Singled Out (15 page)

“Is that why you haven’t talked to me since you tutored me?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d been protecting me. Admittedly, I’d thought about what it would be like to kiss Sam Barrett, but now it was all I could think about. I tried to compose myself. “I guess I should say thank you, then,” I said.

“No, you shouldn’t. They still want you out of Hazelton, but I refuse to give them any reason to step up their game.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you get back your failing grade yet in Trig?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Sorry, that one slipped by me,” he said.

“Barrett, that’s not your fault. Besides, I handled that on my own.”

He sounded surprised. “How?”

“Maybe I should just keep that to myself, in case someone’s tapping your phone.”

He laughed. “Okay. I guess I should go. These dorm walls are pretty thin.”

“I’d say ‘talk to you later,’ but I guess that wouldn’t make much sense,” I said.

“I’ll contact you, though, if I hear anything . . . if I can.”

“You think they’ll give up by tryouts?”

“I doubt it,” he said. “But from what I hear, I’m not the only unhappy guy in the group.”

“Well, at least someone else has a conscience.”

“Yeah. Well, good luck, Dresden, with everything.”

Yeah, good luck being alone for the rest of the year with no one to talk to. I wouldn’t care about talking to anyone else if I could just talk to Sam.
I wanted to say that, but all that came out was, “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing. Thanks for calling.”

After that call, I made a decision. I didn’t need anybody’s help. I’d get through this year on my own. I’d keep on doing what I’d been doing since the fall—sleep, study, workout, repeat.

But soon, the long cold days of a gray January turned into a February that looked and felt about the same. I became bitter and cold just like the weather. The lonelier I got, the angrier I got. I couldn’t wait for the season to start so I could blow off some steam on the ball field.

Somehow, I badly needed that outlet.

T
he second week in February, the halls were buzzing with talk of the upcoming Valentine’s Day dance. Mrs. Richards, as she had in October, insisted I go. She’d picked up on the fact that I spent all my time in my room studying or at the gym working out. “Come on, Taylor dear, you survived the Halloween dance, didn’t you?”

Yeah, barely.

It was a week before baseball tryouts. I’d avoided two more attempts by the Statesmen to change my Trig grade, and I was carrying a solid B. Mr. Moesch had kept my secret, and he made sure he personally took my tests from my hand to avoid another “mix-up.” Though I hadn’t heard a word from Sam Barrett since January, I had managed not to go insane.

Just two days before, the Statesmen had upped their game. Dr. Colton called me into his office to tell me that there had been a student complaint about my behavior during practice. He said that a student, whose name was confidential, had told him I was being wild on the mound, intentionally injuring others. I assumed Grossman was the complainer, but he couldn’t prove anything, and besides, it was just one wild pitch. And the whole thing had happened over a month ago. It was obvious the Statesmen were trying everything they could to get rid of me before tryouts.

I denied everything, and Dr. Colton said this would serve as a warning, since none of the coaches could confirm the story. If he had any further complaints, he would have to take further action. Dr. Rich spoke to me about it as well. I figured I would have to find another way to fight back, besides beaning the bastards one at a time. The whole thing was making me angrier by the day, and I now started to feel it was an accomplishment that I had survived against the Statesmen this long.

My survival called for a celebration, but what kind of fool would go back to the scene of the crime? In the recesses of my mind, I had to admit I wanted to go to the Valentine’s Day dance, if only to satisfy my curiosity about what the Statesmen would do—and also to get a chance to stare at Sam.

I couldn’t wait for baseball season to start. It was so much easier than all this complicated social life stuff.

And that’s when it hit me. The Statesmen got me at a dance last time. Maybe this was the perfect opportunity for revenge. That was the best reason of all to show up.

But what can I do?
I tried to think of something that, if they got caught doing it, they could get thrown out of school. They were always trying to get me thrown out—they deserved a taste of their own medicine. Unfortunately, I did not know where to get drugs of any sort, as the Statesmen obviously did, so drugging someone was out of the question.

Besides, I didn’t think I had the guts to pull that off. Still, if one of the Statesmen got caught with alcohol, or even cigarettes, for that matter, I’m sure they would be severely disciplined, and maybe even expelled.
But where can I get something like that?

