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.”