Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

B ye weeks are a gift. Not for my dad or the guys, necessarily, but for the rest of us? Bye weeks bring a certain peacefulness.

There was no rush to whip up a dance for halftime this week, which means we spent every practice inside and on the mat. We tied for second at our first comp, but ties won’t get me tryouts with some of the schools I’m looking at.

I need to show up with golds. With hardware. On top of stunts.

Today, we tumbled for an hour. Straight. My brain is scrambled and I’m not sure where north is, let alone the floor versus the ceiling, but we tumbled. And for an hour, I thought of nothing but my hands hitting right and my feet landing square.

“Great work this week, everyone,” Coach says, clapping to draw us in for her after-practice meeting.

I snag my long-sleeved T-shirt from the corner and jog to join the group as I slip it on. I’m sweaty now, but five minutes of standing still in this practice gym will turn me into ice.

“Now, I know it’s an off week for us, but that doesn’t mean we’re off completely. As you know, our biggest fundraiser of the year is the Home Town Fest and parade, and this year we’re looking at twice as many floats, twice as many marching bands?—”

“So, two? Instead of one, we’ll have two, right?” Tasha’s smart-ass contribution earns her a fast glare from our coach.

“Yes, Tasha. Our band and the new high school’s band.” Coach seems purposeful in not saying their name—Vista.

“Got it,” my friend says, sticking with sarcasm all the way. I elbow her to stop, but she sticks her tongue out at me and laughs.

“Anyway, my point is we will all be fighting for shared donations. People are going to have twice as many places to drop cash, so, Peyton . . .” Her gaze lands on me. I straighten my spine and nod, not sure where this is going.

“Peyt, I know it’s your senior year, and you were maybe counting on being the parade queen, but we really can’t afford to lose you at our booth. You drive the donations every year, and if we want to make it to Florida, we need those dollars.”

I have no idea what my face looks like. I know how it feels. It feels as if a pot of boiling water was just thrown in my face and lemons were squirted in my eyes. I know the idea of being a parade queen is really not important. Hell, our parade lasts a mile and it travels down a two-lane road in front of city hall. But as stupid as the role is, I was really looking forward to it. My mom never got to do it. She was always on the sidelines. And I kind of wanted to sit on that seat and float down the road atop our football team’s float in that throne.

“Right,” I utter, my voice cracking a little.

Damn it .

I cough, embarrassed, and swallow down my disappointment. “So, we’re selling the ribbons again, right? For homecoming the next week?” I know we are. There are boxes of them in my family’s dining room. My parents paid for them.

I wish the school would just let my dad write a check to cover our cost for Florida, but apparently, everything needs to be equal across all clubs. He started a shit storm when he funded the stadium construction, and there were lawsuits that set a state precedent.

“Yes, that’s right,” Coach says, her expression puzzling a bit, probably because I seem so confused about things I clearly know.

Her attention drifts to my right.

“Lexi, as soon as you’re done on the float, you’ll need to join us at the booth?—”

“I’m sorry, but we’re still putting someone on the float?” I hear my voice, but I swear this isn’t me. Why am I questioning this? I know what’s happening. Lexi is riding in my place. And this isn’t about my business skills. It’s about not wanting drama at the parade because I dare to like a boy in a different jersey.

Coach’s tongue is caught between her teeth, and I glance at my friend, whose eyes are sloped and heavy with stress. Lexi didn’t ask for this, I’m guessing.

“You know what, it’s fine. Yes, Lexi, join us when you’re done,” I say, and my friend’s eyes snap to mine.

“No,” she whispers, but I nod yes.

“Eyes on the prize, right?” Fuck, I hate this feeling of wanting to cry.

“Right. Great! Okay, break us down, Peyton,” Coach says, walking away as we huddle up.

I manage to dig up enough spirit to lead us through a short cheer. Everyone lingers for a few seconds after, and I feel their eyes on me so I wave them off and smile.

“Guys, really. It’s fine,” I say.

“Daddy can’t get you everything, I guess,” Stephanie says behind my back.

And suddenly, it’s not fine.

It would have been. I would have managed. But now? Now, I’m going to make things a lot worse.

I spin around and step into her space, bumping chests. She stumbles back, clearly not expecting me to react. Of course she wasn’t. I’m always so . . . together.

“What is your deal?” My eyes bore into hers.

“I don’t have one,” she says, but she doesn’t apologize. And today? I want an apology.

“No, I think you do.”

“Is there a problem here?” Coach hollers from her office doorway,

“I don’t know. Ask Stephanie,” I snap.

The young cheerleader I fought to keep shakes her head and rolls her eyes to the side, and my resolve disappears. My hand flies up before my brain can compute what it’s doing, and I swear I feel the sting on my palm before I realize I’ve slapped my teammate across the face.

“Peyton Johnson, get your ass in here now!” Coach’s voice echoes throughout the empty gym, and my slap seems to have stunned everyone else silent. It’s eerily quiet, the only sound the gasp Stephanie makes as she holds her face, her eyes welled up with tears.

Regret fills my chest, and I take a deep breath, my lips parting as I utter, “I’m—” But I stop short. Because I’m not sorry. I hate that I caused a shitstorm for our coach. I hate that I probably made a nightmare for my dad to deal with. But that slap? I’m glad I did it.

