Singled Out (7 page)

“No. No way. They don’t deserve me.”

“Their loss.”

“Totally,” she said.

“What would you do if you were me?” I said.

“Just watch your back. At least you know what’s going on. Maybe you can avoid them or something. And maybe you
should give that Kwan girl a heads-up.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, “and if there’s any way I can get back at them for what they did to you, Gabby, trust me, I will.”

She gave me a quick hug. “Just take care of yourself. And keep in touch. E-mail me if you need anything.”

“Okay. Thanks for driving down here,” I said.

“No problem,” she said, climbing back into the car.

I waved at the car and watched it drive away. As I turned toward the bike rack, I noticed a group of guys sitting on the steps outside of Rodman’s, looking in my direction. When I got on my bike, they quickly stood up and got into a nearby car. It was an old brown Mercedes with a rag top. The driver, I recognized, was William Tuttle.
Did they see me talking to Gabby? Do they know that I know?

I turned onto Nassau Street and headed toward Hazelton. The sun was beginning to set and the sky was darkening. I heard a car approaching. I was afraid to look back to see if it was Tuttle and his guys. I stayed focused on the road ahead, fighting my urge to look back. The car wasn’t passing me, and it should have passed me by now. I had to peek.

And there it was. The brown Mercedes.

Tuttle was driving, and three other guys were with him. In the backseat, I recognized Ben Barrett and the evil Sam Barrett. The car was only a few feet behind me, just riding along. None of them was looking at me. They were just staring straight ahead, the car radio blasting some hard rock, and maintaining the same distance from me.

It continued like that for a long time. If I pedaled faster, they sped up. If I slowed down, they slowed down. My heart began to race.
What should I do?

After about a quarter mile, I turned onto a long, private
driveway and pedaled up toward an unknown house. Tuttle and his boys didn’t follow. Tuttle sped up and I watched his car cruise out of sight. I stopped in the driveway and caught my breath. I wiped the sweat off my forehead. After a few more cars passed, I ventured back onto the road. I pedaled as fast as I could back to campus, the whole time wondering what they were thinking of doing to me.

That night, my dad called. He told me how he had told all his friends at work that I was attending Hazelton. He sounded so happy and proud. I couldn’t bear to tell him that I wanted to come home, and that everyone here hated me.

After I hung up, I determined that I had to make it through the year at Hazelton, for two reasons: one, to make my dad proud; and two, to stick it to these guys for what they’d done to Gabby—maybe even get revenge like that count of Monte Cristo character did in the book. Of course, I’d only read the first few chapters, so I didn’t know how he did it yet, but I’d think of something. As long as I stayed on my toes, what was the worst that could happen?

The next day, I figured I should make good on one of the promises I made to Gabby and warn Tara Kwan. I didn’t usually see her during school hours because she was a sophomore. During sophomore lunch, I excused myself from Chemistry, telling the teacher I had to use the ladies’ room, and walked quickly toward the café, where the nearest ladies’ room was located. I spotted Kwan at a small table in the back, holding an apple in one hand and a book in the other.

I knew I had only a few minutes to explain. I tried to gather
my thoughts as I approached her, so as not to sound like an overbearing lunatic. “Hi, Tara,” I said. “Mind if I sit?”

She looked surprised to hear a voice, but said, “No, go ahead.”

I told her what I knew—that Gabby was set up. “These guys—I think they’re all seniors—framed her, and I’m pretty sure they’re trying to get rid of us, too.” I paused. “Me and you,” I said, pointing to the two of us. By the look on her face, I realized I had failed in my attempt not to sound like a lunatic.

Kwan wrinkled her brow. “So someone is going to frame me?” she said in the slow-paced kind of voice that people use when they think they’re talking to a crazy person.

“Yes! Well, maybe. I don’t know, just . . .” I was starting to realize this was not working and sighed. “Just be careful.” I got up quickly, because I knew I was taking too long. “If anything weird happens, let me know.”

Kwan just sat silently and stared at me.

“All right, see ya around,” I said before bailing out of the café.
Ugh, that went well
, I thought as I raced back to class. But at least I’d tried to help her.
For the time being, I guess I’ll just focus on helping myself.

W
orking out became my life over the next month. I would get up every morning at six and go for a run, usually about two miles. Every other day, I would go to the gym to lift, and on Wednesdays, I would go to the practice bubble to meet with Tom Madison, the pitching coach.

I blocked out the fact that no one in the school would talk to me. I tried not to let it bother me. Gabby and I had developed an online chat and text message relationship, and my dad became my phone buddy whenever I needed a live voice. I became kind of immune to the head-turns and lack of social relations with the boys at school. I focused on becoming physically stronger, and that helped keep me sane. Any time I was feeling alone, I just took a longer run, or threw a little harder, or lifted more weight.

My first day training with Madison inspired me to become a gym rat. I was so happy to be pitching again, because I hadn’t thrown in about a month. The indoor practice bubble was the coolest thing I had ever seen. It was a whole baseball field minus the stands, with a foggy plastic dome covering everything. It reminded me of where professional football teams practiced. I sat on one of the side benches and waited for Madison, Sabatini, and Davenport to finish up with another pitcher, my
favorite person, William Tuttle.

