could use the help.”
There were only about a hundred girls total at my old school, but we still held tryouts every year. We couldn’t risk having a bad player, or we’d lose. They only have one sub? St. Andrew’s always had at least three.
“So you play?” he asks.
My voice cracks when I admit, “I used to play for St. Andrew’s.”
His eyes perk up. “Oh, so you’re the new transfer student the principal mentioned? The one who was kicked out—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sheesh. Fine. Our first game is Saturday. We practice every day after school from three to four o’clock, except for on game days and Fridays. Can you make it today?”
I nod, hardly believing that practice is only an hour long. That’s not enough time to run a few miles, do drills, and scrimmage.
“I’ll be there. I can’t wait.”
“Good,” the coach says with a smile.
I find myself smiling back.
• • •
Technically, with the amount of drugs St. Andrew’s found in my possession, I could’ve been required to finish high school in juvie.
Last Monday, my parents took me to juvenile court to face the music. While my offense was not severe enough for cops to arrest me and send me to detention, I was still required to appear in the judge’s private office to face charges.
“Taylor Lukens, come forward,” the judge in dark robes said. It was like approaching Professor Dumbledore for breaking school rules at Hogwarts. Honestly, that would have seemed more normal than going before a judge for possession of drugs.
Mom and Dad stood to my right, while Dad’s lawyer stood to our left. I felt so flushed with shame, I could barely lift my head to face the judge. Mom gently held my elbow.
“Want to tell me what happened?” the judge asked.
Dad’s lawyer gave me a pointed stare. He said if I told the truth, the judge would be more lenient. But I couldn’t tell the truth truth, or Ben’s future would be over along with mine. On top of that, Dad would be even more pissed that I attempted to use his position to bail out a friend.
I could imagine his reaction: “You lied for your boyfriend and expected me to clean it up? And when the going got rough, you snitched on him to save yourself? That is the opposite of modeling integrity.”
So I told the same “truth” I had told Mom, Dad, and their lawyer:
“The pills were mine, Your Honor.”
“Why did you have so many? Were you selling them?”
“No, Your Honor. I had them to help me study.”
They believed my lie. Before I went to court, I had to take a drug test. Sure enough, they found Adderall in my system, and it had never been prescribed to me. On occasion, I took it to stay awake to study. So did my friends. Ben knew someone on campus who sold Adderall and would buy pills for me when I asked. There were about thirty pills and a tiny bit of weed in the backpack, but our lawyer argued I had no intention of selling.
I had no priors and had never been in trouble before, so the judge said I could attend public school, but I have to meet with the school counselor on a daily basis, which I start today.
During my free period, I head to the counseling office. I plan to use the time to my advantage. I’m hopeful the counselor can help me figure out the right approach for my college essay.
“I’m Taylor Lukens,” I tell the receptionist, and she quickly ushers me into Miss Brady’s office. The counselor is an attractive woman in her twenties, wearing a pearl necklace and earrings, and she seems to have an affinity for cat artwork and inspirational posters. I take a seat in a lime-green armchair that must be from the seventies and stare at a poster of a snowcapped mountain that says Inspire.
“So, tell me about yourself.”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. I should go buy another pair after soccer practice this afternoon. That would give me something to do so I don’t have to go home and be lonely. I love the idea of having plans—even if they are with myself.
“Taylor?”
“Yeah?”
“I asked you to tell me about yourself.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’m a senior. I have a 4.2 GPA. I’m sure you already have my transcript and test scores.”
She glances down at the opened folder in front of her. “That’s wonderful. But what about you? What do you like?”
I squeeze my knees. “I like soccer…and dogs.”
She smiles, even though I’m cringing at how immature I sound.
“Do you have a dog?” she asks.
“I want one, but my mom said no. The house dog at my old school, Oscar, spent more time with me than anybody else.”
“You must miss him.”
I clear my throat and stare at my lap. Then I nod.
Then silence.
“I hate to put you on the spot, Taylor, but in order for you to avoid court-mandated rehab and for us to continue our sessions, I have to ask if you’ve been using Adderall or any other substance.”
I stare straight at her and speak with a strong, steady voice. “No, I have not.”
“Do you have any Adderall in your possession?”
“I do not.” I never had more than three or four pills at a time. I still don’t know why Ben had thirty pills. Part of me doesn’t want to know why…
The counselor clicks her pen. “Why were you taking it?”
I decide to be upfront. There’s no need to lie more than I already am. “To stay awake and study.”
“You must feel a lot of pressure.”