And then I remembered the last place I had seen a pack of cigarettes—in Gabby’s boyfriend’s hand. Jordan smoked. I picked my cell phone up and dialed Gabby’s number. Gabby
deserved a hand in my payback.

“Gab, Jordan smokes, right?”

“Yeah. I’m trying to get him to quit, but he’s totally bullheaded. Why?”

An hour and a half later, Jordan’s car was pulling up next to the Hazelton entrance gates and I had my contraband. This was going to be fun.

I decided that whichever Statesmen jerk I could get closest to would end up with the pack in his jacket pocket. I was hoping for Tuttle or Ben, but any Statesman would do. Then I would just drop Dr. Rich a subtle hint that I smelled smoke, and things would move quickly from there. I would take them out one at a time, just like they did with Gabby and Kwan.

Out the door I went around eight o’clock, the cigarettes hidden deep inside the little purse I decided to carry. I wore the strap across my chest to free up my hands, and to keep the pack close to me. Dr. and Mrs. Richards were chaperoning, so I helped them carry over some Valentine’s cupcakes. Helping them set up a table would give me something to do, and it’d be a good cover, too, I figured.

I’d decided not to get all dolled up this time. I just wore a pair of skinny jeans with my favorite tall black leather boots and a long, black v-neck sweater that Justin had given me the previous Christmas. I’d retrieved from my top drawer my necklace with the bear sign on it. I figured I needed it for good luck.

The place was more packed than it had been for Halloween. There were a lot more girls milling around, hunting for sons of rich men to sink their claws into. I followed Dr. and Mrs. Richards over to a table with the cupcakes.

“Taylor?” Mrs. Richards said. I turned around to see a very
petite girl with shoulder-length red hair smiling at me. She was carrying a tray of heart-shaped cookies. “I want you to meet my niece, Marielle.”

“Hi,” I said, taking the tray from her.

“Hi,” she said cheerily.

“Marielle goes to school a few towns over in Maplewood.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, and I sincerely meant it. It was nice to have the possibility of someone to talk to tonight.

“Can I help you guys set up?” Marielle asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “We need to get the napkins and tablecloth out of the bag over there.” I pointed behind the table.

“Anything so I don’t look desperate and lonely,” she said.

“I hear you,” I said, smiling. I scanned the room for my targets. I spotted Tuttle and Grossman, but no Ben. I figured I’d wait until the place crowded up more before making any moves.

For the first hour, I hung out with Marielle and Dr. and Mrs. Richards, sitting on folding chairs by their table while eating cupcakes and candy. It wasn’t the ideal evening, but it was shaping up as better than the last dance. Marielle and I talked about school—she was a junior—and at length about boys. When that topic came up, I scanned the room for Sam.

“Isn’t it hard to be around all these good-looking guys all day?” she asked.

Just one.
“Not really,” I said. “Most of them despise me.”

“Really? Why?”

“’Cause they’re snotty spoiled brats, I guess. But don’t worry. They’ll get theirs.”

“What do you mean?” She seemed shocked by my comment.

I didn’t know Marielle well enough to inform her of my
plan for the evening. “Nothing,” I said. “What goes around comes around.”

“Someone’s got anger issues,” Marielle said as she scarfed down another cookie.

I took a swig of my soda. “Yeah, well, if you had any idea what they’ve done to torture me, you’d understand why I’m angry.”

“So why let their immaturity ruin you?”

“Huh?”

“Well, I find that if I’m bothered when people are jerks to me, that means they win and I just feel like crap. Don’t let other people bring you down. It should give you more of a reason to rise up. Revenge may feel good for the moment, but regret lasts forever.” Her comments reminded me of that book,
The Count of Monte Cristo
, that I’d read in the fall. The main character succeeded in the end, but he still seemed sad and jaded.

“And how is it that you’re so wise beyond your years?” I said, now questioning my cigarette-pack plan.

“Having two kidney transplants before you’re sixteen will do that, you know. It’ll give you a lot of theories about life.”

Here I was, complaining about my situation, and this girl obviously had serious health problems. “Wow, I must sound like a whiny bitch, huh?”

