Zac shrugs and smiles. “Thanks. It helps to hear that.” Miranda smiles, lowers her eyes, and twirls her hair in that universal signal that says, I am totally into you.
I swallow a grin. Damn, he’s good. The girls take their seats, and I ask, “Zac, what’s going on?”
His smile widens. “You didn’t see Facebook?”
“No, grounded, remember?” No phone, no computer, no TV. It was just me and homework.
“Right.” He pulls out his iPhone and hands me his earbuds. “Here. Take a look.” Then he laughs. “Six hundred and seventy-two. Sweet.”
I click the video he’s got on screen and almost drop the phone. It’s Grace. Holy hell, it’s Grace Collier, and she’s—Jesus. I rip the buds from my ears and hand him back the phone. “Wow.”
He laughs. “I know, right? She doesn’t know who she’s messing with.”
The bell rings, and the class quiets down. But I can’t concentrate on imperialism after seeing that video. I’ve talked to Grace maybe three times total, but she never struck me as a girl who’d twist the truth to get back at somebody. By the time the bell rings at the end of class, I’m seriously happy I never got around to asking her out.
“Ian, you’re free now, right?” Zac asks. “I need to stop at my locker first. And then I’ll meet you in the library, and we can review the math stuff.”
“Oh, God, thanks, man.”
Zac has the highest grades in the class, and Coach Brill won’t keep me on the lacrosse team if I don’t ace the next math test. If I get booted off the team, my dad will deliver yet another lecture on how I’m failing my own future by not living up to my potential. I can already hear it. “Your sisters managed to earn scholarships while working part-time jobs and playing basketball,” he’ll say and fling up his hands. Claudia got a degree in architecture, and Valerie’s studying to be a pharmacist. But I’ll probably be living in a double-wide, collecting welfare.
I blend in with the stream of foot traffic changing classes and head for the stairwell. Dad thinks—actually believes—that I like not knowing what I want to be, but I’ve got a couple of ideas I’ve been thinking over. It might be cool to build stuff. Maybe engineering. It started with LEGO blocks, and then I moved on to building models and rebuilding stuff around the house. I just took apart the blender and rebuilt the motor, not that he cares about that.
Probably never even noticed.
Could also be fun to teach. I wouldn’t mind coming back to school as a teacher instead of a student. I’d be cool. All the kids would love me. I’d listen, really listen to them instead of talk at them. I shake my head and snag a table in the library. There’s no point in even telling my dad any of this. He’d just shake his head and warn me I’d need better math grades.
I may not be perfect like my sisters, but I’m not the loser my dad thinks I am either. I don’t get high. I don’t steal money from their wallets. Okay, so I dinged the car—big deal. It’s not like I killed anybody.
My chest tightens when I remember the guy walking his dog that I almost hit Friday night.
Zac slides into a chair and throws his backpack on the table. “Jesus.” He scrubs both hands over his blond hair. “Heard the collie missed the entire first period. That girl’s got issues, man. Glad she’s not my problem anymore.”
Grace Collier’s the furthest thing from a dog there is. But I get why he calls her that. As he finishes the sentence, I look up, and there she is, standing in the non-fiction section, looking seriously wrecked.
Zac doesn’t see her. He’s busy opening his pack and pulling out books. But I do, and I don’t know what to say, what to do. They hooked up last month after the game against Holtsville High School, and now Zac’s done with her. It happens.
But Grace doesn’t look pissed. She looks devastated.
I open my notebook and grab a pen and just pretend I don’t see her. “Thanks for the assist, man. If I get kicked off the team—”
“Won’t let it happen, bro. We need you.” He punches my shoulder. “Hey, after we win the game today, what do you say to a little cruising?”
I snort out a laugh. Cruising is Zac slang for get laid. “Sure, if I get a free pass tonight.”
“When we win today’s game, your dad will have to let you celebrate with the team, right?”
I lean back and smile. “Hope so. Thanks again. Really.”
“No problem.” He grins and flips my math textbook to the problem that keeps tripping me up.
