Defending Taylor

  “I can’t,” I reply. “I’m eating my shrimp right now.”

  “I like this girl,” Jeremiah says with a grin.

  Ezra, however, slowly lowers his hand, taken aback by my refusal. “I can wait until you’re finished.”

  “Fine,” I say, rolling my eyes, even though my heart is fluttering. Ezra goes back to talking with Jack.

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Annie whispers to me.

  “No, I have a boyfriend named Ben—” I catch myself, shaking my head. “Why would you think that?”

  “The way he was staring at you…it was intense. He’s hot, by the way.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I groan.

  Ezra patiently waits while I eat, like, seven jumbo shrimp. To be honest, I start to feel bloated and gross, but I have to eat them all on principle. When I’m finished eating the entire ocean, he extends his hand again, asking me to dance.

  I take a good long look at it and think back to a couple years ago, when we sat on a couch together watching a movie and those fingers played with my hair. If I had gotten some guts and leaned over and kissed him right then, would my life have turned out differently, for better or worse?

  He leads me to the dance floor, where he sets one hand on my hip and eases me into a fluid foxtrot. He’s very good; Mrs. Carmichael probably made Ezra start taking dance lessons in preschool, like Mom did with Oliver. Dancing to the brass band, I feel like I’m in a glamorous, old-timey movie.

  Give me a feather boa already.

  We dance in silence for several beats until Ezra speaks. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Then why are you?”

  “The food,” I say, making him smile. “Why aren’t you supposed to be here?”

  “My parents are pissed at me. They told me not to come.”

  I push his chest. “Get out. Dad said the same thing!”

  “I bet they’re regretting it now,” Ezra whispers. “We’re the best dancers here.”

  I’ve been concentrating on Ezra so intently, I didn’t notice the small crowd watching us dance.

  The trumpet slides into a high note as his hand moves from my hip to my lower back, his palm big and warm against my bare skin. He’s a great dancer. Smooth, but not showy. I’m really enjoying it, and I can tell by his smile that he is too.

  No matter what I told myself, I knew my heart wasn’t over him, but I’m still disappointed in Ezra. Angry, even. He ditched my party to hook up with another girl, as if it was any ole Saturday night, and he never admitted it to my face.

  I turn my gaze away from him to find my dad standing with Mr. Carmichael. Both men are glaring at us.

  “I’m gonna be in trouble,” I say, pulling away from Ezra.

  His warm hands keep a tight hold on me. “The song’s not over.”

  “You never told me why you came tonight.”

  He smirks. “For the shrimp.”

  I slap his chest. “Don’t make fun of me. That shrimp was great. But for real, why did you come?”

  He hesitates, looking away from my gaze and out toward the barns in the distance. “I thought coming home was the best thing for me, but all my friends are gone.”

  I can understand why he’s lonely. St. Andrew’s is a boarding school, and kids came from all over the country. Steph’s family is originally from London and now lives in New York City, while Madison is from San Fran. When Ezra’s class graduated, his classmates all went to college or abroad or back home.

  “So you wanted to see who’d be at this party?” I ask.

  “No, I figured you might be here.”

  What does that mean? He wants to be friends? He’s so desperate for company he sought me out at a party where our parents are hanging out?

  He pulls me a little closer. It’s intimate, the way his fingers gently caress my lower back. His green eyes meet mine. For so long, this was my dream—that he would hold me. Dance with me. Maybe even love me. But I’m not willing to risk getting hurt again. It took forever to get over Ezra the first time.

  I leave his arms. “I need to go.”

  Without another look at Ezra, I rush off the dance floor, spotting Dad in the middle of a group of men. We make eye contact, and all he does is shake his head.

  Part of me regrets defying my father.

  But damn, that shrimp was good.

  Under Pressure

  It’s time for my daily counseling session with Miss Brady.

  During our meetings, she quizzes me about whether I’ve had urges to take Adderall or any other drug, and she constantly wants to know how I’m feeling. That part sucks. But some portions of our hour-long meetings are great, like when we discuss the college application process and how to make myself stand out on paper.

  “Showing strong leadership skills in your activities is key,” Miss Brady says. “What did you think of the list of clubs I gave you?”

  “Nothing really appealed to me. Especially not the Polar Bear Club. Pardon my language, but there’s no way in hell I’m jumping into Normandy Lake in winter.”

  Miss Brady laughs. “I don’t blame you.”

  “In terms of leadership, I think soccer is my best bet. But it’s not going well.”

  “How so?”

  Leaving out the part where Coach Walker spends most of his time checking his phone and not coaching us, I tell Miss Brady about the problems I’m facing with the team.

  “Nicole doesn’t want me there. Which stinks, because I think we could play really well together.”

  “Have you told her that?”

  “I haven’t had a chance. She’s always too busy insulting me and hogging the ball.”

  Miss Brady folds her hands on top of the desk. “Why do you feel this is happening?”

  “Nicole seems to think I’m a rich, entitled snob, but I’m jealous that the girls on the team listen to her and that she gets to play the position she loves. I was looking forward to being captain of St. Andrew’s soccer team this year, you know? I’ve lost all that.”

