Head Games

by Nicole Leigh Shepherd

  “You okay?” I ask, walking alongside Jessica toward the caf.

  “No worries,” she says. She finger-straightens her ebony hair. “Everything will get worked out eventually. But, you might want to stay clear of Zach for now. I mean, eventually, Kylie’s going to find out he likes you.”

  “Maybe he likes you,” I say, holding the door to the side lawn open for Jessica. “Kylie seems to think so.”

  “Come on,Taylor.” Jessica walks across one of the Welcome to Beachwood Academy rubber mats and halts at the doorway. “He’s totally crushing on you. Nick said he had to stand on the dunes.”

  “Yeah, but you’re five-eight,” I point out.

  “Seriously, Taylor? Zach needed to stand on the dunes to reach someone who’s five-eight? Really? They had to have been talking about you.”

  My stomach does another flip and I shrug. “I guess.”

  “Hey, do you mind if I Skype you tomorrow to go over geometry before Monday’s test?” Jessica asks, changing the subject. “Proofs and I aren’t exactly best friends right now.”

  “Haha. Sure. I owe you one.” I smile.

  “Thanks.” Jessica slips out the door and sprints across the grass.

  Realizing that I’m running late to meet Hannah, I scurry down the massive hallway and briskly cross the interior courtyard to the cafeteria. Upon pushing the heavy double doors open, I’m immediately taken aback by the overwhelming number of newly installed sewing machines, spools of unraveled measuring tape, and piles of discarded fabric. And then there’s the usual abundance of royal blue and white Wildcat banners hanging from the walls. Another reminder of the legacy our team has to live up to.

  “Tay! Finally!” Hannah screams from the far side of the caf. As she sprints toward me, I notice that the look on her face is somewhere between stressed and insanely excited. Oops—I really should have texted her back.

  “I was convinced you were going to ditch me after practice,” Hannah groans. Hannah’s oblivious to how lucky she is: She’s petite and perfect, about five feet four inches tall, and blessed with wavy but not curly pale blond hair. Plus, she always exudes a real sense of confidence. As opposed to me. In fact, she manages to mix punk and vintage styles with her own designs and look really amazing . . . which is probably why everyone at Beachwood loves her.

  Today, for instance, she’s dressed in an oversized black Volcom tee with rolled-up jeans that she’s stripped and resewn with a series of fabric swatches (probably stolen from her sister’s dresses). Around her neck is a chunky necklace made out of bottle caps, fabric flowers, and mini Care Bears dolls left over from her childhood. And last but not least, she’s sporting a pair of gray Vans that she’s embellished with jewels from 1920s dresses purchased at a thrift shop.

  Hannah and I have been best friends since the second grade. When I brought my favorite Bratz doll, named after Lisa Leslie, to show-and-tell, Hannah was so impressed with the mini-basketball jersey I’d made for her and the intricate backstory I’d concocted that she begged me to come over and play with her after school. After an afternoon of Bratz bonding, we pinky swore best friendship forever.

  “What’s up?” I ask, swinging my duffel bag over one of the royal blue ergonomic plastic chairs and plopping myself down on the chair next to her.

  “Okay, don’t freak,” Hannah begins hesitantly.

  Uh-oh. Whatever Hannah has to tell me, please don’t let it make today any worse than it is already.

  “All right. I’m just gonna say it.” Hannah takes a deep breath, and then, releasing it, quickly blurts out the big news. “I signed you up for the fashion show.”

  “Wait . . . what?!?” My palms clam up and my heart starts pounding so loudly, it feels as if it might almost burst.

  “You’re going to be my model!” Hannah grins, showing off her perfectly straight, white teeth.

  “Are you serious?” I shriek.“A model? ME?”

  “I knew you would have this reaction.” She grabs my arm and drags me toward the mad throng of girls measuring, pinning, and sewing. “But, you’re gorgeous and tall. And I need someone to wear my designs. And uh, Chloe was going to do it, but you know, she has the flu and is out for the rest of the month. So, you’re it. Thanks so much for helping me out. You’re going to have a blast!”