I glance back the non-fiction shelves, but Grace is gone now. Zac and I get to work, and I can’t help thinking he’s wrong—the problems are just beginning.
• • •
We opened the scoring at barely two minutes into the game against the Shoreham Sharks. But at 4:53, the Sharks fire a shot into the cage, and Zac practically breathes fire. Now the score’s tied at one all, and we aren’t gonna just sit back and take it. Coach Brill sends me in just as we force a turnover. I join the battle, but the Sharks’ goalie has the net sealed tight. When the goalie slings a breakout pass to a midfielder on a fast break, I run all out—this is my skill, my talent. I’m a blur on the field.
Zac’s watching, sizing up our opponents. I’m so fixed on my target, I don’t see one of the Sharks attack men. By the time I do, I can’t stop, can’t adjust, and bam!
Circle of stars.
Dimly I hear a whistle blow, hear muffled shouts and curses and another whistle, but it’s all jumbled like one long bleat. It takes me a long while to figure out I’m sprawled on the turf, and then I notice the hands pressing and probing me.
“Ian! Ian, talk to me, son.”
I open my mouth, but my tongue just sits there, limp.
“Give him a minute, Coach.”
I blink a few times, but that does nothing to make the circle of stars disappear. Hands tap my face. “I’m okay,” I try to say, but it comes out, “Mmmay.”
I figure out which strings control my limbs and manage to roll to my hands and knees, sucking up oxygen and finally clearing my vision.
“Come on, Ian. Get up.” Kyle Moran shouts. Slowly I figure out how my legs work, get them back under me. The coach and the EMT each grab an elbow and walk me off the field to glad you’re not dead applause from both teams.
I’m forced to sit out the rest of the game. We win six to one, and the Panthers celebrate with pizza, which I miss because I’m sitting in the emergency room. Couple hours later I’m still in the emergency room with my parents, waiting for the doctor to come back with my films. I’ve been poked and stuck, x-rayed, and even MRI’d. I feel fine except for the worst headache of my entire life. Dad’s checking his watch. Mom keeps checking me. Suddenly Dad jumps to his feet. “How is he, doctor?”
“Good news is there’s no skull fracture.”
Could have fooled me.
“Bad news is there is a concussion. You’re benched for a while, son.”
What? No way. Before I can protest, he turns to my parents and continues, “Keep him home from school tomorrow. Nothing more exerting than TV on the couch.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Oh, that won’t be a problem for him.”
“Dad, jeez.” Am I really gonna have to sit through a flip-calendar lecture at the hospital? “I feel fine. I can go to school.”
The doctor shakes his bald head, flips open one of those metal chart thingies, and scrawls something on my paperwork. “Sorry, Ian. Concussions are tricky, and this is a serious one.”
“It is?”
Dad frowns. “Ian, you were hit from the side, spun around in midair, and landed hard. You were out cold for at least a minute.”
I don’t remember any of this.
“You may feel fine now, but tomorrow or the next day something may worsen it—like another hit to the head. I want to give this some time, see how you feel in a few days.”
“There’s another game on Saturday. Will I make that one?”
“Let’s see how you’re doing on Friday, and if everything looks g
ood, I’ll clear you.”
I blow out a relieved sigh.
“If you feel dizzy, sick, or have any headaches, trouble concentrating, I need to know about it.” He tears a slip of paper off a pad and hands it to my dad.
Dad nods, pockets the paper. We drive home in silence, the glare of headlights doing strange and uncomfortable things to my concussed head. I know I’m going to spend the night getting awakened to answer stupid questions like what’s my name, who’s the president, and what year is it.
“Tomorrow you’ll stay home and in bed. No video games. I don’t want you straining your eyes. You can call Zac or Kyle to get notes and homework after school.”
I don’t answer. I don’t feel up to getting into another argument.
“Can you work from home tomorrow?” Mom asks Dad, and I cringe. Please, no.
“Yeah. I may have to run out for a couple of client meetings, but most of the day I can keep an eye on him.”
Looks like I’m back in parental prison.
Chapter 3
Grace
Tuesday morning.
Day thirty-three.
