“Why?”
Regan cocked her head. “Seriously? You know why. We need to talk. I almost went to the office about you.”
Jeremy tensed. He knew she’d switched sides. That was apparent this morning by the way she looked at him—frightened and apologetic at the same time. He knew it had everything to do with her little homework assignment last night—researching the meaning of a tattoo that wasn’t any of her goddamn business. He decided to play dumb.
“Why would you go to the office about me?” he asked.
Regan narrowed her eyes. “Get real, Jeremy. You know I looked up your tattoo last night. And guess what I figured out?”
Déjà vu. Same conversation. Long conversation. Much longer than the nightmare version where he cut her off with a kiss. And then killed her. He had to work much harder with his slippery cajoling. It paid off, though. She decided to believe him. Again. And he trusted her in return. At least for the moment. So yes, the conversation was nearly déjà vu, but this time he let her live.
~
Power shifts. Victims of bullying don’t experience these too often. Some never do until they take their own lives. That’s the only way they feel they have power over the situation—to hang themselves or blow their brains out. Maybe slice their wrists. OD on meds. The list is endless. But I’m not talking about that kind of power shift. I’m talking about the kind of shift that happens when the victim gets in a good right hook. Left jab. Uppercut to the jaw. Like I said, it rarely happens, but when it does, it’s an unbelievable explosion of confidence. Well, it’s actually kind of like a confused, “Did that just happen?” And then it turns into “Oh my God, that just fucking happened!” Heart bursts. Electricity flashes through the body. You turn into an Independence Day sparkler. For a moment, you’re invincible, watching your enemy massage his jaw in utter shock and disbelief. Yeah, it’s a heady feeling to stand there crackling and erupting with self-confidence.
Until he punches your lights out.
~
“You busy?” Mrs. Walters asked, popping her head in the open doorway.
“Busy making you proud,” Regan replied, eyes glued to her calculus assignment.
“That’s my girl,” her mom said as she walked into the room. She leaned against Regan’s desk.
“What’s up?” Regan asked, looking up.
“Well, I ran into your coach at the grocery store this afternoon.”
Regan tensed. “Bad practice,” she confessed.
“That’s all right. We all have bad practices,” her mother replied.
Regan shrugged, closing her laptop.
Maybe. Maybe “we all have bad practices,” but she wondered how many had bad practices because they stuck their noses where they didn’t belong. Or because they didn’t have the guts to break up with their current boyfriends. Or because they didn’t know how to deal with a best friend who seemed to be drifting further and further away. Or because they— “Regan?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“No.”
Mrs. Walters rolled her eyes. “Good grief. I said your coach told me there’s gonna be a scout at your next match. She’s telling you girls tomorrow during practice.”
“From?”
“Berkshire.” Mrs. Walters studied her daughter’s reaction. It was unreadable.
“Berkshire, huh?”
Her mom nodded.
Regan leaned back in her chair. “Well, this is huge. Like, majorly huge. You do realize it’s the most exclusive all girls’ college in Utah, right? That happens to have the best soccer team in its division. And if you graduate from Berkshire, you automatically have a job. And it probably pays six figures. And a scholarship is about the most amazing thing that could ever happen to any soccer player in the entire United States. And—”
“Take a breath,” Mrs. Walters said.
Regan breathed in and exhaled as loudly as she could.
“I’m not telling you this to make you nervous.”
“I know. But I’m nervous.”
“Last year was last year.”
“Last year was a total embarrassment, Mom. I choked. I can’t even believe I’m still playing center forward.”
“You’re playing center forward because you’re the best,” her mom replied.
“You have to say that because you’re my mom.”
“No, I don’t. You stunk at jazz and tap. Talk about a waste of money. And you can’t cook to save your life. I don’t know who will feed you when you leave this house.”
Regan raised her eyebrows.
“But honey, you can play soccer. And I mean, you can play. Just go out there and have fun. Forget a scout is even there.”
Regan chuckled. “Yeah, okay. In that case, why’d you tell me?”
“Because you’d find out tomorrow anyway.”
“True.”
Pause.
“Your dad told me about practice the other day. Practice with him, that is.”
“Mom . . .”
“Just listen. I know the start of this year hasn’t been easy. I know you’re going through some things you don’t wanna talk about with me or your dad. I get it. I understand. And I won’t pry. But what I don’t want to have happen is for all those things to affect the one thing you really, really love. Soccer has always been your outlet. Don’t let all the other crap muddy that up for you. Maybe work through your issues with your game. Don’t let your issues work against your game.”
Regan smiled. “You’re so insightful.”
“I’m not insightful. I care about you. I don’t like to see you struggling.”
Regan frowned. “Has it been that obvious?”