With a father who grew up middle class and went on to become a United States senator, doing great things is expected in my family. My sister was president of the Tennessee chapter of the National Honor Society. His freshman year of college, Oliver wrote an opinion column for the university paper, the Daily Princetonian. Because success comes so naturally to them, sometimes I think I put more pressure on myself than anybody else does.
“I want to go to a good college like my brother and sister,” I finally reply.
She clicks her pen on. “Where are you planning to apply?”
“I had been planning on applying early decision to Yale in November…” My cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Everything we talk about is confidential, right?”
The counselor twirls her pen between her fingers. “I have to report to the judge who handled your case, but otherwise, this is just between us. I won’t share anything you say with other students or teachers.”
/> “Okay…” I take a deep breath. “I’ve been working toward Yale for years… After what happened, will they still take me? I’m scared.”
She jots down a note on the pad in front of her. “There are always options. We can work together to find the one that’s best for you.”
Is she trying to manage my expectations? Does she think Yale is off the table? The judge assured me my record would be sealed.
“I’m not giving up,” I tell her.
She nods, continuing to write. “Do you know what you want to study?”
“I hope to major in business with a minor in politics.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Like your father?”
It’s not a surprise she’s bringing him up. He’s been a senator for eighteen years. That’s longer than I’ve been alive. But I’m not some clone of his like Miss Brady probably thinks. I have my own thoughts and ideas. A more liberal point of view.
For a time, I considered majoring in art history because I love going to museums and learning about the past. But Dad always says that in this economy, I need a solid major, something that could lead to many different successful careers. This was coming from the man who some have touted as a future Secretary of the United States Treasury or even the next governor.
I get what he’s saying. As much as I love museums, a business major would have many practical applications. Such as working at Lukens, Powell, and Associates, my family’s firm. My grandfather built the firm from nothing, and Dad turned it from a solid business into a multimillion-dollar operation. Grandpa and Nana are in their seventies and have retired to Naples, Florida, but Grandpa keeps a close watch on the business.
Dad has always said Oliver, Jenna, and I can apply for jobs there after college, to keep the firm in the family, which sounds very Godfather-esque.
Wait—after what happened, would Dad and Grandpa still want me to work there? I inhale sharply and end up gasping.
“Taylor? Did you hear me? Are you okay?”
“Hmm?”
She looks concerned. “I was wondering how you deal with stress and pressure. What do you like to do in your free time?”
“I study. Work on college essays. At my school, I ate dinner and hung out with my friends, played with Oscar. I spent time with my boyfriend…” I let my voice trail off. Will the sting of betrayal ever stop?
Miss Brady’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Have you made any friends here at Hundred Oaks yet?”
“No.”
“Are you going to try?”
“I’m sure I’ll meet the girls on the soccer team.” Making friends is not really my priority right now. I need to get my future back on track first. If I can’t get into college, I don’t know what I’ll do.
And now for the mother of all questions. She stares me down and asks, “How do you feel?”
Not so good. I would feel guilty saying that though, because my life is not bad whatsoever. Not when you compare it to people living in poverty or being persecuted for their religion.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Again.
• • •
At lunch, I sit down beside a window in the cafeteria and unpack the boring lunch Marina packed for me. Mom obviously chose it—a plain chicken breast, quinoa, and a kale salad. I dig into my homework as I eat. If I want to spend time with my friends tonight, I need to get my homework done during school hours. Then I remember where I am. My friends aren’t here; I have no plans for tonight.
I set down my pen and fork and stare out the window. I don’t want to keep wallowing in my own misery—that’s not who I am.
I decide to group-text Steph and Madison: Saw Ezra today!!!
Mads: The Asshole!
Steph: Lick him!
Ugh. Steph always thought I should’ve pushed harder to find out why Ezra skipped my sixteenth birthday party after he told me to save my first dance for him, but I was too embarrassed and fed up. Previously, two other guys had asked me out, but I had said no, just in case Ezra decided to stop flirting and make an actual move. After he missed my party, I wasn’t going to waste another second on him. Madison agreed with me and started calling him The Asshole. Steph, however, said she knew Ezra was in love with me, but he wasn’t pursuing me because of his friendship with my brother.
Mads: Tee, I don’t care how tasty he looks, u aren’t licking him. BTW, Ben won’t stop asking about u.
Me: What does he want?
Mads: YOU, obvs. He misses u. What happened with y’all? Can’t believe you dumped him! It’s all anyone’s talking about here!
