We’re driving through Victoria now, the Thames ahead of us and Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament visible in the distance. The cab turns right, heading toward Chelsea. “It’s fine. I get it. Everybody has their own things going on. I’m just complaining.” Never complain, never explain.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. I thought I was checking in on you.” India seems slightly offended. I’m reminded of the fact that she’s not as emotional as I am. I don’t know if that’s a class thing or just an India thing, but it makes me feel distant from her.
“No, you are, thank you. This weekend was huge. It’s just . . .” I exhale in a puff of frustration. “Like I said—this year has been really shitty so far.”
“Well, buck up, buttercup,” she says, giving my hand another pat. “Good days are just around the corner.”
“I hope so,” I say. “I don’t think I can take much more of this.”
Monday morning, I wake with a start.
Shit. It’s six fifty-five. My alarm was set for six thirty and I completely missed it. I look at my iPhone and the volume is turned almost all the way down. My alarm has been going off for the past twenty-five minutes and I didn’t hear a thing.
I jump out of bed, grabbing my toothbrush and toothpaste and racing down the hall to the bathroom. No time to apply makeup or even wash my face—I throw my hair into a ponytail and run back to my room. There’s a note pinned to my wooden door in shaky, loopy handwriting.
Charlotte,
You weren’t in your room Friday night for dorm check. Neither were you there Saturday night. We did not have a parental permission slip on file for you to be off campus. I shall be forced to report you to Master Kent. Please be in your room tonight (and every night) for checks.
Mistress McGuire
Damn it. Now McGuire is doing surprise dorm checks?
I change into my practice clothes and then book it down to the field.
Despite hurrying as quickly as I can, it’s still already past seven when I get there: seven oh three, to be precise. The locker room is already empty, and I run onto the track, trying to fall in line behind the other girls.
“I see you, Weston,” bellows Wilkinson. “Don’t think you’re fooling me by sneaking in with the other girls.”
“Sorry, Coach,” I call, putting on a big show of running even faster to try to overtake the pack. After a few minutes of full-throttle running, I have to stop, standing on the sidelines to try to catch my breath.
Wilkinson glares at me. “Weston, I’ll deal with you after practice. Get back out there.”
It’s a rather uneventful practice, although I almost trip once or twice from tiredness. Once we’re done running, I wait on the sidelines for her to come talk to me, but she’s ignoring me, talking to the assistant coach and going over their clipboard. I walk back into the locker room with the rest of the girls and hope maybe it’ll blow over.
No luck. As I’m wrapping tape around my knee, Coach Wilkinson comes barreling into the locker room. “Weston,” she barks. “Come with me.”
I set the tape down in my locker, looking warily at the other runners. They’re all averting their eyes. I follow Wilkinson into her office and close the door. It’s just my luck that she’s my coach again this term for track.
“Are you kidding me with this?” she asks.
“I’m sorry?”
“This morning was the fifth time you’ve been late to practice this year. Five times!”
“But I’ve only been late once,” I protest.
“Are you delusional? You don’t get a clean slate after the holidays. No way. I’m still paying attention. I don’t give a damn which sport you’re playing. You’ve been late for me five times since school began. That’s unacceptable. It’s disrespectful and demonstrates a complete disregard for not just me but for your fellow athletes. Do you think your time is more valuable than ours?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“No,” I say, this time louder.
“‘No, Coach.’ And I don’t believe you. That’s not what your actions tell me. Your actions tell me that you don’t give a good goddamn about anybody’s time but your own. Seven a.m. doesn’t mean seven a.m. It means being in the locker room at six forty-five, ready to go, suiting up, taping your knee, or doing whatever it is you need to do to run. Showing up at seven oh five means you’re not on the track and ready to go until seven oh eight, and then we’re all having to stand around with our thumbs up our asses waiting for Lady Charlotte to grace us with her beloved presence. It ends today.”
I’m not used to being on the receiving end of this type of rant, even when my parents are at their angriest. The difference between my parents and Mistress Wilkinson, obviously, is that my parents love me. Wilkinson is looking at me like I’m a cockroach on the bottom of her shoe.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t believe you. You were sorry the last four times you were late. This is it, Weston. I’m done.”
I look at her blankly.
“If you’re late one more time, and I mean fifteen seconds late, you’re off the team.”
“But that’s not fair!” I protest.
“It is the very definition of fair. You’re not the only athlete out there, and it’s not fair to hold up fifteen other girls just because one of them can’t tell time. I need you to step up, and I mean pronto, or you’re done.”
I slink out of her office feeling a pressure in my chest. I want to scream or cry or throw something, but instead I head directly to the showers, hoping a hot one will calm me down.
I’m sudsing up, fuming about Mistress Wilkinson, when I hear two girls talking by the lockers in low voices.
“She really needs to get her shit together,” says one girl with a Scottish accent. It sounds like Sasha, one of the distance runners. “I’m sick of her waltzing into practice ten minutes late and acting like it’s no big deal. The rest of us manage to get there on time.”
“I’m not even a morning person and I’m there five minutes early,” says another. Sounds like Katherine, a sprinter.
“Charlotte’s put her foot in it this time.”
The voices are getting louder as the two girls walk into the shower. They freeze when they see me.
“Oh. Charlotte. Hiya . . . ,” says Sasha.
“Um, did you just . . . we were just . . . ,” says Katherine.
I grab my towel with as much dignity as I can muster and pick up my shower caddy, sailing past them without a word.
Once I’m back in the locker room, however, I start crying. I wipe the hot tears away from my cheeks, trying to pull myself together as I slide into my school uniform. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror by the door as I’m about to exit onto the quad—my nose is red and my cheeks are blotchy.