32
The Bridgeport sports staff was so evil that they made everyone go to sports practice on Blacker Sunday (called that for obvious reasons). Everyone hit the field with stale-martini breath, eye shadow still smeared on their upper lids, and pink tongues, courtesy of two big swigs of Pepto to calm their gurgling stomachs.
Crystal sat on the hockey bench with her head between her legs. She had a hickey on her neck, and she was certain it wasn’t from Zane. She’d tried to cover it with her concealer stick, but the big purple welt was still there. Really, she felt too shitty to care. She wanted to curl back up under her double-thick cashmere blanket and suck her thumb. She eyed Bree and Naomi sitting on the grass, stretching, looking as if they hadn’t had a sip of alcohol last night. Since when were they such good friends?
Mrs. Smail blew her whistle and called the girls up to scrimmage. Of all things to do at a post–Black Saturday party practice, they were actually going to play? Why couldn’t everyone do a couple of laps and go back to bed?
“Crystal Alexander, Naomi Peterson, you’ll play centers,” Mrs. Smail instructed.
A collective gasp rose up from the bench. Everyone’s heads swiveled back and forth, from Crystal’s black ponytail to Naomi’s fire-red bob. Crystal heaved herself up from the bench, feeling bloated and disgusting. She watched Naomi storm off to the middle of the field. Frustration welled up inside of her again. How dare Naomi not tell her about Mr. Dalton!
As soon as Mrs. Smail dropped the small silver ball, Naomi whacked it, following through so roughly she hit Crystal’s left shin guard.
Crystal backed up in pain and anger. She tore after Naomi, who was now a few steps ahead of her, dribbling the ball. The sod was mushy under her feet, and her black and white Nike cleats dug fiercely into the ground. Naomi’s skirt rose so that you could see the bottom of her maroon bloomers and her skinny butt. Crystal caught up to her and stuck her stick in between Naomi and the ball. Then Naomi’s hands twisted and she whacked the ball with the rounded side of her hockey stick, sending it careening away from Crystal, toward one of the midfielders on Naomi’s team.
“Foul!” Crystal screamed, stopping in her tracks. “Mrs. Smail! That was a foul!”
“I didn’t see it,” Mrs. Smail responded. “Keep playing.” She gestured to the other girls, who had taken the ball and swept it down toward one of the goals.
“Jesus Christ!” Crystal threw her stick to the ground in disgust. “She hit the ball with the wrong side of the stick!”
“Whatever,” Mrs. Smail said. “It’s only practice, and I didn’t see it.”
Crystal turned to Naomi, eyes narrowed. “They don’t teach field hockey in New Jersey, do they?”
Crystal watched as Naomi’s turned angrier and angrier.
“Go to hell,” Naomi finally muttered.
“Ooh, the big comeback from class prefect, Naomi Peterson. I thought you had great debate skills! I thought you could talk your way out of anything!”
“Girls,” Mrs. Smail warned. “Play. Naomi, your team just scored a goal.”
Naomi stepped around Mrs. Smail to face Crystal. “What is it, Crystal? What’s the huge thing you have against me? If anything, I’m the one who should be angry at you—not the other way around!”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because you’re a manipulative bitch, that’s why!” Naomi screamed.
The other players gasped. Mrs. Smail tried to step between them, but Crystal shot her a look of warning that said, Stay away. Mrs. Smail turned and began walking briskly toward the field house.
Crystal turned to Naomi. “You take that back. I’m not manipulative.”
Naomi barked out a laugh. “No? So what’s this whole Bree-and-Zane thing about? How is that not manipulation?” She shot a look over at Bree, who was standing perfectly still, stick poised, watching them from her midfield position.
Crystal glanced at Bree too. Great. Just great. A comment like that wouldn’t help sway Bree to stick up for her at DC. She glowered at Naomi. “You don’t know anything.”
“I don’t have to know anything,” Naomi shot back. “I know you and how you operate. From what you did to Jade.”
“Jade?!?” Crystal’s mouth dropped open.
