Singled Out
Authors: Sara Griffiths
a novel
Copyright 2011 by Sara Griffiths
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Bancroft Press “Books that enlighten”
P.O. Box 65360, Baltimore, MD 21209
800-637-7377
410-764-1967 (fax)
Cover illustration, design, and interior design:
Tracy Copes; Daft Generation
ISBN 1890862959/978-1-890862-95-4 (cloth) $19.95
ISBN 1890862967/978-1-890862-96-1 (pb) $14.95
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
To Marielle
Chapter 1
I
couldn’t sleep. I kept staring at the red numbers on my bedside clock as if they would lull the tension out of me, but they only made me more anxious. Tomorrow would be the big day.
Earlier that afternoon, I’d been fumbling around my room trying to pack, asking my dad for the hundredth time if he still thought all of this was a good idea.
“Honey, we talked about this,” he said. “You can’t say no to this chance. I mean, if you honestly want to go to college, attending Hazelton will get you noticed.”
And by “noticed,” he meant on the field—the baseball field. I had a reputation in town as the only girl who could strike out the boys, and that’s why the Hazelton School had offered me a scholarship. Weird thing was, my grades were less than great— in fact, they downright sucked. “I still can’t believe they’re letting me in with such a low grade-point average,” I said.
“You heard what the athletic director said. It’s not a big concern,” my dad had said. “They want you to play ball. You should be grateful for the chance.”
And he was right. I wasn’t great at school, either socially or with grades, which, right now, were maybe good enough to get me into community college. I’d always hoped to get a
baseball scholarship to college, but my grades were so crappy, scouts stopped coming to see me pitch. But if I could do well at Hazelton, on the field and in the classroom, maybe some college would take a chance on me.
I’d spent the past few months bored out of my skull, playing in the local summer league. I’d decided to pitch only because my high school coach suggested that playing in the over-sixteen league would give me more experience against better players. Unfortunately, he was wrong. The summer coach hardly ever played me. He only let me close out games, so I spent most of my summer perfecting the art of eating sunflower seeds and spitting them into a paper cup.
After junior year, I’d told my school coach that I was quitting baseball. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the sport anymore. In fact, up until last spring, I used to get so excited about baseball—it was the one thing I could do well. It had just become too easy, too predictable. I’d gotten too good. When I was a freshman and a sophomore, guys could hit me, but by junior year, I was a beast—no one could get a hit.
So when Mr. Sabatini first came to one of my summer games, I figured he was just another one of my high school coach’s buddies there to persuade me to play my senior year.
But he wasn’t. He was the athletic director at the most prestigious school in the state, the Hazelton School for Boys.
And he’d offered me a scholarship for my senior year.
At first, I thought his offer was crazy. I worried about being in a school full of guys.
Will they accept me?
I thought. The athletic director wanted me to try out for the baseball team, but would I even make it? The Hazelton School had a reputation for having one of the top teams in the state. But after talking to my dad, I realized accepting the scholarship
was the right decision.
I really respected Dad’s opinion on things. Without a mom around, he was my mom, and dad, and friend—kind of my everything. I trusted him. If he thought I should be happy about getting this chance, I figured he was probably right.
“I’ll have to try out, though,” I’d said nervously.
“And not flunk out, dummy,” said my younger brother Dan, poking his head into my room.
I grabbed a pillow from my bed and flung it at Dan’s head. Dan was fourteen and probably weighed all of a hundred pounds soaking wet. He was like a pole with a head. I loved him, but our love often took the form of sarcasm and the occasional headlock. My older brother, Brian, was all the way in Arizona, too far away to wrestle or mock me.
“You want to go outside so I can strike you out for the zillionth time?” I said to Dan.
“Hmm, I think you should hit the books instead, T.”
“Ha ha,” I said. “Dork.”
“Dan,” Dad said, blocking my next pillow throw, “don’t you have a lawn to mow?”
He smiled. “Oh yeah. Twenty bucks is still the deal, right?”
“Yes, if it’s done sometime before Christmas.”
“No problem. Your money will soon be mine. Good luck with this mess, T. Don’t forget to write,” he said, pretending to cry as he scooted out of the room.
“He really is going to miss you, Taylor. He’s just too much of a horse’s butt to admit it,” my dad said, stepping over the clothes piles forming on my bedroom floor. “And despite what he says, we all know you’re not stupid.”