Mom drops me off so I don’t have to deal with the bus crowd calling me names. I arrive at school, and the second I step into the building, it starts. Insults. Shoves and elbows. Whispers and giggles. Comments loud enough to hear. Slut. Liar. Bitch.
I have no classes with Zac McMahon—about the only thing I can think of that’s good. But I have to endure one with Miranda. She’s chatting with two girls near the window when I take my seat.
“Can’t believe she tattled to her mommy.”
Her audience laughs and looks at me.
“She called my mother, and now I’m the one in trouble, even though she’s the one who started the lie in the first place.”
I sigh heavily. “Miranda, I’m sorry you think I stole Zac from you—believe me, I don’t want him—but I am not lying.”
She glances at me like I’m a pile of poo she just stepped in. “Then why did you tattle to your mommy that I made you cry?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh my God, seriously?” She rolls her eyes and takes out her phone. “This text? The one your mother sent to my mother, and now I’m in trouble?”
I glance at her screen and see what she means. She sent me a text which my mom intercepted. With another sigh, I dig out my mother’s phone. “This is my mother’s phone. She has mine. So if you texted my phone, she got the message.”
Miranda’s eyes go round, and her jaw drops. There’s a tiny part of me that cheers.
“Guess it’s your own fault you got in trouble.”
“Grace, if you’re through riling up my class, I’d like to begin.”
I glare at Mr. Brown while Miranda shoots me a look of pure malice.
And the day just keeps getting worse. My social studies teacher, Mr. Reyes, asks me to stay after class. “I heard what happened and hope you’re okay.”
I nod, stunned to hear a kind word.
“Um, so I was wondering if, now that you understand the risks of teen drinking, you’d be willing to talk to some eighth-grade students I mentor at my church. Sort of a what not to do thing.”
Frowning, I think about that for a moment. He wants to use me as some kind of before picture? Hell, no! I didn’t do anything wrong. Zac did. “Mr. Reyes, did you ask Zac McMahon to speak to your group too?”
Mr. Reyes blinks and adjusts his tie. A dark flush creeps slowly up his face. “Um, no. He didn’t—”
“Yeah. He did.”
With his hands up in surrender, Mr. Reyes shakes his head. “Grace, what I mean is—”
“Yeah. I know what you mean. My answer’s no.” I stalk out of his class before I smack him with my way-too-heavy textbook, and somewhere deep in my belly a fire starts to smolder. To stay safe, I wait for my mom to pick me up from the safety of the main office, but even the secretaries are having a hard time not looking at me with that same level of disgust I keep seeing in everybody’s eyes. I pull out my mom’s phone, but there are no text messages to read, nobody to call. I put that away, take out the digital camera, and snap a few shots of the secretaries doing their thing. Maybe there’s a feature Mrs. Weir, the editor, can use them for, but I don’t know.
A loud sigh interrupts my boredom. “Miss Collier, could you please stop tapping that foot?”
My foot? Right. I glance down and my knees are bouncing. “Oh. Sure. Sorry.” I shift positions and notice the semester abroad sign tacked to a bulletin board. Mom’s been chattering about this all month. The brochure is glossy and full of color pictures of happy students wandering around famous spots across Europe.
For the serious student interested in escaping the confines of traditional study, a semester abroad immerses you in culture and language. Instead of hiding in classrooms, you’ll explore museums and experience local customs, gaining a deep appreciation for the world outside your comfort zone.
It looks amazing—Rome, Paris, London. Maybe I could stay for more than a semester and not come back until graduation. I close my eyes and imagine it. Sipping cappuccino at a sidewalk trattoria, wandering around the Louvre or maybe even watching a parliament debate. I could make new friends, maybe date a boy with a sexy accent.
My stomach kinks, and I let my eyes slip shut. Date a boy? No. No way. Who’d want me now? A tsunami of regret flows through me, and Ian Russell pops into my head. I’ve been crushing on Ian for months. He was the only reason I went to that stupid party last month, and he didn’t even show up. But the thought of dating him—even seeing him—after Zac makes me sick.