I don’t know what that says about me. Maybe all of those stories my mom told me about being bullied when she was in high school have finally had their just dues through this act. I’m taking out all bullies for the both of us. Okay, well . . . one bully.

My eyes meet Lexi’s, then Tasha’s, and my friends both look shocked. Funny, a part of me sort of expects Tasha to high five me, but she looks pretty freaked out.

Oh God! I’ve freaked out.

I pivot and march straight into Coach Nelson’s office, where she slams the door shut behind me. I brace myself.

“What the fuck, Peyton?”

“I know, I know,” I say, covering my face in my hands. I fall into a chair, tears sliding down my hot cheeks.

I hear her sigh so I pull my hands away to find her sitting on the edge of her desk, her arms crossed over her chest. Her head leans to one side, and she doesn’t look mad. She’s definitely not happy, though.

“I just couldn’t take it. Sometimes, it’s hard. Being me is hard,” I admit.

She goes to speak but snaps her mouth shut and instead exhales. She reaches to her side and grabs a tissue for me. I take it and dry my face as best I can, then wad the tissue into a tight ball with my hands in my lap, staring at it.

“Everyone assumes I get to be on the float because my dad is Reed Johnson. I’m the captain because my dad is Reed Johnson. I won homecoming princess last year because . . .” I look up and meet her gaze, shrugging as I shake my head.

“So what?” she says.

A breathy laugh leaves my lips.

“I know sometimes that’s true. My dad’s influence opens doors. I know I’m privileged, and I appreciate it, even when I’m embarrassed by it. But sometimes . . . sometimes I really think I earn shit on my own, you know? Sorry for the S word.”

She chuckles and moves to take the seat next to me.

“Tell me the truth,” I say, looking her directly in the eyes. “Did Principal Erikson ask you to pull me from the float?”

She breathes in and leans back.

“I thought so?—”

“Peyton, your dad actually asked us to. He was worried about you taking the heat of the rivalry, and?—”

I stand up, my body struck with a new sensation. Is this poison? I think I feel poisoned. I step around her desk, the sudden urge to pace taking over my legs.

“Peyton, he was coming from a good place. And really, it’s just a float. I agree that it’s an unnecessary risk to you. I can’t afford to lose you because some idiot decides to do something stupid.”

I suck in my top lip and hold in the new round of betrayal boiling inside me. I nod, but all I want to do is get out of here. To run away.

“I’ll apologize to Stephanie. And I’ll sit out next week or take detention. Whatever it is?—”

“Peyton, I have to suspend you,” she says through a sigh.

I nod, the tears threatening to come again.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

I nod and suck my lip in tighter.

“I don’t want to. And I’m sure when I interview the girls and Jordan, Stephanie’s role in this will be clear.”

“Don’t punish her,” I say.

She sighs again.

“I have to,” she says.

I nod again.

I’m still not sorry for what I did. But I don’t want it exploding like this, turning into such a scar. And if I’m honest with myself, I don’t want Stephanie to have another reason to hate me so much. I’m not sure what that says about my self-worth.

“Can I go home?”

Her expression has softened a lot, and I almost think when I leave her alone, she might cry on my behalf. And I hate that. I hate being a burden.

“Go on,” she says. “I’ll talk to your dad after his practice.”

“Okay,” I say, currently not wanting to talk to my dad ever again. That will pass. It always does. But how could he be so short-sighted? Good place or not, I should have been a part of this decision.

I gather my gym bag. The gym is empty, though I’m sure my teammates are all sitting in the locker room talking about whatever the fuck just happened. I can’t go in there. Instead, I exit through the main door and leave my change of clothes in my locker for, well, whenever I’m allowed back in there.

I make it to the Jeep without catching anyone’s attention. Practice is still going strong on the field and my teammates are just starting to exit the locker room. I check my phone, seeing a text from Lexi, asking if I’m okay, and write her back.

ME: I’ll be fine. I’m really happy that you get to be queen.

I don’t want my friend suffering with guilt she doesn’t deserve, but that text is a lie. I’m not fine. And I’m not happy about it. I probably should be. A better person would be. But I wanted the moment. And now, it’s gone.

I peel out of the parking lot, sure my dad heard the squeal of the familiar tires. I hope it sinks in and simmers for a while until practice is done and he talks with my coach. And maybe he’ll head home and get some better advice from Mom.

I don’t go home. I simply can’t face it. More than anything, I need someone who is all in on me. I pull up Wyatt’s driveway and kill the engine, shutting my phone off to avoid the texts coming in asking about my meltdown. I hug my knees to my chest and stare in the rearview mirror for the next hour until his headlights light up the inside of the Jeep.

I get out as he pulls into his driveway, and when my gaze finally hits his, I cry for the third fucking time today. And these tears? They aren’t stopping for a while.

Wyatt rushes to me and scoops me up in his arms, carrying me through his garage, which he closes behind us, and down a dark hallway to what I presume is his room. He holds me in his lap even as he sits on his bed, and when my tear-stained strands of hair stick to my face, he pulls them away.

He doesn’t say a word for an hour, and when he finally does, it’s to ask me if I want to stay. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now than in his strong, supportive arms. I turn my face and murmur into his neck.

“Yes.”