I usually love Mondays. This week, I dread it. Yet another small joy Matt’s managed to snatch.
While Coach Taylor’s office is warm, my blood is as cold as an Appalachian stream, mid-winter. I sit in the chair across from his desk and cross my legs, chewing my thumbnail as my gaze drops to the floor. Becca’s texts from Saturday play on repeat in my head, about Matt telling everyone I wasn’t only screwing Eric, but doing it behind his back. And I’m not sure what’s worse: the fact that he was lying about me, or the fact that my name is basically no better than a pile of mud at this point. I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am, and in a matter of weeks… poof.
I have no clue what I’m going to face when I get to class today. Maybe everyone will realize he was drunk and full of crap. Or, as Eric would say, maybe that’s just my optimism showing.
“Bri?” Coach says. My head snaps up. He eyes me carefully. “Everything all right?”
Not even close.
When I met with Coach Taylor last week to talk about Eric’s first weekend at the center, he let me know that he’d warn Matt to stay away from me. That if he was caught within a few feet of me, he’d be suspended from the team—almost like a restraining order, baseball-god style. But there’s a problem with that logic:
Matt’s words can travel a lot further than a few feet. They’ve probably already made their way around school, and it’s not even 8:00 a.m.
“This weekend was good,” I hear myself saying. I blink, bringing myself back to the moment. “Eric was good. The center was good. Everything is good.”
The clock ticks in Coach’s silence. “And how are you?” he finally asks.
Scared. The word pops into my head immediately. I feel like I should be crying, but I’m just… numb.
“It’s not going to stop.” The words are out before I realize they’re there. But Coach Taylor says nothing—just waits. “People like him—they don’t stop until they get everything they want, do they?” I continue. “People who’ve never heard no. People who’ve been handed anything they could ask for. People who don’t have bills and collection notices stuffed in every drawer of their drafty house, and whose dads aren’t gone for half the year just to keep that stupid house.”
“Bri—”
Shaking my head, I grab my backpack and stand. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just get to hear what a whore I am for the rest of the year. No big deal.” I reach the doorway right as Coach asks, “What is it you think he wants?”
I turn. Coach is standing now, his arms crossed as he waits for an answer.
“I think…” I glance to the ceiling, looking for the right words. But there’s no reason to try shining up the ugly truth: “He wants to see me fall,” I finish. “He wants to see how low I can go. And he wants to be the one left standing, just so he can look down and know he’s the reason I’m there.”
Coach continues to stare, silent for a long moment. And now I’m officially a basketcase, considering the man only asked me in here to talk about Eric, and I’m tossing all my issues out there for him to see. He doesn’t even know me. Sure, last week, he was genuinely concerned about Matt being a jerk, but he’s one of his players—of course he’s going to try and clear it up. That doesn’t give me an excuse to spill my guts like he’s some sort of therapist. He’s a coach, not a guidance counselor.
Arms still crossed, he leans back against his desk. The first bell rings, but neither of us budges. Instead, he says, “The problem with high school—and with life, in general—is that the assholes always seem to be the loudest.”
Despite the twisting of my stomach, I manage a tiny, barely there smile. “Did you just call one of your players an asshole?”
“I will neither confirm nor deny that I’m referring to a player.”
I may be pushing my luck here, but I can’t help but ask, “If he’s such an asshole, why is he still on your team?”
Silence.
And I have officially overstepped.
“I’m sorry,” I rush to say. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No, no. It’s a valid question.” He pauses. “You remember what you said about some people not stopping until they get what they want? That doesn’t just apply to people your age; parents love to play that game, too. So unless the person in question actually does something to warrant getting kicked off the team they’ve been on for years, and the team their parents have invested a hell of a lot of money into, my hands are tied.”
That makes sense. It does. I just wish people realized that you don’t have to come near someone to destroy them.
“I’m trying,” he says, his voice low. “I’ve got your back here.”
“I know,” I tell him, and I do. It’s more than I can say for a lot of others. “Thanks, Coach.”
The second bell rings as I make my way through the locker room, and he calls that he’ll let Mr. Matthews know why I’m late for the second week in a row. I hurry through the halls, my boots clattering against the floor. Once I reach homeroom, I slow down, catching my breath before stepping inside the room.