“That’s right.” Naomi’s voice was hushed. She stepped closer to her former friend, so close that their noses were almost touching. “Why don’t you just come clean? You set Jade up to take the rap. You made it so you wouldn’t get in any trouble.”
Oh, this was something. “I set it up? Who’s to say you didn’t set it up?” Crystal yelled. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I didn’t even talk to Jade before she left! I was called into DC, I left, and she was already gone!”
“Oh, yeah. That’s a good one—”
“Why would I set Jade up? We were friends!”
Naomi stepped back and glared at Crystal confusedly. They both stared at each other for a few long seconds before Naomi’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Crystal nodded fiercely.
“And you think that I got Jade in trouble?”
“Well I didn’t, so you must have,” Crystal explained, but Naomi could hear her resolve weakening.
“I didn’t have a chance to talk to Jade, either. She was gone before I could.”
Crystal looked down. “Really?”
“Yes.”
The other players held their breath.
“I don’t get it,” Naomi surmised. “Jade just...took the blame for us, on her own?”
“I guess. But why would she do that?”
“No clue.”
Crystal began to laugh. “That’s really fucked up.”
Naomi slowly began to giggle too. “God, I totally thought you did it.”
“And I thought you did it!”
“I thought you were going to transfer rooms on me, just to avoid having to talk about Jade!”
Behind them, Mrs. Smail ran up with Mr. Steinberg, the boy’s soccer coach, in tow. When she saw Crystal and Naomi laughing and then hugging, she stopped short in confusion.
“I swear they were ready to kill each other.”
“Girls,” Mr. Steinberg sighed hopelessly, shaking his head.
Mrs. Smail ran her fingers through her short black hair. “You know, why doesn’t everyone just hit the showers,” she suggested after a moment.
Finally.
Naomi felt like she’d just run a marathon, which was always how she felt after vigorously fighting with somebody. She walked slowly back to the bleachers with Crystal, neither of them speaking. But it was a comfortable silence, not a tense one. She threw her shin guards in her gray nylon bag and noticed her cell phone buzzing. She had a text message: Come meet me on my boat when you can. We need to talk. –Eric.
She put her head in her hands. That single lingering kiss. His soft lips. The way he’d finally put his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. The way he smelled, like peppermint and cigarettes and lavender laundry soap. The way he’d groaned a little when they stopped. She’d felt so rejected after their kiss yesterday, but maybe he’d changed his mind? She knew it was dangerous, but wasn’t life about taking risks? She only hoped Eric felt the same way.
He was sprawled on a modern white lounge chair on the boat’s deck, a bag of honey mustard pretzels at his side, when she arrived. He stood and brushed crumbs off his crisp chinos.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she answered, standing at the water’s edge. She’d quickly thrown on a black tee and hip-hugging jeans, hoping to look casual and unassuming, but now the outfit felt all wrong. Her shirt was too short and her pants were too low, so too much of her toned midriff winked up at him. It was too déclassé for Eric. She tried to cover it up with her hand. It didn’t help that he looked absolutely gorgeous, his brown skin gleaming against the edges of his white polo shirt.
“Hey.” He smiled down at her.
“Hey again,” Naomi said quietly.
T
hey fell silent, looking at each other from a distance. Naomi felt stupid—obviously he didn’t feel the same way. Her stomach clunked inside of her, irritated that he would make her come here to tell her what she already knew: that they couldn’t see each other anymore, blah, blah, blah. Fine, big fucking deal. She wanted it to be over quickly. And not ever see him again. She could resign from DC. Who cared if it looked good on your college applications? There were other ways to get into Brown.
“So this is what I’ve been thinking,” he interrupted her thoughts. “You have one more year here. And you’re seventeen. I’m twenty-three. That’s like, six years.”
“Uh-huh,” Naomi responded, twisting a piece of rope lying on one of the dock’s pylons.
“Six years. Like, when we’re in our twenties...you’ll be, say, twenty-two, and I’ll be twenty-eight. And when I’m fifty, you’ll be forty-four.”