The burn in my belly gets hotter, bigger. Mrs. Reynolds, the school nurse, walks in, puts some file folders in a basket, sees me sitting on a hard plastic chair, and angles her head. “Grace, you okay?”
I shrug.
She sits next to me and peers at my brochure. “Europe, huh?”
“My mom thinks I should go until this ‘blows over.’” I make finger quotes.
“And you? What do you think?”
“It sounds great.”
“But?”
Another shrug. “I’d have to come home sometime.”
Mrs. Reynolds pats my arm. “Hold your head up, Grace. Even when you’re dying inside—especially then—hold it up.” She smiles and walks out.
I consider her words. What she said echoed what Diane, the rape counselor, had said. Maybe I should go to one of those meetings, see if it helps. The brochure in my hand keeps taunting me with smiling faces and cowardly words until I finally crumple it up. No, I’m not going to Europe. I’m done avoiding people, and I am so done with being called names. I stare at the camera still in my hand until something in my brain goes click. I can reclaim everything Zac McMahon stole from me. A month ago I wanted to die. Now I have a plan. And I’m mad enough to put my plan into action.
Zac thinks it’s fun to post pictures online? Fine. I’ll give him pictures.
The phone in my pocket vibrates. Mom’s finally here. I stride to the door and pitch the brochure in the wastebasket on my way out, head up high.
Chapter 4
Ian
Big mouths and short fuses are a bad combination.
I struggle against the iron arms of my teammates keeping me from choking Coach Brill. “You can’t bench me! You’re not a fucking doctor.”
Sound stops. Air is sucked out of his office, out of the entire locker room, leaving the funk of sweat and wet towels to hang somewhere around nostril level. Jaws drop, and every eyeball in the place bounces from me to him and back again.
Coach Brill stands up, all six feet four inches of him. Two paws the size of dinner plates land on his desk hard enough to make pens jump. His eyes narrow, and he leans close enough for me to count the whiskers on his chin. I’m too mad, too blinded by my rage to consider all the ways this can get bad, really bad. “I can bench you. Know what else I can do? I can send you to Mr. Jordan’s office. Know what he can do? Suspend you.”
Suspend me? Is he fucking kidding me? “This is the last game of the season! It’s a concussion, not a brain tumor.”
He leans in even closer. The arms holding me back quiver. “Mr. Russell, I don’t care if it’s a broken toenail. Your family doctor needs to sign off on it before you play on my team, you got that? You’ll miss tomorrow’s game if you shut up now. Want to sit out the All Long Island Tournament too? Keep flapping that big mouth.”
Kyle Moran squeezes my arm. “Jesus, Ian, just shut up.”
“Yeah,” Matt Roberts adds, squeezing my other arm. “We need you.”
I glare at my coach, practically breathing fire.
“We’re done here. Get your butt to Mr. Jordan’s office.” Coach picks up his phone. “Now,” he barks.
I jerk out of Kyle and Matt’s grip, slam the door on my way out.
Cursing all the way to the principal’s office, I throw myself into a chair and wait for Mr. Jordan to summon me into the inner office. When I get home later, I’m going to freaking kill my parents. They knew the last lacrosse game of our season was this Saturday. Was it really so hard to schedule my follow-up appointment before the game? My dad’s always going on about giving my all to the team because it’s so important to win a scholarship, and then he drops the ball.
“Ian Russell, I hear you’ve become a neurologist since we last spoke?” Mr. Jordan stands in the door frame, frowning at me over his glasses, beckoning me with a finger.
“Mr. Jordan, it’s not fair.” I leap to my feet. “I feel fine. My parents just didn’t get the appointment to clear me, but they will and—”
“Mr. Russell, I understand your disappointment, but what you don’t understand is that Mr. Brill is not doing this to be a pain in your you-know-what. He’s following the policies that make it possible for this school to have a successful sports program that—as hard as this may be to accept—benefits all of us rather than just you. Sit down.”
I roll my eyes and slide into the chair in front of Mr. Jordan’s spotless desk. Rumor has it he has a pit crew standing by to scrub it down after every meeting.