“Do you think your father could still run for governor after this?”
I try to break through the reporters and run back toward the school, but it’s a mob. They’re too close. Doesn’t this school have security or something?
“Get away from me!” I shout, trying to pass two men.
“Talk to us then!” one of them retorts.
“Look, what I did is not a big deal compared to what’s happening in Yemen or the homeless problem in our country. And what about veterans’ affairs? There’s an issue you can focus on. Now go away.”
The reporters suddenly let me pass, but the cameras keep clicking as I enter the school.
As soon as I’m inside, I go straight to the school office to report what happened. The principal isn’t in, but his assistant assures me that she’ll inform him, and the police department will put up signs warning the press not to come on school property.
That helps me breathe a little easier, but anger still rumbles below my skin. How could Dad talk to the press like that? Whenever anyone googles me in the future, this is what they’ll find. What college would consider me now?
I go home to a nearly empty house. Mom is at a Nashville nursing home volunteering. Dad has meetings in his Chattanooga office, which is more than two hours from here, so he won’t be home anytime soon.
Marina emerges from the pantry and lays her clipboard on the granite countertop. “Want me to start making dinner, baby?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Very good. Just let me know when you’re ready.” Then she picks up her clipboard and returns to the pantry, where’s she no doubt doing some sort of complex inventorying process.
I sniffle. I’m terrified that if I let myself really cry, I’ll catch a cold, and I won’t get rid of it for weeks. That happened to me last January. I was so stressed out over school, I couldn’t stop crying, which in turn kept making me sick.
My eye twitches. I take a long, deep breath. I need to calm down. Get my mind off everything that happened today.
I need a friend.
My phone buzzes at that very moment. Ezra sent me a picture of a cute German shepherd puppy and a text: you ok??
How sweet…
The next thing I know, I find myself jogging up the stairs to my bathroom. I yank off my soccer clothes and take a quick shower, then pull on jeans and a clean, white button-up blouse.
I hop in the Beast and take off for Brentwood—to the Carmichael residence. Brentwood is a Nashville suburb about twenty minutes from where I live. The drive there is lined with trees and mansions that get progressively bigger and bigger.
When I arrive at Ezra’s house, or should I say castle, I park in the semicircular driveway next to the fountain and stare up at the white mansion, which was rebuilt in 1866 after being almost completely destroyed in the Civil War. Ezra’s dad loves telling the story to anyone who will listen. Even though Mr. Carmichael is very important to my father’s work, Dad always dreads going to their parties, because he knows Mr. Carmichael will corner him and tell him about the house for the gazillionth time.
I climb the porch steps, passing between two behemoth white columns, and ring the doorbell. A maid dressed in a blue uniform answers the door, and after I tell her my name, she ushers me into a yellow parlor. This room, with its cherry hardwood floors and lush white sofas, makes me feel warm and relaxed.
A minute later, Mrs. Carmichael sails into the parlor, looking fabulous as always in a pink dress-suit the color of a ballet slipper, beige pumps, and perfect makeup. I’ve always admired her work. She travels all over the country doing serious fund-raising for St. Jude’s pediatric cancer research.
Like a perfect lady, I stand to greet her.
“Taylor!” she says, graciously shaking my hand. “What a wonderful surprise. How are your mother and father?”
“Great,” I lie.
“We’ve been following his campaign. A few bumps here and there, but everything seems to be going smoothly for the most part.”
Lies, lies, and more lies.
She’s still awkwardly shaking my hand. I hold my breath, waiting for her to chastise me for my behavior. But she doesn’t, probably because Mrs. Carmichael is waaaay too formal to say anything to my face. Instead, she and her friends will gossip about me later, like when they whisper about Jack Goodwin dating the help.
Mrs. Carmichael finally releases my hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“I stopped by to see Ezra. Is he home?”
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows pinch together. “He doesn’t live here anymore. You didn’t know?”
How could I possibly know that with a brother who keeps secrets like a defense attorney and Ezra being an Internet-phobe?
“Where can I find him?”
“He has an apartment over on Ragswood Road.” She sniffs.
Is she sniffing because Ezra’s living in an apartment, or because the apartment is on Ragswood Road? Probably both. “I need to see him.”
Her eyes light up. “Let me write down the address for you, Taylor. Lord knows, maybe you can talk some sense and get him to move home.”
Mrs. Carmichael must be desperate for Ezra to come home if she’s willing to let me—a person on the front page for abusing prescription drugs—go see her son.
Twenty minutes later, I arrive at his building. A “Checks Cashed Here!” establishment is on the opposite corner. The train tracks are on the other side of that. A heavy freight train chugs by, rattling the apartment building’s windows.
This must be the place, because Ezra’s shiny black Range Rover is parked out front between a rusted red Nissan Sentra and a Ford pickup with faded white paint. It looks like a diamond nestled between two lumps of coal. The SUV was a high school graduation gift from Ezra’s father.
My boots clang against the metal stairs as I climb an outdoor staircase four flights to 4B. I knock on the door. A few seconds later, a curtain moves in the window to my right. Suddenly, the door is whipped open. Ezra’s face is blazing with confusion and embarrassment, especially when he spots the overflowing bag of trash outside his neighbor’s place.
With a deep breath, he pulls the door open to let me in. He’s wearing dark, frayed jeans and a gray Henley. He’s barefoot. He looks so good. I swallow hard.
I walk into the living room. It’s about the size of our foyer, but it’s nicely furnished with a leather couch, beautiful wooden end tables, and a glass coffee table. Unlike his clothes, I doubt his mother picked out this furniture. It’s masculine and very much Ezra. Especially the large TV tuned to ESPN. I smile when I see a bunch of random bolts, screws, circuit boards, and gears strewn across the coffee table. What’s he taking apart and putting back together?
He looks around the living room as if embarrassed.
“I like your place,” I say. “But you need some throw pillows.”
“What are you doing here?” he asks.