Singled Out (13 page)

Mono?
Justin’s cousin had had mono last year and he was out of school for almost two months. I hoped Coach was wrong. Two months without seeing him?

I needed to stop obsessing. He didn’t like me anyway. He was just my tutor.
Get a grip—now! Focus on school and pitching. Stop being a girl
. I was angry, though, at the thought of being on my own against the Statesmen turds who wanted me out.

“Okay, Dresden, get in there for a while,” said Coach.

Three batters quickly came and went. The fourth guy up was Grossman. He was taller than most of the guys I had faced.
Why did that name ring a bell?

And then it hit me. He was on the basketball team, too. He had to be Gabby’s Grossman. He was the one who had given her the key and gotten her into trouble.

Suddenly, my strike zone changed. I was thinking about brushback pitches—maybe one to the knees, or possibly one to the wrist. Nothing like a crack on the wrist to teach a big prep-school jerk a lesson. I just couldn’t resist. I sent a fastball inside, plunking him right on the wrist.

He winced and jumped back, dropping the bat.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, trying to act as if I cared.

He glared at me and held his wrist. By the look on his face,
I could tell he knew I’d done it on purpose. I just pulled my hat down over my eyes and stepped off the mound.

Coach Davenport came over to Grossman. “It’s nothing,” Coach told him. “You’ll live. Just go put some ice on it so it doesn’t swell up on you.”

“Dresden, you can’t get so wild,” said Madison, walking over to me. “Focus on your zone and hit the spot you want to hit!”

I just smiled.

“Is something funny?”

“No.”

“No, but you were smiling.” He looked over toward Grossman, who was still giving me a nasty stare. “You hit him on purpose, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t,” I said, avoiding the coach’s eyes.

He got in front of me and stared right at me. “You’re a really bad liar,” he said.

I shrugged. “He had it coming, Coach.”

He smiled and crossed his arms across his chest. “Just tell me one thing, Dresden.”

“What?”

“Were you aiming for his wrist?”

“Damn right I was,” I said, and then popped a bubble with my gum.

“Well, at least your command is improving.” He sighed and tossed the ball back to me. “Keep personal agendas off the field. Stuff like that will ruin you.”

“Sorry, Coach.”

“Uh-huh. Just pitch, Dresden.”

The strange thing was, I thought getting a little revenge for Gabby would make me feel good, but it didn’t. As I watched Grossman walk over and grab an ice bag from the cooler, I
didn’t feel the slightest bit better.

There was still no sign of Sam Barrett the following week. First thing Tuesday morning, I received a message to report to the headmaster’s office during my study period. I was hoping it wasn’t about my grades, because I was trying my best to keep them up. Maybe it was about baseball.

In the back of my mind, though, I hoped it had something to do with Sam’s absence. Of course, that would be pointless and stupid. How would the headmaster know I had a huge crush on Sam Barrett?

When I walked into his office, Dr. Colton said, “Miss Dresden, have a seat.”

I sat down.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about your time here so far at Hazelton. Are you enjoying our school?”

“Yes, sir, it’s very nice. The teachers and coaches are very helpful,” I said.

“And the students?”

“They’re fine,” I lied.

“They’re treating you well, then?”

“Is there some sort of problem?” I asked.

“Well, it seems Miss Kwan has decided to leave school. Her parents phoned me this morning and informed me that she did not feel at ease here,” he said. “She said some of the students were making her uncomfortable.”

They got Kwan. Now it’s just me.
I didn’t know what to say. Should I tell him about the Statesmen? Did he know about them? I dropped a hint. “Did she say anything about any of the
guys bullying her?”

“Bullying?” he asked, confused. “She didn’t mention anything like that, Miss Dresden. Do you think bullying occurs here at Hazelton?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” I said taking a shot that, unlike Dr. Rich, maybe he would believe me.

“The students at Hazelton adhere to a very strict honor code, and I can assure you that nothing like that happens at our school,” he stated with a sense of certainty.

Well, he was clueless, and obviously not ready to believe what was really going on, so I changed the subject. “Maybe she just wasn’t used to all the boys. I’m used to being around boys, ’cause of the baseball thing and all. Maybe she just missed her girl friends.”

“Perhaps you’re right. She’s a bit younger than you, too. I’m just concerned that you’re our only girl left,” said Dr. Colton. “Will this be a problem for you, Miss Dresden?”

“Not at all, sir.”

As I rose to leave, I thought,
Wow. Now I’ve got to put my game face on and keep it.

I stopped myself at the door. “Dr. Colton?”

“Yes, Miss Dresden?”

“Do you happen to know what’s wrong with Sam Barrett? I only ask because he was tutoring me in Trig and I haven’t seen him since before Christmas break.”

“Mr. Barrett returns on Monday,” he said tersely.

“Thank you, sir.”