And I wish I hadn’t left Coach Taylor’s office at all.
Everyone—everyone—stops to stare at me, Mr. Matthews included. Becca’s eyes meet mine from across the room, and she mouths I’m so sorry. No clue why; it’s not her fault. She even tried to warn me. Taking a deep breath, I stride across the room. Keep my head high. But I can still feel them staring. And even though they’re whispering, my name rings loud and clear.
When people are talking about you, whispers are louder than screams.
Settling into my seat, I blink quickly, forcing the tears away from my eyes. I’m no stranger to scandal—when Mom left us, people talked about our family for weeks. Mom turned into everything from a hooker to a crack addict, instead of someone who’d just had enough. Pretty sure a few people even said she offed herself.
But it’s different when it’s about you. When you’ve spent years and years sculpting your life into something you’re kind-of-sort-of proud of, hearing your name come out of others’ mouths rips a piece of your soul. Especially when the only thing you actually did “wrong” is cut the dead weight that you’ve been dragging around for months. When you think you did something good, and they throw you under the bus.
Becca squeezes my shoulders from behind. “Poker face, babe,” she says under her breath. “Don’t let them see you cry.”
Don’t let them see you cry.
Don’t let them see you cry.
They’re about to see me cry.
Snatching my backpack from the floor, I hightail it out of the room just as the bell rings, sending a shock through me. I shove through the bathroom door and slip into the last stall. Latch the door. Sink to the floor as my chest flutters and my throat tightens and my vision blurs from all the stupid, stupid tears gathering in my eyes.
The bathroom door opens, and heels click against the tiles, heading in my direction. Someone knocks softly on the stall. Wiping my nose with my sleeve, I lean over just enough to undo the lock. Without a word, Becca sits beside me on the disgusting, grout-covered bathroom floor. And I think that means more than anything she could possibly say.
~
Privacy in Lewis Creek is non-existent; somehow, in the week since I’ve changed my cell number, Matt’s already gotten his hands on it. I only gave it to my coach, some of the girls on the team, and the school’s secretary, for crying out loud. There’s no telling who I can and can’t trust. My money’s on the secretary, who turned to goo whenever Matt flashed his grin the few times he made us late to homeroom. By the time the final bell rings, I’m surprised my phone hasn’t died from all the texts and voicemails. All from him.
He’s sorry.
He was drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying at the party. He doesn’t even remember what he said.
I just need to listen to his side of the story.
Why won’t I be nice to him?
And it feels like my heart is being ripped to shreds. Because why should my soul take all the damage in one day? No matter how much you hate someone, no matter how much you wish to the heavens that you could just be done with them, if they were once the reason that you smiled, it’s impossible to remind your heart of the atrocities they’ve committed.
Everyone’s pouring out of the halls and into the parking lot as I make my way to Mr. Matthews’s classroom for the monthly National Honor Society meeting after school. As president, I have to be there, even if the vice president is a certifiable douche canoe.
With Valentine’s Day this week and its dance coming up on Saturday night, the dance committee must have spent the afternoon decorating for the “festivities.” (Barf.) The hallway is filled with bright red and pink streamers, along with heart balloons whose strings I have to dodge as I walk through.
I wish I had a pair of scissors.
I turn down the final hall, which is empty except for two people down by the double doors: Laura Decker and Eric. Her back’s against the wall, and there’s barely an inch between them as he leans in, his hand beside her head. And for some inexplicable reason, my stomach twists at the sight. Which is ridiculous. He’s just a friend.
He is.
But before I can rip my eyes away, his face shifts, his lips falling into a frown. He pushes off the wall. Shoves through the double doors, the clattering metal echoing through the hall. Laura seems completely unaffected, pulling her phone from her purse as she walks in my direction. I duck into the room before she notices the creepy girl spying on her.
Matt’s already here, along with Sara Stringer and Landon Stephens, yet another baseball player. On instinct, my gaze falls to Matt. A couple months ago, that lost-puppy expression would’ve made me melt. Now, it makes me want to kick him in the face.
I sit in the first row, right in front of Mr. Matthews’s desk. Matt’s whispering my name, and he’s clearing his throat, and he’s doing everything under the sun to get my attention except for coming near me. So I guess Coach Taylor’s warning actually stuck. And I’ve never been more grateful to a baseball coach in my life.