  For a few seconds, I’m so paralyzed by fear that I can hardly breathe. I scan the room once more and my suspicions are again confirmed. I’m completely out of my element. Unlike the girls around me, who are each dressed to the nines, with their perfectly coifed hair and their designer duds, I’m once again clothed for comfort. I wonder what percentage of them is secretly laughing to themselves about “the giraffe with the duffel bag” who has no business being here.

  Seeing the deer-in-the-headlights look on my face, Hannah realizes that she’s going to have to keep me focused if she doesn’t want me to freak. She stands me in front of the wall and pulls out her digital camera.

  “Smile!”

  For a second, my eyes are blinded by the flash, and I’m almost able to forget exactly what I’m doing here. Then Hannah ushers me next to her and turns the camera around so that she and I can both see the screen. When the image appears, Hannah literally folds over, cracking up uncontrollably. “Seriously? Are you going to a funeral?”

  “Banana, I can’t do this. And anyway, I’m super busy. The Richland game, which the SoCal Suns scout will be at, and our chance to three-peat are both coming up. And there’s also this drama that we need to talk about.”

  “Oooh! Well, you know I love me some drama. But for now, just smile.”

  I half grin this time. Hannah snaps the pic.

  “The fashion show will help boost your confidence, which will make you so much better prepared for your big games!” she says, glancing at the pic with a content expression on her face. After motioning for me to remove my warm-up jacket, she pulls out a tape measure from her bag. “Now, stand still while I take your measurements.”

  As Hannah wraps the tape measure around my waist, hips, and other parts of my body I never wanted measured, let alone in front of the Beachwood elite, I shift around awkwardly. Meanwhile, Missy walks by with Brooke Lauder (another member of Kylie’s crew and fellow junior), who, judging by the fat sketchbook in her hands, is also participating in the fashion show. Just my luck. They freeze in front of me like they spotted a fifty-percent-off handbag sale at Prada, eye me up and down, and then show-whisper to each other.

  “Taylor, what are you doing here?” Missy asks, grinning at Brooke and dosing her lips with expensive-looking gloss.

  “Duh.” Hannah replies indignantly. “She’s a model.”

  “Seriously?” Both girls look me over once more, giggle, and continue walking.

  “Banana, I’ll do your homework for you. Beat up your sister. Anything. But please”—I hand Hannah her tape measure and place my hands in the prayer position—“convince Jessica to take my place.”

  Hannah moves my arms out like a scarecrow as she measures my (lack of) chest. Looking up at me, she winks. “You’re going to be fabulous.”

  But what does Hannah know? When she’s in a closet with a boy, he’s not checking his cell phone.

  five

  After Hannah finishes taking my measurements, I decide that if I play around on my phone for the duration of this nightmare, people might not notice that “Big Bird” (another one of my unfortunate nicknames) got lost on the way to visit Bert and Ernie. And mistakenly walked into a room populated by an entirely different species.

  My stomach flutters as I stare at my phone. Wow. A comment on my “Going to practice” status. I just recently got up enough courage to begin posting status updates. Hannah and her sister Violet text updates every five minutes, as does almost every student at my school, but this week is the first time I’m posting about my life for the world to see. Normally, I’m all about blending. And when it comes to, “Hey, this is what I’m doing,” I’m usually completely cyber-shy.

  Turns out
it’s Chloe who posted. Her message says, “Thanks for the flair. Have fun at practice!”

  “You’re welcome,” I begin to reply back. Then a flush creeps up my back; that’s definitely not a good enough response to someone who took the time to comment even though She’s sick. I delete and type, “You’re welcome and feel better soon ” Then, I feed my puppy and send a February heart back to my Aunt Denise (she sent me one twenty minutes ago). Next, I add a couple more friends to my heart list and reply to some posts. (I always reply to as many as possible—I mean, it totally makes my day to receive replies, so why wouldn’t I want to make someone else’s?) Finally, I update my status with a “With Hannah at fashion show rehearsal.” As soon as I see my new status typed out on-screen, I delete it. Too much.