Naomi snorted. “So what are you saying?’”
“I—” Eric started.
“No offense,” Naomi retorted quickly, straightening up. “But I’m not, like, holding out for you until I’m forty-four. Hopefully I’ll be with a younger guy by then.”
Eric stared at her intensely. “I don’t think I could wait until you were forty-four.”
“Oh,” she replied, winding the rope around her finger so tightly that it began cutting off the circulation.
He stared at her, then sighed. “Come into my cabin?”
Naomi paused. She wasn’t positive, but she suspected that this was about to be the biggest, most important moment of her life so far. Standing there, in a crappy T-shirt and her crappiest jeans, on a random Sunday after field hockey practice, slightly hungover, seventeen years old, a tiny pimple on the corner of her right cheek that was covered up with MAC concealer, AP bio homework to do... Her life a boring mess, otherwise. But if she wanted it to happen, the next moments could change her life forever.
“Yeah, I guess I can do that.” She smiled quietly to herself and ran her hands along the guide rails on the dock to climb aboard.
33
As Crystal rounded the corner to Dumbarton, she saw Zane blocking the front doorway. Her first instinct was to turn in the other direction and go back to the playing fields.
But Zane saw her. “Wait.” He started down the concrete steps. “Come back.”
Crystal turned reluctantly around. She flashed back to blurry images of the party last night: a mess of tequila bottles, Maurice’s ugly tattoo, Zane peeking out from the door beads, Maurice’s juvenile follow-up e-mail. Ever since the beginning of the year, everyone had been making fun of how Maurice ponied all the girls; and sure, she’d been drunk, angry with Naomi, and even angrier at Zane, but why had she let Maurice pony her, too?
“Hey,” she answered gruffly.
“So. You have fun last night?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.
“I’m sorry.” She flapped her hands against her maroon and blue plaid hockey kilt. “About the...you know. The thing. It was stupid. A drinking game.”
“It definitely caught me off guard.” Zane shuffled his foot against a pebble on the walkway. Seeing Zane awkward like this made Crystal melt.
“That was a weird party.” She looked down.
Zane didn’t answer.
“They weren’t like that last year,” Crystal went on. “They were just fun.” She sat down on the steps and pressed her knees together, fighting back an overwhelming urge to squeeze her eyes shut. “I just want things with us to be like last year, too. We had so much fun.”
“Yeah,” Zane said softly.
“What’s happened with us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we could get it back.” Crystal raised her head hopefully. “Maybe if we just, I don’t know. Go somewhere off campus and talk. Somewhere where nobody else is. Anywhere you want. I’ll even go riding with you,” she added impulsively. Zane used to always try to get her to ride with him and she never had.
“You would?”
“If they don’t boot me out of here, yeah.” She shifted on the step. “I still don’t know what Bree’s going to do. I mean, I don’t think she wants to tell on me, but she doesn’t want to get in trouble.”
Zane stared at his sneakers. “I don’t think Bree should get in trouble.”
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that.” Crystal heard the edge in her own voice.
“I think you should take the blame. Bree has nothing to do with this.”
“If I take the blame, I’ll be expelled. You want that?”
Zane shook his head. “No. I...I don’t know. If only there was a way for neither of you to get in trouble...”
“I don’t get it.” Crystal stared at him. “Why do you care so much whether or not she gets in trouble? You guys didn’t even know each other until I...” Suddenly, it was as if a lightbulb had gone off over her head. What Amir had told her after the pre-Black Saturday party. The writing on Bree’s arm. Maurice’s gossipy e-mail—two people looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. They were both so open to flirting with each other when Crystal asked them to.
Zane liked Bree. Not because Crystal had told him to like her, either. Because he really did.
Crystal shoved her thumb into her mouth and turned away so that he couldn’t see the expression on her face.
Zane watched her as she turned, wondering what she was thinking. How could he save both Bree and Crystal? The only thing he could think of might put his own place at Bridgeport in jeopardy. Was he man enough to do that?
Crystal turned around again. “I guess whatever happens happens.”
