In Davis’s case, a junior ended up stepping forward. He told the dean the truth about what happened. In return, someone put a dead fish in the ceiling above the boy’s bed and scratched SNITCH into the side of his car.
What sucks is that the boy didn’t do anything wrong. Ultimately, he did what was right.
But nobody saw it that way.
All they saw was a tattletale.
? ? ?
The next morning’s headlines:
Antidrug Senator Admits Daughter Is Drug User
Wallace Passes Lukens in Polls
I can’t breathe.
Out of Context
Apparently, when your name is splashed all over the news, your classmates revert to middle schoolers.
Before first period, when I walk down the hall, other students say, “Ooh” and “Busted!” like seventh graders.
Some guy I’ve never spoken to corners me in the hall. His eyes dart around. “Do you have any Ritalin? I can pay.”
I throw my tote bag over my shoulder to block him from getting any closer and dash away, trying to make it to calculus unscathed. Up until today, most people ignored me. Now, teachers shoot me glances—some of pity, some of suspicion. Have none of these people ever made a mistake before?
Nicole and Chloe see me, and Nicole starts whispering. Then she blurts out, “Do you use steroids too, Taylor? I’m gonna have to tell Coach.”
“You do that,” I snap back. “I’ll recommend that we all get tested. Hope your aim into a cup is better than your shots on goal!”
Her face goes white.
Chloe bites down on her lip as if to keep from laughing.
I charge away and don’t start breathing normally again until I’m sitting in class, thinking solely about equations. Things must be fucked up if I actually want to do math.
Third period, I have Crucial Life Lessons, which is the sorriest excuse for a class ever. We’re learning how to balance our bank accounts, when a paper wad hits me in the head. It falls onto my desk, so I unwrinkle it.
Ritalin? Can you hook me up?
I glance around to see who threw it. It’s the same guy from earlier this morning. I write NO!! in big letters, wad up the paper, and throw it back at him, but Coach Lynn—our teacher and girls’ softball coach—intercepts it with the finesse of a catcher.
She smooths out the paper. My heart is racing, and—oh God!—she’s going to call my dad, and he’s going to think I’m still involved in drugs.
But Coach Lynn looks up with a smile. “Good job, Taylor. Excellent life choice!”
“Teacher’s pet,” some girl whispers loud enough for everyone to hear, and the class snickers. Jeez, I was wrong. They didn’t revert to middle schoolers but to first graders.
Coach Lynn pockets the note and speaks to the boy who wrote it: “Caleb, may I see you after class?”
I look over my shoulder at Caleb. His need for Ritalin is scary. I never considered that prescription drugs could make a person behave this way. Between classes, I lean against my locker, swipe on my phone, and look up Ritalin addictions. I scroll through a webpage about it. Shit. This particular prescription drug acts like cocaine. Some people snort it to get high. I hope Coach Lynn tries to help Caleb.
Next I text Oliver. Dad is such an asshole.
I’m sorry, T.
I wait for him to say something else, something encouraging. But Oliver doesn’t text again. What else is there to say? This is not how I expected my senior year to be. All anyone sees is my one mistake.
Later in the day, as I change into shorts and a T-shirt, then slip on my shin guards, socks, and cleats, my hands shake like I’ve had ten cups of coffee. My eye twitches as I braid my hair into a plait. I stare at myself in the mirror. How did this happen? How did things get so out of hand so fast?
When I walk out onto the field, I’m the first person there, as always. Danny arrives a few minutes later to set up cones. Today, he’s wearing a T-shirt that says I’m Kind of a Big Deal.
I grab a ball and start juggling, then run up and down the field, dribbling. I lean back, strike the ball with my laces, and plant a shot in the upper right of the goal, putting all my rage into it. Nailing that shot feels great.
I grin as I retrieve the ball from the net. The other players start arriving and doing their random warm-ups. Alyson heads to the goal, jumping to slap the overhead beam. It’s her tradition.
“Can I take some shots on you?” I ask, and she claps, appearing happy for the practice.
For the next several minutes, I run hard, dribble hard, and kick the ball at our goalie. She stops four out of my seven shots. We smile at each other.
Then Coach steps out onto the field, and for once, he’s not having a love affair with his phone.
He calls, “Taylor!” and gestures for me to run his way.
I pick up my ball and jog with it. “What’s up, Coach?”
“Listen,” he starts. He sighs, looking everywhere but at me as he chews his gum. “I can’t let you practice today.”
“Um, what?” I’ve been looking forward to practice all day!
“Your father made a statement about what happened at your old school.”
No shit, Sherlock. “Yeah, so? What’s that got to do with soccer?”
“I’ve had parents calling. They want to make sure you’re not sharing drugs with their kids.”
“Excuse me? You’re joking, right?”
“Three upset parents called. I can’t let you practice. Not until this is sorted out.”
“What does the principal say?” I demand, because there’s no way I’m quitting without a school professional telling me that I have to. And Coach Walker is not a professional anything, particularly the way he’s handling this.
“I haven’t spoken with Dr. Salter yet, because he was unavailable this afternoon, but I have an appointment to talk with the school board at their Monday meeting. That’s when we’ll decide if you can stay on the team.”
Coach Walker went over the principal’s head? Really? “But we have a game against Hendersonville on Saturday!”
“I’m sorry, but you should sit the game out. Come to think about it, you should probably come to Monday’s meeting too, so you can explain to the board that you’re clean now.”
Clean now.
Great, just great.
“We need you on the team, Taylor,” Coach says. What he needs is the extra paycheck he gets for coaching.
I storm off the field, trying not to listen to Nicole’s laughter. Alyson and Chloe stare over at me.
“Coach, what’s going on?” I hear Alyson ask, her voice full of desperation. I’m upset too. We were starting to form a really good defense together.
I retrieve my bag from my locker and head for the Swamp. Students don’t have assigned parking spaces at Hundred Oaks, but all the seniors park around this sunken expanse of concrete that’s filled with water and mud. It’s gross. As I trudge through the Everglades to my car, I see a crowd of people waiting.
“That’s her!”
“There she is!”
People charge at me with microphones, cameras, and notepads. They start taking pictures of me. Flash, flash, flash, flash. I lift my hand to shield my eyes.
“Taylor! Do you have any comment about your father’s statement?”
“Do you take pills?”
“Do you sell them?”
“How is your father handling your addiction?”