I knew I was no genius, but I had never really cared. School was always just something I had to do, like a household chore.
“Jury’s still out on that one,” I said.
“You’ve spent the last few years focusing all your attention on baseball—well, baseball and Justin,” Dad said.
Justin was my ex-boyfriend, and forever my friend. A couple years back, we dated for a while, but once he left for college, we kind of went into the friend zone, which was fine with me, because we were always better as friends than as anything else. Now he’d be spending the year in Spain. I already missed him.
“Maybe this’ll be a great opportunity to try the academic thing for a while,” Dad said. “You know, I don’t love you only because you play ball. I should have pushed the academic thing more.”
“Hey,” I said, “baseball is what brought us back together.”
He nodded. “But for a time, it was also what kept us apart.”
Years ago, when my dad and I barely spoke, I was sure he hated me because he was embarrassed to have a daughter who played baseball better than the boys, and especially his sons. I quit playing when I was ten, even though I loved the game, because I thought that’s what he wanted. It took a lot of counseling and talking for both of us to realize it wasn’t my baseball playing that had distanced us. We were both trying to cope with the fact that my mother, without any real explanation, had left us.
“I guess that’s one of the things that make it so hard to leave,” I said. “I was without you for a long time.” I was trying not to get choked up. “What if that happens again?”
He sat down on my bed. “Taylor, no matter where you go or what you do, I’m just a phone call away. And I promise you: We will never let something come between us again. Okay?”
At times like these, when big changes were happening in my life, I felt my mother’s absence the most. My dad was
affected by that void, too. I didn’t ask him about her anymore. It made him really sad when I did. Besides, if she really wanted to talk to me, she knew where to find me.
Sometimes, I wondered if she regretted leaving us which, to me, was the height of selfishness. I occasionally thought about looking for her, but I didn’t want to hurt my dad and, honestly, if she didn’t want to see me, I didn’t think I could handle the rejection. I’d just stick with one parent for now.
I gave Dad a big hug and let out a few tears. He stood up and grabbed a suitcase, which was now fully packed. “Should I bring this one down?” he asked.
I nodded and rubbed my eyes. “Yeah, go ahead. What the hell?”
“Language, please,” he said as he pulled the suitcase down the hall to the top of the stairs.
“Sorry,” I said, cracking a smile.
“Yeah, that’s what I get, raising a daughter who plays ball. You’ve got a trucker’s mouth. Bet they don’t tolerate that at Hazelton.”
“I’ll wash it out with soap before we leave tomorrow.”
He smiled and carried the bag down the stairs. I took a deep breath and cracked my knuckles.
I spent the next few hours trying to pack the rest of my stuff. The good thing was that the school was only fifty miles or so from our home in New Jersey, so if I found myself crying for my daddy after a few days, he was only a short car ride away.
At least I wouldn’t be the only girl at Hazelton. There were two others coming. One of the girls, Gabby, was also an athlete, and also from Jersey—a varsity basketball player. She was also a senior, but I didn’t know much else about her. The second girl was there strictly for academics. I think she was some sort
of math whiz.
We’d be the first three girls ever to attend Hazelton.
I ended up filling only one other suitcase. I didn’t have much of a wardrobe. Anyway, from what I’d read, I’d have to wear a uniform to class. I panicked when I pictured myself in a plaid skirt, but the school promised I’d have a few choices, including pants. There’s nothing goofier-looking than putting a dress on a girl who usually wore sweats. In any event, it probably wasn’t in the school’s best interest to have girls in skirts running around a school full of boys.
Now I lay in bed, wide awake. I gave up trying to sleep and, eventually, my room started to fill with light. I heard cars moving down the street, and my neighbor letting his dog out, and I knew it was almost time to go.
After a quick breakfast that I hardly touched, I walked back upstairs. Dan was still asleep, and I didn’t want to wake him so early, so I just peeked in and whispered goodbye.
Damn, I was nervous.
A
t Hazelton, I was not going to live in the normal dorms with the other boys. Instead, I was assigned to live with Dr. Richards, the assistant headmaster, and his wife and young son, who were the main occupants of one of the largest houses on campus. The headmaster, Dr. Colton, had told my dad that the Richards house had twenty-four rooms and, in a pinch, could easily serve as a dorm.