“Who knows. They still might kick me out.”
She was quiet for a second. “I wish I could just, like, turn back time.”
Zane laid his hand over Crystal’s. “I know,” he responded, thinking. This...whatever it was... with Bree—it felt too big for him to understand. And maybe too scary. Looking at Crystal, sitting on the steps in her field hockey kilt and after-practice flip-flops, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and without a stitch of makeup, she looked like a kid. Not a worldly, full-of-emotion adult. She was sweet and safe and something he understood. He hated to think of leaving her—whether that meant leaving her for Bree or leaving Bridgeport completely. “Maybe I can make that happen,” he said, squeezing his fingers around hers.
34
An hour later, Naomi walked back down the gangplank, hugging herself, her mind reeling from what she’d just done.
Eric Dalton had taken off her clothes and kissed her everywhere. Then he’d taken his own clothes off slowly, as if he were in a strip club. Naomi had never seen a guy take his clothes off in the daylight. He’d kept his eyes on her the whole time. They’d massaged each other and fooled around and then, just when things were going to go...further, she’d suddenly told him she needed some fresh air. Being with Eric was more than she had expected. More than her fantasy about him had been. It felt overwhelming. And not necessarily entirely in a good way. She needed to think.
And then, who did she see standing at the end of the dock? Fuck.
“There she is,” Corey muttered to himself. “I thought you weren’t into sailing.”
There were huge circles under his eyes. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt and he was carrying a giant duffel bag with his initials embroidered into one side. Naomi felt a stab of guilt—something about Corey, tough and cool, toting around a bag that no doubt his mommy had gotten monogrammed for him, seemed really vulnerable and sweet.
“Oh. Hey.”
“Hey?” Corey shook his head. “That’s all you can say, Hey?”
“Well...” Naomi tried to walk past him, but he stopped her with his arm. His hand gripped her bicep tightly. For a split second she was a little afraid and looked back to the boat for help. Then she realized—this was Corey. She wrenched herself from his grasp. “Don’t touch me like that! Didn’t you get my message?”
“What, so you break up with somebody on a voicemail?” he yelled back
. “That’s real classy. I thought you were better than that.”
Naomi didn’t want to have this out right in front of Eric’s boat—Eric, who had undressed very slowly. Eric, who had touched her deftly and maturely, not in the fumbling, grabby way boys her age did. Eric, who hadn’t gotten mad when Naomi covered herself with the Ralph Lauren paisley sheets and said they should stop. She started walking down the path back to campus. “Fine.” She turned back. “I’m breaking up with you in person, then. You happy?”
“I don’t suppose you could give me any fucking reasons, could you?”
“Sure,” Naomi scoffed. “Did you really think this was serious? There. That’s one.”
Corey stopped. His eyes were all puffy and red. It looked as if he hadn’t gone to bed yet.
“Yeah. I did think we were serious. Why else would I ask you to come to California with me?”
“Well...” She stared at the ground.
“But obviously there’s somebody else,” he ventured. “I was told to look for you here. This is some guy’s boat, right? You were with some guy down there, on his boat, in his cabin? C’mon, Naomi. That’s a little trashy, don’t you think?”
Naomi prickled and narrowed her eyes. As if he were one to talk about low class, using that stupid townie accent! Then it hit her. “Wait, who told you I’d be here?”
Corey shrugged. “Why does it matter?” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a pack of Newports. “The point is, somebody told me, and you made it really clear. So fuck it. It’s your loss.”
He turned and loped back up to the green, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“Wait,” Naomi called hoarsely. A streak of nerves ran through her. “Who told you I’d be—?”
But he was too far away to hear, and she didn’t want to yell. She turned back and stared down at the docks. Eric’s boat bobbed placidly on the water, as if it hadn’t just almost been witness to the most life-changing moment of Naomi’s existence. With a few short steps, she could go back down there and climb back into bed next to Eric. They could drink wine and talk about things and he could make her feel better about everything. Then she could have sex with him, for her first time ever.
BRIDGEPORT ACADEMY #1 Page 17