It’s mind-boggling how someone can spend so much time tearing you down, only to grasp at straws when they finally lose you.
My phone buzzes for the hundredth time today. For the heck of it, I grab it from my bag.
Matt: You’re not fooling anyone.
I swear, he used to be a nice guy. Once upon a time. And I should just remove his number entirely, but keeping it gives me a heads-up whenever he decides to grace my phone with his presence. Basically the very definition of necessary evil. Swipe. Delete.
Matt: Everyone knows you fucked him.
A charmer. Really. Delete.
Matt: I could ruin that precious rep even more. We’ve covered screwing around on me. What about a test-cheating scandal next?
My breath catches in my throat. Freaking. Liar. I glance over my shoulder, only to catch him smirking. He holds up his phone right as mine buzzes again.
Matt: you know they’d all believe me.
Instead of tears hitting my eyes yet again, something else hits me: Pure freaking rage.
I’ve worked damn hard for everything I’ve gotten. I don’t like being threatened. The line that separates hurt and anger? He didn’t just cross it—he took a flying freaking leap. And now I. Am. Pissed. But a reaction is exactly what he wants, and that’s exactly what he’s not going to get.
I drop my phone into my bag. Cross my legs. Stare straight ahead, waiting for Mr. Matthews to call the meeting to order while everyone else files in.
“I don’t get it,” Sara says from beside me.
I glance over at her. She’s a super-smart junior, one who could probably give me a run for my money in Chemistry. She must see the confusion on my face, because she subtly tilts her head toward Matt. “Why you’re dragging this breakup thing out,” she continues more quietly. “You could be a little nicer to him. Talk to him. It’s not like he hit you or anything.” Her eyes widen slightly behind her glasses. “Right?”
I wish I had something to say to that. I wish I could at least do something other than sit here with my mouth hanging open. I wish I could tell her that she just doesn’t get it. That you don’t have to hit someone to bruise them.
But I think the saddest thing is that she’s saying it with this wide-eyed innocence. That she really believes what she’s saying. That there’s no way the golden boy behind us can be capable of anything other than perfection. If anyone understands perfection, it’s me—I’ve worked my ass off at perfecting my mask for years. And I know that you can look perfect on the outside, but the inside is a giant mess of puzzle pieces that’ve been stepped on and chewed and ripped to shreds. And even when you’ve kind-of-sort-of moved on from someone, even when you’re healing, those puzzle pieces don’t just fix themselves. Even with crazy glue and tape and lots of TLC, you’re still going to have frayed ends and pieces that just don’t fit anymore.
Instead of telling her all that, all I can do is shake my head as Mr. Matthews begins the meeting.
~
The downside of NHS meetings is that I miss soccer practice. Which especially sucks on days like today, when I really, really need to kick something.
So after the meeting, I change into my practice shorts and head out to the field, my own soccer ball tucked beneath my arm. Coach Weeks locks up the gear after every practice, which is why keeping a ball in my car at all times comes in handy during rage emergencies.
Our field lights have flipped on, now that the sun has disappeared for the day. The other girls are crowded around the bench, grabbing their bags. I nod to them as they file into the parking lot, with Becca and Coach Weeks bringing up the rear.
“Missed you tonight, Johnson!” Coach says. “Good to see you out here.”
Becca lifts her eyebrows, walking backward. “You good?” she asks.
“Great,” I say with a smile. “Perfect. Couldn’t be better.”
She narrows her eyes, knowing good and well that I’m lying. “Text me later,” she says and jogs to catch up with Coach.
I’ll totally text, after I take my aggression out on a poor, defenseless ball, while pretending it’s someone else’s balls.
I center myself in front of the goal and drop the ball into the grass.
I need to listen.
I need to let him apologize.
I need to stop dragging out this breakup.
I need to give the poor guy a chance.
I need to be nice.
My heart slams against my chest as I back up. Run. And kick as hard as I possibly can, the thump like music to my ears. Leaning forward, I rest my hands on my knees. The only thing I need to do is breathe. To remember why I’m here. Remember that their words mean shit. Remember that the only person I need to make happy is me.
I jog to the goal and grab the ball. Return to my spot. Rinse and repeat.