Me: I told you. I don’t want to do long distance. I’ll never see him. What if either of us ended up cheating, like my sister did with Jack?
Lies. All lies.
Mads: But Ben loves u!
Steph: Tell us about Ezra! How’d he look? Is he still lick-able?
Mads: Of course he is. A boy like that doesn’t just suddenly become un-lick-able, even if he is The Asshole.
I change the subject because they are no help.
Me: Mads, what’s up w/ Chris?
Mads: He’s totally lick-able!
Me: Eeeeeep!! <3
Steph: Gotta go. Trig time. Chat later.
Next, I text my brother about Ezra.
Saw Ezra today at Foothills dressed up like a construction worker! Why is he here?
My phone dings ten seconds later. No clue. We haven’t talked in a couple weeks.
He’s ur best friend.
I know.
Then why haven’t you talked to him?
He hates texting & he’s never online. We’ve been trading phone calls. Keep missing each other.
I thought he goes to Cornell?
He does. Gotta get to lab. TTYL.
The plot thickens.
No Matter What…
The school office gave me permission to go home during last period study hall to change into shorts and a tank top for soccer practice. I decide to wear my lucky smiley face socks over my shin guards and braid my hair into a long plait. I speed my car back to school with only a couple minutes to spare. Dad always says five minutes early is on time.
Feeling like myself for the first time in a week, I am grinning as I park next to the lush green soccer field. I hop out of the car and rush past an outdoor basketball court, where a bunch of guys are playing shirts versus skins. Because they are high school boys and are evolutionarily wired to do so, they whistle and catcall at me as I jog over to the benches where Coach Walker is standing next to two orange coolers.
“You made it,” he says, smiling as he reads from a paper on his clipboard.
I bounce on my toes, raring to go. “Yup. Where’s the team? Isn’t it three o’clock?”
He pulls his phone out and checks the screen. “It is.”
Instead of explaining where the other girls are, he starts tapping buttons on his phone and seemingly loses all interest in me. I edge to his side and peek at his screen. He’s checking Facebook.
I decide to use the time to stretch. I bend over and touch my toes. Next, I cross one leg over the other, then lean toward the ground again. Someone whistles loudly. I glance up from touching my toes to find the guys have stopped passing the basketball and are staring at me.
The tallest one sticks his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistles again.
I ignore the silly boys and go back to stretching. I work on my arms, hamstrings, and calves, and still no team. Coach Walker is still typing on his phone. He and Mom should hang out together with their electronic devices.
A minute later, a skinny guy steps onto the field carrying a stats book, a set of orange cones, and a mesh bag full of soccer balls. He’s probably a freshman or sophomore, and with his floppy brown hair and freckles, he’s sweet looking. But I don’t know what to say about his T-shirt that says in huge
bold letters Not Even Flexing.
When he sees me, his eyes grow wide behind his glasses. “Hey. I’m Danny, the team manager.”
“I’m Taylor. So you’re into soccer?”
“Not really. I’m here to meet girls.”
I raise my eyebrows. I’m the only girl here so far. He better not get his hopes up about me, but I can tell what he’s thinking thanks to his big smile.
“Danny, where are the other players?”
“Still in the locker room, but I’m not sure what they’re doing because I’m not allowed inside.”
Good to know.
Danny pulls out an air pump and begins making sure the balls are fully inflated. I take a deep breath and wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. It’s at least 3:10 p.m., and I’m still the only player here. If the team’s first game is on Saturday, we’re losing valuable practice time. Especially if we’re supposed to be done by four o’clock.
What if I’m the only one who shows up to practice? I imagine standing in front of a goal, defending against a team of eleven other girls all by myself. Sounds like a bad sitcom.
The basketball boys start whistling again. Girls are trickling out of the gym door. Not only are they late, some of them aren’t even wearing shin guards. Coach Clark never would’ve stood for that. She benched anyone who didn’t show up prepared. One time, I accidentally forgot mine and didn’t get to play the entire game, even though Madison had an extra pair I could’ve borrowed.
My new teammates walk toward the field, gossiping and laughing. I feel a pang in my heart when I remember how I used to walk to practice with Steph and Madison. They’re probably doing that right now. Are they thinking of me?
When my new teammates see me, the chatter stops. The smiles disappear.
I recognize a few from my new classes. The tallest girl, the only one I remember from last year, steps forward. I don’t know her name, but she has big, expressive hazel eyes and long black hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail. She’s also one hell of a player. She places a hand on her hip as her eyes roam over me.
“What is she doing here, Coach?”
Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) Page 3
