Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) (3 page)

It’s not so perfect because, well, I get nervous around the elderly.

It goes back to eighth grade when my school choir visited a Chattanooga nursing home. We were singing Christmas carols to a large group of residents when this old man stood up from the audience and made a beeline for me. He grabbed my elbow, then demanded we play gin rummy.

Since then, I steer clear of old men, which is difficult when your father wants to keep his senate seat. He’s always making me attend events, like the local bingo night. I wouldn’t mind if I actually got to play for real. But a senator’s daughter should be seen, not heard, and that’s impossible when yelling “Bingo!” I’ve won a lot of games without anyone knowing.

I pass a booth of old guys who are complaining about the Titans offensive line, walk up to the to-go counter, ring the bell, and that’s when it happens.

“Tease.”

I’d recognize that slow, deep voice anywhere. Over the years, he stopped calling me Tee like everyone else and had nicknamed me
Tease
. Why on earth is he here? Isn’t he in college at Cornell? Is it his fall break? Oh God, talk about the last person I want to see!

“Tee?”

I slowly turn toward him.

Ezra Carmichael.

The guy who filled my thoughts for years and years.

The first time I met him, I was ten. For elementary school, I went to a private girls’ school, so I hadn’t met many of my brother’s friends. It was Oliver’s twelfth birthday party, and he had invited a ton of boys over to the house for video games, swimming, and a game of football. Mom said they had to play two-hand touch, but as soon as she went to the back patio to drink mint juleps with the other moms, Ezra announced to the boys that they were playing tackle.

“No wimps!” he said, and of course, none of the boys tried to bow out. You had to play tackle or you’d be considered a pansy forever.

With hands on my hips, I stood on the porch in my little red dress and announced, “I want to play!”

“No way!” Oliver said.

“Let me on your team or I’m telling Mom you’re playing tackle and you’ll be in trouble!”

Ezra scowled. “Just let her play, Oll. She can be on my team.”

The other team kicked off. I sprinted forward and somehow managed to catch the ball. “I caught it!” I yelled, and Ezra waved his arms, screaming, “Run!”

I took off for the end zone, my red skirt flapping in the wind. I was nearly there—and then this whale of a kid tackled me into the ground. A rock gashed my forehead.

I felt blood trickling down my face as Ezra slid to a stop in front of me. He pulled off his sweaty T-shirt and held it to my forehead, stopping the flow of blood. It hurt like the devil, but I couldn’t cry in front of these boys, especially Ezra, who had stood up for me and argued to let me play. So I bit down on my lip.

He crouched over me that day. “Tee? You okay?”

“Did I score?”

Ezra burst out laughing, and that’s when I knew I wanted to marry him.

When we were in high school together, I spent a lot of time secretly doodling
Ezra + Tee
and
Tee + Ezra
in the margins of my notebook, then scribbling over it so no one would see. I thought our names sounded perfect together, looked perfect together, and thus we would be perfect together. But he didn’t think so. Or at least I don’t think he did. I base this assumption on the fact that even though he flirted with me, he never made a move, and I chickened out the few times I might have had a chance to.

After what happened on my sixteenth birthday, we stopped hanging out. So of course, he’d show up again when my entire life is falling apart because
karma
.

His deep voice calls out again. “Tee.”

I open my eyes and face Ezra Carmichael.

Ezra is at the sugar station, pouring half-and-half into a steaming cup of coffee. The sight of him turns my knees to JELL-O. Dark, cropped hair. Serious green eyes that glance away from mine to make sure his coffee isn’t overflowing. The way he licks his lower lip when he’s concentrating. I’ve rarely seen Ezra out of a white button-down Oxford shirt, khakis, and blue plaid tie, which is the dress code for guys at St. Andrew’s. Now he’s wearing holey jeans spotted with paint and a bright-white T-shirt that is magnified by his warm tan. He’s carrying a construction helmet under his muscled arm.

“What are you wearing?” I blurt.

His cheeks flush at my outburst. “What are
you
wearing? Where’s your uniform?”

I look down at my jeans and cardigan. It’s been weird trying to figure out what to wear—I’ve never had to pick out school clothes before. I own one pair of jeans, because when I’m not at school or soccer practice, I wear dresses and skirts to parties and political events.

“I don’t need the uniform anymore,” I finally reply.

“But you’re a senior.”

“I am, but I’m going to Hundred Oaks now…”

His eyes go wide. “Why?”

“You don’t know?”

“Should I?”

“I figured everybody knew. I bet the guys on the International Space Station even know.” Ezra’s face is blank. “It was all over Facebook,” I tell him.

“I didn’t see anything, I guess,” he says quietly. This is not a surprise to me. He doesn’t have a Tumblr or Twitter account. He never posts anything on Facebook. At least not in the past several months.
Not that I noticed or anything.
I’m no stalker. Well, not
all
the time.

It’s weird that he’s never online. My brother’s phone is practically fused to his fingers.

“Are you home for fall break already?” I ask.