  Miss Brady smiles sadly. “Have you told Nicole this? She might be sympathetic.”

  “I haven’t been able to talk to her one-on-one. She’s not very personable.”

  “It might take time to get to know her, earn her trust.”

  I’ve never been in a situation where someone straight-up doesn’t like me. It feels awful. “Can we go back to my résumé now?” I ask, sick of talking about Nicole.

  Miss Brady sits up straight. “Of course.” She asks me to tell her about my other past leadership experiences.

  “As I said, I was cocaptain of the St. Andrew’s team last year, and I was supposed to be captain this year. I was a Girl Scout counselor at camp last summer, and when I rebuilt houses in Haiti, I was a team lead.”

  Miss Brady stares at me, wide-eyed. “That’s a lot of responsibility.” Silence engulfs the room. “Taylor, have you made any friends here yet?”

  Ugh, I hate this question. She asks it every time we meet.

  I keep thinking about Saturday’s soccer tournament, when Steph and Madison walked by laughing together. Sure, they’ve been texting me, telling me what’s going on back in Card House—stuff like Oscar is sad and that they miss me—but they seemed fine the other day without me. It hasn’t even been two weeks since I left, and life is back to normal for them. Judging by their Instagram pics, they had a ball eating s’mores at the Monteagle bonfire on Saturday night.

  “No, not really,” I tell Miss Brady. “I haven’t made any friends.”

  “How’s your relationship with your parents?”

  I shrug. “They’re my parents.”

  I try thinking about Yale, but end up daydreaming about dancing with Ezra at the party the other night. In my fantasy, he surreptitiously glances around the dance floor, then t
akes my hand and leads me inside the Goodwins’ manor house. He puts a finger up to his mouth and whispers “Shh!” and pulls me into a guest chamber where we rip off each other’s clothes and—

  “Are you listening, Taylor?”

  “What?” I glance up at Miss Brady.

  “I was saying that I think your educational goals are commendable, but it seems like you put a lot of pressure on yourself.”

  “I have to.”

  “Why?”

  “People in my family work hard at everything they do. And I need a business degree so I can work at my family’s investment firm one day.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, Grandpa built it from the ground up. He wanted a business where the middle class would feel comfortable investing their money, because it can be intimidating.”

  Miss Brady rolls her pen back and forth between her fingers without speaking, so I keep on talking. Might as well explain why it’s so important that I work hard, so maybe she’ll get off my back already.

  “My sister’s really good with numbers, and Grandpa always asks her opinion on how she thinks a particular stock is going to do. She’s going to work for him, and my brother’s studying to be a lawyer. Grandpa thinks he’d make a great general counsel. Dad worked at the company for fifteen years before he ran for office, and now he helps out by enacting better tax policies in Congress.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I hate math,” I admit. “But my family’s worked hard to build what we have. I want to keep that going.”

  She nods and smiles. Then she changes the subject. “I’m happy you haven’t taken any Adderall since you came to Hundred Oaks, but I worry the underlying reason you took the pills could come back.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your mind can’t always be on school and test scores and résumés. You need to relax a little. Spend time with a friend. Watch a good movie.”

  “I did that sort of thing at St. Andrew’s sometimes…”

  “But you don’t want to here at Hundred Oaks?”

  Nicole and the soccer team pop into my head. Then I think of Ben, and I cringe. I usually enjoy making new friends, just not right now…

  “Would you like to get out of some of our daily counseling sessions?” Miss Brady asks. “Maybe once a week you could do something else. Supervised carefully by me, of course.”

  It would be nice to have one day a week that I’m not grilled about potential drug use. “What do I have to do?”

  A smile appears on her face. “You need to relax more. Have some fun. Prove to me that you’re talking to someone else.”

  “Do my parents count?”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “You want to talk to your parents?”

  “Fair point.” I pause. I can’t tell her that I covered for Ben, but she should know I’m not willing to trust someone willy-nilly now. “Look, I can try eating lunch with the soccer team, but I’m not ready to let new people into my life. Can we leave it at that?”

  Miss Brady taps a pen on her notepad, thinking. “Is there someone you feel comfortable with?”

  “My brother, but he’s at Princeton.”

  “Is there anyone here in town?”

  • • •

  Tuesday morning, I drive to the Donut Palace and get in line for my daily latte. Like clockwork, a couple minutes later, Ezra shows up for his coffee and doughnut holes. There must be something addictive in them, because he is obsessed.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He stares at the menu on the wall, careful not to look my way.

  “How are you?”

  He ignores me, seemingly entranced by the menu, which he’s not, because he always gets coffee and cinnamon doughnut holes.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  He crosses his arms. “You ran off the other night.”

  “I’m sorry…” I take a deep breath. “Last week, you said you want to talk. Did you still want to?”

  His eyebrows pop up. “I’ve got time.” He gestures at a corner booth.

  After we both have our coffees, I slide in across from him. He sets his wallet on the table, opens his white paper bag, and pulls out a single doughnut hole, which he places on a napkin and slides in front of me.