As I watched Tuttle, I had to admit he was good—but to be honest, I knew I was better. Most high school varsity teams, like Hazelton, usually have two starting pitchers, and a third guy who could come in as a reliever. And there were always a couple outfielders who could throw a few if necessary.

I had always been a reliever, but I really wanted one of the starter spots. My old coaches wouldn’t start me. I threw so hard, they worried about me hurting myself. But now, I was older and stronger. I could be a starter and I wanted it bad. It was obvious that Tuttle did, too. When we exchanged places on the bench, I avoided looking him in the eye, but I knew his eyes were on me.

I was so happy to be pitching again, I was able to shut him out.

I could tell that Madison was impressed with me when he saw me warming up.

“Uh-oh. Tom’s got that twinkle in his eye,” Sabatini said to the assistant coach as I threw a few fastballs.

Madison jogged out onto the mound. “Taylor, good to meet you.”

I put the ball in my glove, wiped my hand on my sweats, and shook his hand. “You, too.”

“I’m just going to stand behind you and watch you throw a couple, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Davenport, get the gun on these next few.”

I had never really had anyone measure the speed of my pitches. My high school had zero technology.

“Taylor, just throw a couple fastballs.”

The coach directed a Hazelton guy to catch me. All I knew
was that his last name was Roberts. He crouched down behind the plate only because the coach had ordered him to. He said nothing to me.
Jerk!

I fired a few right down the middle. With each one, the assistant coach yelled out a number: “Seventy-four! Seventy-one! Seventy-eight!”

“Is that good?” I didn’t know, but the look on Sabatini’s and Madison’s faces made me believe it was.

“What’s good is that you can throw that fast and still put it in the catcher’s mitt,” said Madison.

“Not all strikes, though.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll work on that.”

And for the next month, we did. Coach Madison showed me how important it was to develop my muscles so I could gain full range of motion. He showed me how to gain greater control over my pitches. The day I met him, I knew right away I would learn a lot from him. He was kind to me, and never commented about me being a girl. Spending time with him made the silent treatment I was dealing with a little more bearable.

For most of the major holidays, Hazelton held a student dance. The first one of the year was for Halloween. The girls from the nearby private schools were all invited, and any Hazelton boy could bring one guest. This was usually the time the guys who had girlfriends from home brought them around, but mostly it was the unattached guys trying to get a good night of action from the girls.

Mrs. Richards hassled me all week about whether or not
I was going. I figured if no one talked to me at school or in the gym, donning a dress for them wouldn’t make a world of difference.

Nevertheless, at dinner that Friday, the night the dance was being held, both Dr. and Mrs. Richards were laying on me that “you should go and be social” guilt trip. Somehow, it worked. The dance was taking place in the gym, and I decided to get dressed and go over for an hour, just to humor them, since they had been so nice to me.

I had brought only one decent dress outfit from home. It was a black spaghetti-strap dress I’d bought that summer to go to Justin’s cousin’s wedding. I slipped it on and looked at myself in the mirror. It was a little tighter around the straps than the last time I had worn it and, standing back, I noticed how much bigger my arms and shoulders had gotten from all the conditioning. I looked really fit, and I liked the look.

Because it was getting cooler out, I decided a sweater was necessary. I wasn’t sure how comfortable I felt showing this much skin anyway. Besides, it would be best if I didn’t look like my usual self, so I could blend in with the girls from the other schools. I left my hair down and even made an attempt at using Mrs. Richards’s curling iron. I put on lip gloss and a decent amount of makeup. Maybe nobody would recognize me, and someone might actually talk to me.

By the time I got to the gym, it was packed. It was so weird to see girls mixing with the boys. Of course, the one girl I kind of knew, Kwan, was not there. I found out later that her parents were really strict and wouldn’t allow her to attend.

A lot of people were out on the dance floor looking like idiots, as the DJ played top-forty dance songs. I don’t dance— not fast-dance, anyway. On occasion, I had slow-danced with
Justin just to please him, but it always made me feel really stupid—like I wasn’t sure what to do.

Having gone on a three-mile run earlier in the evening, I was starving, so I hunted down the food table, where I found a couple chocolate cookies and a Diet Coke. Chocolate and caffeine made getting dressed and coming over to the dance all worthwhile. The Richardses never had sweets, and my secret stash of soda had run out a few weeks ago. I cracked open the can of soda and put it down at the end of the table so I could gnash down my cookies.

“You shouldn’t eat cookies when you’re training,” a voice said from behind the table.

It was Ben Barrett, the lesser evil twin, who hadn’t spoken to me since the first day of classes. Maybe he was off-duty from shunning me—it was, after all, a special event. I let my guard down.

“I figure I’ll run it off tomorrow.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you in that dress,” he said, smiling.

Should I be talking to him?
“Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises.”

“Yeah, Chalky says you have quite a curve ball.”

“Who’s Chalky?” I said.

“Uh, short, kind of heavyset guy,” said Ben. “Said he caught for you at the bubble last week.”

“Oh, is his last name Roberts?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“How do you get Chalky from Roberts?”

“His first name’s Charles. Everyone around here has a nickname.”

I reached back for my Diet Coke and took a swig. Under my breath, I said, “I can just imagine what mine is.”

“Excuse me?” he asked.