Page 1 of Game On

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Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt for school… This is weird.

I’m used to the pleated skirts and suit coats of Broadwell Academy. I don’t even want to admit how many outfits I changed in and out of over the last several days before I decided on the plain jean shorts and simple heather gray shirt for my first day at Rockport High. Already I feel the nerves setting in.What am I doing? Like really, what the fuck am I doing?Who willingly goes from a private school to a public one? The answer comes easily—at least to me. Many wouldn’t agree, but, like my father used to say, there’s only one of me. Crazy decisions and all, I’ll take it.

My sneakers thud against the hardwoods as I head down for breakfast. I turn the corner at the base of the stairs and walk into the open kitchen. Light spills in from every corner of the room. I’m headed straight for the cereal cupboard when I hear the sniffles near the breakfast nook. I stop. For a moment, I just stand there. Then, I turn slowly seeing exactly what I knew I would. My mother is in her pink bathrobe, hair oily with dark circles under her eyes. Used tissues are in a small pile in front of her. When she peeks up at me, she looks like she’s aged several years all in the span of a few weeks.

I don’t blame her.

“Hey,” she says, her lips pulling tight into a smile. She quickly picks up all the balled-up tissues and stands, storing them in her clenched fists like that’s all she has to do to hide the fact that she’s been crying again.

The truth is, I didn’t expect her to be up. Her appearance at this early hour startles me. A part of me, an ever-growing part I shamefully admit, is mad at her. Why couldn’t she stay in bed like she has been? I don’t need another problem added to my plate this morning. There’s already going to be a ton to get through. I raise my hand awkwardly in a small wave, not like I’m saying ‘Good morning’ to the woman who birthed me at all. “Breakfast,” I tell her artfully, like she would never understand why I’m in the kitchen at this time of the morning.

“I know,” she says. She whisks past me, opening the cupboard that holds the trash before disposing of her evidence and then stands in front of the stovetop looking at me. “Eggs?”

I shrug. The shoulder of my shirt falls down, so I yank it back up. “I was just going to have some cereal. Don’t bother,” I tell her with a smile. I’m hoping she gets the hint and lets me do this in peace.

“I can make you eggs. Or, if you’d rather, French toast? Pancakes?”

She starts listing off every breakfast food imaginable, but can’t a girl just get some cereal if she wants it? “Mom,” I say, interrupting her. I want to tell her making breakfast for me isn’t going to bring Dad back. Deep down, I know she knows that, so I just move forward and open the cupboard to reach in for the Raisin Bran. “I’m all set. Promise. Cereal actually sounds good to me.”

Mom bites her lip as she watches me set the box of cereal down at the table in the breakfast nook and then go back into the kitchen for a bowl, spoon, and milk. “You look so different,” she says. Her voice is that high, tight, phony sound. “I’m not used to you going off to school looking so…casual.”

I smile at her over my shoulder. “No uniforms at Rockport High.” This might be the second greatest thing about switching schools. The first is way more complicated than comfortable clothing.

The bags under her eyes darken at the mention of Rockport High. I turn back around and pour the cereal into my bowl. She pads over to me softly. As soon as I set the milk down after splashing some all over my raisin-dotted cereal, she puts her hand on top of mine. “You don’t have to do this. You know that, right?”

I swallow. I have no idea why she thinks I’m doing this to help us. I’m not. It’s practically the most selfish thing I’ve ever done, but again, no one understands why I’m doing it because they’re not me. “I think I’m going to love it there,” I say truthfully, shoving a spoonful of cereal in my mouth.

The area between her brows pulls together, causing her usual pristine skin to wrinkle. The moment after, it’s smoothed out again like I imagined the whole thing. “I hope so, kiddo.”

After that, I quickly eat my cereal, dump my dishes in the sink, and then stand in front of the huge mirror in the foyer. My bookbag is already hanging from the foyer closet doorknob. Smoothing my hands down my shirt, I take a look at myself and breathe in deep. Even though I’ve tried to convince myself otherwise, I know this won’t be easy. In fact, it’s going to suck. I’m willingly transferring during my junior year of high school. I’m insane. Or, as I prefer, driven.

A thought pops into my head, but before I can fully explore it, I tamp it back down. I’m going to deal with that mess when it comes to it. And it will come to it. Probably in a fiery train wreck of insults and bruised egos.

My mom’s footsteps echo from the kitchen and then she’s turning the corner toward me. “Have a good day at school, sweetie. Is there anything you need me to do for your first day? Drive you? Walk you in?”

With a quick shake of my head, I tell her no. After one last look at myself, I grab my bag and then turn toward the door. “See you around three,” I call out over my shoulder as I leave the thick, overbearing walls of my house. The rooms are getting smaller and smaller, almost collapsing around Mom and me even though we’re the only ones there anymore. When I jump into my car, I stare up at the house I grew up in. I’d always loved this house. When I was younger, it was a sprawling maze of cool rooms and games. As I got older, I realized not everyone had a pool, an indoor theater, and a full-size basketball court. Most of my friends at the private school had the former, but not the latter.

The basketball court was just special for us—Dad and I.

I shake my head, turning away from the home that used to hold love, and drive down the driveway. At the end of the blacktop, I take a right down the twisty road to the valley, making an effort not to look at the big TD initials carved and welded in steel that are drilled into the brick columns that enclose the mouth of our driveway. The only thing I wonder is when Mom’s going to remember they’re there and remove them too.

The drive down to the valley—and Rockport High—isn’t that long. It’s also filled with some of the most amazing views of the coast I’ve ever seen. Actually, of any coast I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been fortunate to have seen a lot. The lower I go into the valley, the more my stomach twists. A name is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t dare let myself think it. Or bring up his face. Or the sound of his voice.

I turn the radio up louder. Coupled with the breeze in my hair from having the top down on my Mustang, it’s almost like I can drown my own thoughts out. It’s peaceful out here, and suddenly, I’m glad I’ll have this drive every day to let the tension ease before school.

Eventually though, the one-story brick structure of Rockport High looms in front of me. The whole facade is lined in windows and easily takes up a whole block before the Teflon-coated, fiberglass inflatable basketball dome at the back rises in the air. Timothy Dale Court.

Ask me how I know that.

I blow out a breath.This is it, I tell myself. The point of no return. I’m sure my mother couldn’t care less if I came right back home and told her to re-enroll me back at Broadwell. Then, she could go on lying to herself that the separation between her and my father hasn’t impacted me one bit. I don’t give in to the fantasy though. I’m stronger than that. I know I am. Instead, I take a right into the student parking lot, slowing to a crawl so I don’t run any of my fellow classmates over.

It takes me a moment to realize it’s going slower than it should because everyone is looking at me. For a moment, my face heats, and I wonder if I’ve forgotten to put a shirt on or something. It is my first day of school with normal clothes after all, but then I realize it’s not me they’re looking at. Not necessarily. It’s my car. They’re all gaping at it. I’m only the last flick of their gaze before they turn away, eyes narrowed.

I swallow, my chest suddenly tight. Out of everything I worried about, I didn’t think about this.

When I see an open parking space, I press on the gas a little harder than I mean to. I just want to be parked and out of this beacon-like car already. There goes my ‘just blend in with everyone else’ goal. I don’t want to be the new girl, or even worse,hisdaughter. That’s coming. It’s unavoidable, but I’d like to prolong it for as long as I can. The only thing is, when I press on the gas a little too hard, the engine revs. I grimace as the Mustang’s motor roars and I take off quicker than I intend. People are outright gawking now. They’ve even stopped on the sidewalks leading to the front doors just to stare at me.

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