That night, during dinner at the Richards house, the
doorbell rang. That had never happened during a meal— meals at the house were always quiet, and I usually finished first, washed my plate, and headed upstairs to give the family some time together. As Dr. Rich rose to get the door, I made my way toward the kitchen. I had a feeling something was up.

I was scraping my plate in the kitchen when Dr. Rich walked back to the table with Dr. Colton, who was holding a video tape. I found this very odd. I had never seen him in the house before tonight.

“Mrs. Richards,” Dr. Colton said, shaking her hand, “you look well.”

“We’ll just be a minute in my office, hon,” Dr. Rich said to his wife.

“Certainly,” she said, continuing to feed Matthew as the two men left the dining room.

I stood in the kitchen and wondered if this was about Kwan—or me. I had to find a way to eavesdrop, but Mrs. Richards was right there. If I could make an excuse to go outside, maybe I could sneak a peek through the window at what was on that tape.

“Mrs. Richards?” I said quickly.

“Yes, dear?”

“I think I’ll head over to the library for a little bit.”

She nodded. “You really are motivated lately, Taylor. Good for you.”

I hustled up the stairs to grab my book bag to make things look legit, then went out the front door. Luckily, it was dark outside, so I could easily hide between the bushes and the house. I crept along the side of the house and positioned myself underneath what I was pretty sure was the office window. I couldn’t hear anything.
Shoot.
I had to peek. I laid my book
bag down and stood on top of it. I could just see above the window ledge.

They were watching some security video footage from the school hallway, and fortunately for me, the television monitor faced in my direction. The video flickered to a start, and there was Kwan, opening her locker, with tons of notes and cards, even flowers, pouring out onto the floor.

The boys didn’t have to be too inappropriate with Kwan. Just giving her attention and pretending they were all in love with her was enough to scare her off.

She was a really shy girl, probably raised by her parents to never show interest in boys. The Statesmen must have had a bunch of different boys ask her out, leave romantic notes for her, and declare their undying love. It was too much for such a quiet little girl to handle. She had stuck with it for half a year, but I guess enough was enough for Kwan.

I figured that was not the same treatment I would face. Nobody brings girls like me flowers. They assume a girl who plays baseball wouldn’t go for flowers. I felt bad for Kwan, but at least I could say I’d tried to warn her.

After I saw all I needed to see, I did actually go the library. If I stayed focused on my grades, maybe I could keep from thinking about the fact that, for the Statesmen, it was two down and one to go.

S
am did return that Monday, but it was like September all over again. He wouldn’t look at me in the hall, making me once again the invisible woman. And he looked different somehow. He wasn’t the same confident Sam Barrett. He looked tired. Instead of slapping hands with friends or strutting down the middle of the hall, he stood at his locker and let his hair fall into his eyes without pushing it back. Something was wrong.

During my study period on Monday, I went to the office for my meeting with the guidance counselor, Mr. Bass, about college applications. He was balding and short, with frameless glasses. His head kind of looked like an egg. His office had large glass windows all around it.

After about a ten-minute wait, Mr. Bass brought me into his office. He explained the parts of the college application process to me, including the transcripts and the personal essays. He told me to figure out what schools interested me, and he gave me a huge book to look at. It listed all of the schools and what programs they offered.

“Take a look at the books and the schools’ websites. Apply to as many as you can,” he said. “Don’t be afraid to pick the schools you really think are out of your league. You never know. Any questions?”

“Nope, thanks,” I said.

Later in my room, I looked at the books he gave me. The whole thing was overwhelming. I decided I would pick the schools with the best baseball programs. Mr. Bass did say you never know what could happen, and the deadline for applications was getting close. So I spent the night on college websites, typing out essays and filling out applications, trying to highlight the one thing I knew I did well—play baseball. Maybe I would get lucky.

The next week, I walked the halls on alert, figuring Plan B had to be in high gear by now. And, as it turned out, the third Friday in January was when the Statesmen made their big move.

Mr. Moesch, my Trig teacher, handed back my latest test. Ever since Sam began helping me, I had really been studying thoroughly, and I actually understood most of the material. So when I saw the failing grade written across the top of my test paper, I was shocked.
A fifty-nine?
I scanned the test quickly to find out what I had done wrong.

And that’s when I noticed this wasn’t even my test. It had my name at the top, but what was written below wasn’t my work. It was a near-perfect imitation of my handwriting, but it wasn’t mine. Someone had turned in this paper in place of my real one.

The bell rang for the end of class, and I walked out of the room like a zombie. What could I do? Would Mr. Moesch believe me if I told him it wasn’t my test? How could I prove it?
Should I talk to the headmaster? He seemed concerned that I be treated fairly.

I could feel the anger building up inside of me. I scanned the hall to see if any of the Statesmen was watching me, waiting
for me to react. I kept composed. I walked to my next class just as I normally did and showed no sign that anything was bothering me.

I would find a way to fix this, I decided. I’d stay here at Hazelton and get a scholarship to a good school. I had to. I was not giving up.