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“Date night, then, huh?” he joked.
“Yeah,” I said with a laugh. “It’ll be the only dateyouget!”
“Lucky me, then,” Dad said, draping his arm around my shoulder.
“And lucky me,” I said, rolling my eyes in mock sarcasm, but it was the truth. I was super grateful that Dad was willing to take this tennis journey with me.
––––––––
In my first class onMonday, I was given a message that I had to see Miss Piatti, the guidance counselor. I flew into a panic. I’d handed in my English assignment, okay, it wasn’t A material, but surely it was good enough. But maybe not good enough to retain my tennis scholarship. I had visions of being kicked off the team, or out of school.
Shame and embarrassment hovered over me as I knocked on her door. I’d have to tell Dad that I was no longer on the team, I’d have to transfer to River Valley High, the local high school that didn’t even have a girls tennis team. Our move would have been for nothing.
“Hello, Taylor.” Miss Piatti didn’t look like she was about to deliver stinging news, but I couldn’t drop my guard.
“Hello,” I replied, my face hardened.
“Sit, Taylor, sit,” Miss Piatti directed, as she shuffled papers on her desk. “How’s everything going? Classes, tennis?”
“Good, thanks.” I would show no emotion, be unflappable in the face of doom.
“Now, I hear you’re keen to move into photography class?” She consulted her computer screen. I blinked, wondering if she could read minds. “Is that right?”
“Uh...yeah. Yes. If it’s possible.”
“It is possible,” Miss Piatti said cheerily. “You want to move out of Graphic Design?”
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“Uh, because I’m not sure I’m any good at it. And I thought photography might be more useful...for my tennis?” Truth was, Graphic Design required a lot of time in front of the computer, time I didn’t have.
“Well, I’ve approved that move,” she said, handing me a slip of paper. “Period 3, you’re good to go.”
“Oh, thank you.” The speed at which it happened meant I forgot to ask how it had happened. Then I remembered that Dad had hounded me about it, so obviously he’d reached out to Miss Piatti. I liked that Dad was willing to get involved with everything—tennis, school and the upcoming football game. In the past, he’d worked so much that tennis had basically been Mom and me.
The photography room was in the arts department, a long trek from my Spanish class. I had to hurry, I’d already heard that the teacher, Mr. Norman was quite strict. And I was looking forward to being in the same class as Millie.
In my excitement, I forgot that Max Saunders also took photography.
I presented myself to Mr. Norman’s desk, my slip of paper at the ready. From a quick glance of the room, I could see Millie, but there was no sign of Max. It was a moment of relief.
Contrary to what students had warned me about, (Cullen had explained a rating system for the teachers of 1-10, depending on the level at which you could get away with things, such as talking, texting or eating in class.) Mr. Norman, an older man with white hair, was rated 2, meaning no one risked using—and losing—their phones. To me, he seemed very friendly, welcoming me to the class and telling me to find a seat. Students were seated in groups of four around rectangular tables. Millie’s table was full, so I was forced to take the table at the front where a lone boy sat. Scraping the chair against the floor, I sat opposite him. We exchanged obligatory introductions, and he went back to working on his laptop.
“Actually, Miss Frank,” Mr. Norman called to me just as I’d settled myself in and muted my phone, “could you take the seat next to Weston, please?”
I gathered my things together, a little annoyed, but Mr. Norman was quick to say quietly, “There’s another student coming who—”
The door burst open and Max stood in the doorway. I drew in a sharp inhale at the sight of him in his striped blazer, black pants, crisp white shirt and tie. Goodness knows why. Every male student in Covington Prep was dressed identically, including the boy at my table, yet nothing about him set my pulse racing! With Max holding the door wide open, all heads turned as a student entered using a walking frame. It was a heart stopping moment—seeing a young man pushing one of those things you associated with elderly people.
The classroom went silent momentarily, but then there was a round of applause. Mr. Norman stepped from his desk down to my table, guiding me to the other side as the boy, who I presumed was Phoenix, made his way over.
There were multiple voices all calling for Phoenix, his face fixed with a smile that didn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes. Mr. Norman gestured him over to the spot where I’d been sitting. I kept my eyes on the table top as Phoenix was seated, not comfortable watching him struggle with his walking frame and the chair. When I did look up, it was into the honey brown eyes of Max Saunders.
And for a second, I forgot that Max had rejected me.
But only a second.