“No, you don’t. You’ve been here by yourself all this time. You’re using your anger to help you survive. But there are other ways to make it through tough times.”

Marielle made sense. Why should I let this whole situation bring me down? I’d spent my first few teenage years angry. I shouldn’t do that again. “You have a point. I’ll be right back,” I said, heading toward the hall, where I wrapped the pack of
cigarettes in a wad of tissue paper and buried it in the garbage can. It was a stupid idea anyway, and I could be caught with the cigarettes as easily as a Statesman.

Besides, I wasn’t the revenge type after all. I was stronger than that.

As I returned to the cupcake table, the lights dimmed for a slow dance, and couples paired off in front of us. A guy came over and asked Marielle to dance. She beamed. “Do you mind, Taylor?”

“No way. Knock yourself out.”

She disappeared into the darkness. I folded my arms and leaned back in my chair. I was happy someone had asked her to dance. She deserved it.

“Would
you
like to dance?” a voice asked from behind me.

I turned around, and there, leaning against the wall, was Sam.

“Yeah, right,” I said, laughing at him and turning back around so no one would see us talking.

“I’m serious.” He sat down next to me.

“Aren’t you still protecting me with the silent treatment?”

“Yeah, well,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me out of my seat, “I’m taking the night off.”

“Sam,” I said, letting him drag me toward the dance floor, “are you crazy? People will see.”

“I really don’t care anymore.”

What in the world is happening?
I put my arms around him and we started to move to the music.
Am I hallucinating? Is Sam Barrett actually dancing with me?
“You don’t care anymore, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I just figured that, one, I’ve told them, over and over, that
I refuse to rejoin the club—they can only beat me up so many times before they get tired of it. And, two, it’s Valentine’s Day, and I wanted to dance with you.”

“You wanted to dance with
me
?” I said.

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

He whispered in my ear, “Because I like you, Dresden. Now stop talking and dance.”

And that’s just what we did. I figured I would enjoy the attention while it lasted. Being that close to his face, I was afraid to really look at him, so I focused on his shoulder instead. He lightly held one of my hands and placed his other hand on the middle of my back. He was the perfect gentleman.

I found exhaling difficult, and I didn’t know if I could hold my breath for a whole song, but apparently I could. As we swayed to the music, I glanced at the crowd of people dancing nearby, hoping I could see their reactions. A couple of younger guys, probably sophomores, smiled in our direction.

When the song ended, Sam stepped back and simply said, “Thanks for the dance.” He winked at me and tipped an imaginary hat. “Good luck next week.” And then, in usual Sam form, he was gone.

I watched him cross the gymnasium, where a guy slapped hands with him, as if he were impressed that Sam had had the courage to dance with me. I recognized the guy, Clifton, as the same one who’d asked me if Sam was okay after the fight.
Maybe it’s true. Maybe they’re not all Statesmen. Maybe there are other guys who hate the Statesmen as much as I do.

That night, I dug out Sam’s t-shirt from my bottom dresser drawer and put it on. I was glad I hadn’t thrown it away. I think I smiled.

I was supposed to meet my mother the next day for breakfast, but I wasn’t at all nervous. Something lulled me into a peaceful sleep.

T
he next morning’s plan, as arranged by Dad, was for me to have breakfast with my mom at Dock’s Pancake House. It was a log cabin-like restaurant right in downtown Hazelton.

Mrs. Richards drove me, and all I told her was that I was getting together with my mother. I left out the part that I hadn’t seen her since I was five. I didn’t want Mrs. Richards to ask me if I wanted to talk about it later or pat my hand and offer to make some tea for me back at the house.

I closed the door to Mrs. Richards’s minivan. Then I stood outside the pancake house and looked around, though I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d recognize her.
Does she look the same as in those old pictures?

After a few minutes, I was getting cold and figured maybe she’d already gone inside. I took a deep breath and opened the big wooden door to the restaurant.

The place was packed. All around me, forks clanked against ceramic plates, and the cash register chugged out receipts. Dad said she would find me. He’d sent her some recent pictures, and she’d told him she’d been following my high school baseball career.