  I bite off half of it and chew. “What kind of construction are you doing?”

  “I’m not really building anything yet. I’m still on demolition crew.”

  “Yeah? What made you decide to do this?”

  He takes a long pull from his coffee cup. “Remember those mission trips we used to go on? I liked building houses.”

  “Why aren’t you doing construction then? Why demolition?”

  “I’m lucky I got this position. I need to work my way up in the company. Hopefully, I can start actually building something soon.”

  “You’re a Carmichael. You can do whatever you want, Ez.”

  He takes a doughnut hole from his bag, dunks it in his hot coffee, and eats the whole thing in one bite. After he finishes chewing, he says in a hard voice, “You mean my father can get me a job. I got this one on my own.”

  “I still don’t get why you didn’t go back to Cornell this semester. Did something happen there?” Please God, don’t let there be a girl involved. “A girl?”

  “No, nothing like that.” He drinks his coffee and looks out the window. I take the opportunity to grab a sip myself. I’ve barely had any, since I’ve been playing detective.

  “Why’d you run off the other night?” he asks again. “Something upset you, obviously.”

  I cradle my cup in my hands. “I ended things with Ben for good that day.”

  His eyes soften. “You all right?”

  I clear my throat. “Yeah.”

  “I thought you left the party because of me. I thought I’d hurt you somehow,” he says quietly.

  “To be honest, I just wasn’t ready to dance with anybody. Even you.”

  “I wasn’t planning that. I just saw you there, and you looked…” A small smile forms on his lips as his mind seems to wander. I don’t think he knows he’s grinning.

  “Looked what?”

  He comes out of his daze. The smile disappears. He glances at his watch. “I better get going.”

  The barista suddenly appears at our table. “I’m supposed to give you this.” She disappears back behind the counter as I rip open the envelope. I hope it’s not hate mail or a love letter or something.

  “What is it?” Ezra asks as he starts standing up to leave.

  The card says:

  Let’s have some fun. Here are some questions to keep the conversation flowing.

  —Miss Brady

  When I told her I see Ezra at the Donut Palace sometimes, I never imagined she’d contact me here. Either she’s way into her job or she needs a hobby. I glance at one of the questions.

  Would you rather eat nothing but Cheerios that had fallen on the floor or sandwich crusts for the rest of your life?

  “My guidance counselor is weird,” I say, flipping through the little slips of paper. “Can we meet again tomorrow?”

  “Why?” He pockets his wallet. “I got the impression you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “My counselor says I’m supposed to talk to someone every day.”

  “And you want to talk to me?”

  “I feel comfortable with you.” More than anybody else around here, anyway.

  He smiles smugly. “Seven o’clock tomorrow then. Bye, Tease.”

  After he’s long gone, I say, “Bye, Ez.”

  • • •

  My eyes sweep the noisy cafeteria, looking for the seniors on my soccer team. I told Miss Brady I’d try.

  I spot Nicole, Chloe, Alyson, and Brittany at a table next to the Coke machine. It’s a place to see and be seen. A
tableful of rowdy guys wearing football jerseys and T-shirts sit a few feet away.

  With a deep breath, I adjust my tote bag on my shoulder and head toward the girls. I walk up in the middle of a conversation.

  “I’m totally going to do it with Jamie tonight,” Brittany says.

  “You say that every day,” Nicole replies.

  Chloe gives Nicole a dark look. “Britt, you don’t have to defend yourself to us. You can do it whenever you’re ready—” She stops talking when they notice I’m hovering beside the table.

  “May I sit with you?” I ask, looking straight at Alyson. After I helped defend her goal against the Lynchburg team, maybe we’ve reached a truce.

  It seems I’m right, because Alyson shrugs and gestures at the open seat next to her.

  Chloe gives me a short smile, then turns her focus back to her sandwich.

  “I didn’t say you could sit down,” Nicole tells me.

  “Nicole, c’mon,” Chloe whines. “This isn’t middle school. Take a seat, Taylor.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I slide into the empty chair, pulling my lunch out of my bag. Marina packed some veggie chili and baby carrots today.

  “Anyway,” Brittany lowers her voice, “I think Jamie’s getting impatient. He says the guys make fun of him in the locker room because we haven’t done it yet.”

  What the hell? This Jamie guy sounds like a dick. I sink my teeth into a baby carrot so I’m not tempted to voice my concerns aloud. If I knew these girls better, I wouldn’t hesitate to speak up, but I don’t want to get booted from the table thirty seconds after sitting down.

  “Britt,” Chloe starts, “it’s not cool for Jamie to say things like that. Who cares what those assholes say?”

  “Seconded,” Alyson says.

  “Third-ed,” Nicole agrees, and they all giggle.

  Brittany looks to me, so I pipe up, “Fourth-ed.”

  “Sometimes I just feel as if I’m the only virgin left at this school,” Brittany says.

  “That’s not true,” Alyson says gently.

  It surprises me they are talking about something so personal in front of me, but I guess girl talk is girl talk. Plus, I did play my heart out for them the other day.

  I’m starting to relax, but then the conversation changes.