  “What happened to your knee?” Hannah squishes her nose like the time she bit into a raspberry-crème filled chocolate truffle. Hannah hates raspberry.

  I shove my phone back in my duffel and look down at my scab. My Zach scab. Now that it’s stopped hurting, I’ve realized that it isn’t bad enough to mess with my season. So, it’s kind of become a souvenir of sorts. “I was on the beach court and . . .”

  “Okay, everyone.” Mrs. Sealer, the fashion club advisor, sharply claps her hands. “All models please make your way to the Mark Chase Auditorium for rehearsal in fifteen minutes.”

  “This is it.” Hannah lets out a deep breath and shifts into Project Runway mode. “After you’re done with rehearsal, you’re coming over my house. Since your measurements are different from Chloe’s, I have a ton of work to do.”

  “You know, we can go to your house now . . .” I offer, wondering how I’m going to get through a rehearsal for something I know nothing about.

  Hannah’s blue eyes bulge. “You totally have to go to rehearsal! You have to practice your walk.” She spins me around so that I’m facing a group of teeny-tiny girls taking turns strutting their stuff in the corner of the cafeteria. Each one seems to radiate more attitude than the next, and I’m mystified by the way that they make walking a few steps look so animalistic, as if they are about to pounce on their unsuspecting prey.

  “See,” Hannah says, recognizing the look of awe on my face.

  At the same time, Hannah’s sister Violet, clad in a navy blue, almost toga-like mini dress, glides past me, with her Beachwood entourage following close behind. Although the girls seem to be carbon copies of each other—each has perfectly straightened hair (which Hannah insists is the result of Keratin treatments, not genetics), luminescent, bronzed skin (thank you, sunless tanning), and towering stilettos that make their calves look they’ve been sculpted from marble—from the way that the other girls trail behind her in V formation (yes, I’m serious), it’s clear that Violet is the ring leader.

  As the girls are about to leave the caf to make their way to the adjacent auditorium, Hannah calls out, “Hi, Vi! Guess what? Taylor’s filling in for Chloe at the last minute. I’m sooo relieved.”

  Stopping for a second as one of her minions opens the door, Violet gives Hannah a little wave (more like a flick of her wrist) and then winks at us as she prances out of the cafeteria.

  Hannah turns to me and shrugs. Meanwhile, I collapse on the nearest chair. “I can’t, Banana. I don’t belong here.”

  She rolls her eyes. “When are you going to accept the fact you’re Selena Gomez’s twin? And anyway, I need you. Plllleeeeaaasseee . . .”

  I give her a blank stare.

  “Come on, you know you can’t say no to me.”

  Letting out a deep breath, I admit to myself that she’s right. She has been my best friend for years, after all. “Fine,” I say.

  Hannah’s mouth bursts into a huge grin, and she does a little jump (for all her “alternativeness,” she’s a girly-girl at heart). “Yay! You’re the best. I promise we’ll have your fave vodka sauce at my house tonight.”

  She leans toward me. “Soooo, tell me what this drama is all about. . . .”

  “Well, uh . . . Zach changed his status to single last night and Kylie has lost her mind, and I think she may be under the impression that I did something with him. Or maybe Jessica. I’m not sure. But anyway, she’s really angry, and I’m worried about the team. And you know how I’ve been crushing on Zach since kindergarten. . . .”

  “That’s perfect! I didn’t want to tell you right away, but Zoe told me yesterday that Zach thinks you’re hot!” She flashes me another huge smile. “You must be completely freaking out.”

  My stomach turns inside out. That’s two of my friends who heard that rumor. (Or three if you include Zoe—who should know. She’s Zach’s sister after all.) See, Oprah is right. All this “paying it forward” and being nice is finally working. “Kind of . . .” I say.

  “Kind of!” Hannah screeches. “So what are you going to do? Are you going to text him? Hook up? Meet him at the beach courts tonight for a little . . .” She winks. “One-on-one?”

  I feel my face flush. “We already did that.”