He rubs the back of his neck, meeting my eyes for a long moment, and just as I’m asking why he’s holding a construction hat—“Isn’t it a little early for Halloween?”—an older man dressed in a T-shirt and dirty jeans comes into the diner and waves at him.

“Ezra, man, let’s go!”

“Take care, Tease,” he says, then hurries out the door and jumps into a truck with a construction logo on the side. As they drive away, he stares at me through the window.

Okay. So that was weird.

• • •

I definitely went through my first day of school in a haze.

I don’t remember seeing any of these people yesterday. Which is odd because my calc teacher has the most Biblical beard I’ve ever seen. Seriously, this guy could’ve given Moses a run for his money. How did I miss
that
?

After first period, I go to the school office to find out who the soccer coach is, and the receptionist directs me to the athletics hallway where I find the office that says “Coach Walker—Soccer.”

I knock on the door.

A man opens it, and I sigh, relieved that he doesn’t have a Biblical beard. He’s a normal guy, probably in his early thirties. He is chewing gum and wearing the typical coach’s uniform: khakis, a ball cap, an unflattering polo shirt the color of corn.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Hi, I’m Taylor. I was hoping to talk to you about the soccer team.”

He smacks his chewing gum. “For the school newspaper or yearbook or something?”

“No, I play. I know tryouts probably already took pla—”

“We’ll take you.”

“What?” I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Don’t you need to know if I’m any good?”

He shrugs. “We’ve only got twelve girls this year. We could use the help.”

There were only about a hundred girls total at my old school, but we still held tryouts every year. We couldn’t risk having a bad player, or we’d lose. They only have one sub? St. Andrew’s always had at least three.

“So you play?” he asks.

My voice cracks when I admit, “I used to play for St. Andrew’s.”

His eyes perk up. “Oh, so you’re the new transfer student the principal mentioned? The one who was kicked out—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sheesh. Fine. Our first game is Saturday. We practice every day after school from three to four o’clock, except for on game days and Fridays. Can you make it today?”

I nod, hardly believing that practice is only an hour long. That’s not enough time to run a few miles, do drills,
and
scrimmage.

“I’ll be there. I can’t wait.”

“Good,” the coach says with a smile.

I find myself smiling back.

• • •

Technically, with the amount of drugs St. Andrew’s found in my possession, I could’ve been required to finish high school in juvie.

Last Monday, my parents took me to juvenile court to face the music. While my offense was not severe enough for cops to arrest me and send me to detention, I was still required to appear in the judge’s private office to face charges.

“Taylor Lukens, come forward,” the judge in dark robes said. It was like approaching Professor Dumbledore for breaking school rules at Hogwarts. Honestly, that would have seemed more normal than going before a judge for possession of drugs.

Mom and Dad stood to my right, while Dad’s lawyer stood to our left. I felt so flushed with shame, I could barely lift my head to face the judge. Mom gently held my elbow.

“Want to tell me what happened?” the judge asked.

Dad’s lawyer gave me a pointed stare. He said if I told the truth, the judge would be more lenient. But I couldn’t tell the
truth
truth, or Ben’s future would be over along with mine. On top of that, Dad would be even more pissed that I attempted to use his position to bail out a friend.

I could imagine his reaction:
“You lied for your boyfriend and expected me to clean it up? And when the going got rough, you snitched on him to save yoursel
f
? That is the opposite of modeling integrity
.
”

So I told the same “truth” I had told Mom, Dad, and their lawyer:

“The pills were mine, Your Honor.”

“Why did you have so many? Were you selling them?”

“No, Your Honor. I had them to help me study.”

They believed my lie. Before I went to court, I had to take a drug test. Sure enough, they found Adderall in my system, and it had never been prescribed to me. On occasion, I took it to stay awake to study. So did my friends. Ben knew someone on campus who sold Adderall and would buy pills for me when I asked. There were about thirty pills and a tiny bit of weed in the backpack, but our lawyer argued I had no intention of selling.

I had no priors and had never been in trouble before, so the judge said I could attend public school, but I have to meet with the school counselor on a daily basis, which I start today.

During my free period, I head to the counseling office. I plan to use the time to my advantage. I’m hopeful the counselor can help me figure out the right approach for my college essay.

“I’m Taylor Lukens,” I tell the receptionist, and she quickly ushers me into Miss Brady’s office. The counselor is an attractive woman in her twenties, wearing a pearl necklace and earrings, and she seems to have an affinity for cat artwork and inspirational posters. I take a seat in a lime-green armchair that must be from the seventies and stare at a poster of a snowcapped mountain that says
Inspire
.

“So, tell me about yourself.”

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. I should go buy another pair after soccer practice this afternoon. That would give me something to do so I don’t have to go home and be lonely. I love the idea of having plans—even if they are with myself.

“Taylor?”

“Yeah?”

“I asked you to tell me about yourself.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’m a senior. I have a 4.2 GPA. I’m sure you already have my transcript and test scores.”

She glances down at the opened folder in front of her. “That’s wonderful. But what about you? What do you like?”

I squeeze my knees. “I like soccer…and dogs.”

She smiles, even though I’m cringing at how immature I sound.