  Hannah stands up. “WHAT?!? You hooked up with Zach and didn’t tell me!”

  “Shhh! NO.” I look around and spot Missy standing like a scarecrow as she’s being measured by Brooke. From the way that they seem to be calmly engrossed in conversation, I gather that they didn’t hear anything. “No, we just played basketball.”

  Hannah’s eyes widen.

  “Listen, I don’t want this getting out.”

  Hannah flips her long bangs away from her cobalt blue eyes. “Seriously, Taylor, when are you going to stop worrying about everyone else and go for it? I mean, you’re such a beast on the court.”

  “I don’t care what people think.” I place my hands on my hips.

  “Sure. You keep telling yourself that.” Grabbing me by the shoulders, she looks at me intently. “Now come on, Mrs. Murphy. Go be a beast on the B-Dub runway.”

  And with that, she shoves me toward the auditorium. Inside the catwalk looms. Is it too late to make a run for it?

  six

  “Okay, ladies.” Mrs. Sealer stands at the edge of the catwalk in front of us, roster in hand, her black eyes surveying this year’s crop of models with obvious disdain. “Please line up according to height. Tall girls in the back.”

  I slowly stand up and wait for the other girls to take their places in line. I’m definitely in the back. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever not been. Every pic, every family shot, every class portrait: same story.

  “Vi.” Mrs. Sealer points to Violet. “Since you’re the veteran of the group, you’ll go first.” Giving the girl next to her an “awww, me?” look,Vi sashays to the front of the line.

  As Violet takes her first steps onto the catwalk, everyone stops to stare. Even Mrs. Sealer beams. With a recurring bit part on a CW show and the confidence of Mischa Barton pre-career tank, Hannah’s tiny, platinum blonde older sister has an “it factor” that makes even the faculty at Beachwood go gaga.

  While watching Vi troll the catwalk, I can feel my hands starting to shake. I so don’t belong here. This is even worse than the time my mom signed me up for acting classes with Tom, her acting coach. What a disaster. After two lessons, and more line flubbing than I care to remember, a tomato-red Tom told my mom acting just wasn’t for me and that it would be an offense to the art form to continue as my instructor.

  Mrs. Sealer signals for the members of Vi’s entourage to each take their turns and then summons Missy, who is followed by Brooke and a gaggle of girls I’ve never met. Seemingly dismayed by some (if not all) of the performances, Mrs. Sealer glances down at her list and calls out, “Chloe Simpson!” When no one responds, she looks up and repeats “Chloe Simpson! Where is Miss Simpson?”

  “On her knees?” I hear Brooke cackle.

  “Um . . .” I step out from behind the heavy royal blue curtain that was shielding me. (That’s the beauty of the Mark Chase Auditorium—it seems as though it’s permanently set up for a runway show, hence the draping curtains that hang on either side of the rear of the cat
walk.) “I’m here to take Chloe’s place. She’s sick.”

  “Oh . . .” Mrs. Sealer looks me up and down, raising one eyebrow. I’ve always wondered how someone does that. I try it with my own eyebrow, but it twitches instead. “And you are?”

  “Taylor. Taylor Thomas.”

  “She plays basketball,” Allison Webb, a senior and Violet minion, says in between snorts of giggles.

  By this time, my knees are about to buckle.

  “Okay,Taylor. You’ll be last.”

  I file in back and cross my fingers that this torture will end soon.

  Interrupting the procession of girls attempting to navigate the runway, Mrs. Sealer sharply claps her hands for attention. (Apparently, she thinks this is the way that fashion gurus are supposed to behave.) “Now, this is what’s going to happen on the day of the show. The club music will be pumping and you will walk to the end of the catwalk and back, just like Vi did today.”

  Violet and Mrs. Sealer look at each other, approvingly, as if they are each privy to a secret that no one else knows and that they do not care to share.

  “It’s simple!” Vi exclaims, as if putting oneself on display is the most natural thing in the world.

  “Yes, it absolutely is,” Mrs. Sealer replies. “Now, everyone, place your hands on your hips and let’s practice loosening up our cores.”