“Do you have a dog?” she asks.

“I want one, but my mom said no. The house dog at my old school, Oscar, spent more time with me than anybody else.”

“You must miss him.”

I clear my throat and stare at my lap. Then I nod.

Then silence.

“I hate to put you on the spot, Taylor, but in order for you to avoid court-mandated rehab and for us to continue our sessions, I have to ask if you’ve been using Adderall or any other substance.”

I stare straight at her and speak with a strong, steady voice. “No, I have not.”

“Do you have any Adderall in your possession?”

“I do not.” I never had more than three or four pills at a time. I still don’t know why Ben had
thirty
pills. Part of me doesn’t want to know why…

The counselor clicks her pen. “Why were you taking it?”

I decide to be upfront. There’s no need to lie more than I already am. “To stay awake and study.”

“You must feel a lot of pressure.”

With a father who grew up middle class and went on to become a United States senator, doing great things is expected in my family. My sister was president of the Tennessee chapter of the National Honor Society. His freshman year of college, Oliver wrote an opinion column for the university paper, the
Daily Princetonian
. Because success comes so naturally to them, sometimes I think I put more pressure on myself than anybody else does.

“I want to go to a good college like my brother and sister,” I finally reply.

She clicks her pen on. “Where are you planning to apply?”

“I had been planning on applying early decision to Yale in November…” My cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Everything we talk about is confidential, right?”

The counselor twirls her pen between her fingers. “I have to report to the judge who handled your case, but otherwise, this is just between us. I won’t share anything you say with other students or teachers.”

“Okay…” I take a deep breath. “I’ve been working toward Yale for years… After what happened, will they still take me? I’m scared.”

She jots down a note on the pad in front of her. “There are always options. We can work together to find the one that’s best for you.”

Is she trying to manage my expectations? Does she think Yale is off the table? The judge assured me my record would be sealed.

“I’m not giving up,” I tell her.

She nods, continuing to write. “Do you know what you want to study?”

“I hope to major in business with a minor in politics.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Like your father?”

It’s not a surprise she’s bringing him up. He’s been a senator for eighteen years. That’s longer than I’ve been alive. But I’m not some clone of his like Miss Brady probably thinks. I have my own thoughts and ideas. A more liberal point of view.

For a time, I considered majoring in art history because I love going to museums and learning about the past. But Dad always says that in this economy, I need a solid major, something that could lead to many different successful careers. This was coming from the man who some have touted as a future Secretary of the United States Treasury or even the next governor.

I get what he’s saying. As much as I love museums, a business major would have many practical applications. Such as working at Lukens, Powell, and Associates, my family’s firm. My grandfather built the firm from nothing, and Dad turned it from a solid business into a multimillion-dollar operation. Grandpa and Nana are in their seventies and have retired to Naples, Florida, but Grandpa keeps a close watch on the business.

Dad has always said Oliver, Jenna, and I can apply for jobs there after college, to keep the firm in the family, which sounds very
Godfather
-esque.

Wait—after what happened, would Dad and Grandpa still want me to work there? I inhale sharply and end up gasping.

“Taylor? Did you hear me? Are you okay?”

“Hmm?”

She looks concerned. “I was wondering how you deal with stress and pressure. What do you like to do in your free time?”

“I study. Work on college essays. At my school, I ate dinner and hung out with my friends, played with Oscar. I spent time with my boyfriend…” I let my voice trail off. Will the sting of betrayal ever stop?

Miss Brady’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Have you made any friends here at Hundred Oaks yet?”

“No.”

“Are you going to try?”

“I’m sure I’ll meet the girls on the soccer team.” Making friends is not really my priority right now. I need to get my future back on track first. If I can’t get into college, I don’t know what I’ll do.

And now for the mother of all questions. She stares me down and asks, “How do you feel?”

Not so good.
I would feel guilty saying that though, because my life is not bad whatsoever. Not when you compare it to people living in poverty or being persecuted for their religion.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

Again.

• • •

At lunch, I sit down beside a window in the cafeteria and unpack the boring lunch Marina packed for me. Mom obviously chose it—a plain chicken breast, quinoa, and a kale salad. I dig into my homework as I eat.
If I want to spend time with my friends tonight, I need to get my homework done during school hours.
Then I remember where I am. My friends aren’t here; I have no plans for tonight.

I set down my pen and fork and stare out the window. I don’t want to keep wallowing in my own misery—that’s not who I am.

I decide to group-text Steph and Madison:
Saw Ezra today!!!

Mads:
The Asshole!

Steph:
Lick him!

Ugh. Steph always thought I should’ve pushed harder to find out why Ezra skipped my sixteenth birthday party after he told me to save my first dance for him, but I was too embarrassed and fed up. Previously, two other guys had asked me out, but I had said no, just in case Ezra decided to stop flirting and make an actual move. After he missed my party, I wasn’t going to waste another second on him. Madison agreed with me and started calling him The Asshole. Steph, however, said she
knew
Ezra was in love with me, but he wasn’t pursuing me because of his friendship with my brother.