I’ve seen this movie before. I know what he’s going to say. I know it, but I still don’t believe it.
I’m the best in my grade.
I’m the star athlete.
I’m the anointed queen of next year’s junior class.
But none of that matters right now.
All that matters is that I go to a private school, broke its private rules, and now I’m about to be privately kicked out on my ass.
“Miss Rodinsky, though I do believe what happened tonight to be out of line with the exemplary character you’ve demonstrated over the past two years at Windsor Prep,” he says, pausing, and my heart drops fifty feet before he begins speaking again, “that does not change the zero tolerance policy for violence to which we adhere.”
Zero tolerance. Words I haven’t had directed toward me in my entire rule-abiding life.
Principal Meyer pauses again, and his weary eyes are on my face, willing me to return in kind. He’s not going to move on with my fate without looking me in the eye. I wish I were cowardly enough to look down forever so it won’t happen, but instead, my eyes flash up to meet his.
“In accordance with our policy, I’m sorry to say that you are suspended for the rest of the school year.”
I blink at him.
Suspended. Not expelled. Just out. For the rest of the school year—only three days, for the remainder of finals.
I’m not sure if that suspension will keep me from the state championship tomorrow night, but still, my hopeful heart rises back up to its rightful place and my gut reaction is to smile in relief. But he draws in a deep breath and I realize he’s not done. I wait for it, nails digging hard into my clenched palms, even though I have no idea what else there could be to say. He’s already said the worst thing.
Or so I think.
“Suspension aside, there is also the matter of your scholarship—”
My heart drops all the way through the bathroom tile to freaking China. I think I’m literally shriveling up to die as my mind races through what this means.
I am at Windsor Prep on scholarship—one deemed “academic,” but everyone knows it should be described as “athletic,” if only that weren’t technically illegal.
There’s no way in hell my parents could afford the $15,000 yearly tuition without it. My dad’s a detective and my mom had to quit her job last year when her cancer came back. We even put our house on the market with plans to move in with Danielle and Heather because we can’t pay for both our mortgage and Mom’s mastectomy that’s happening next week to save her from her own boobs, even with insurance.
I swallow.
I haven’t so much as blinked at my scholarship documents since I signed them in eighth grade, continuing the very short tradition Danielle started of Rodinsky women leaving public school behind for Windsor Prep.
I have no idea what it says other than that my parents don’t have to pay a dime for me to walk the expensively adorned halls I all but own.
“Under the terms of your scholarship, suspension voids the contract.”
Stars float in front of my eyes. Principal Meyer’s pruney face hovers, framed by their light, floating in the abyss. My educational abyss, apparently.
Owned. The halls I all but owned.
“This means if you would like to return to Windsor Prep next year, you will have to do so as a nonscholarship student.”
3
SOMEHOW I FIGURED THAT IF I WERE TO HIT THE BOTTOM of my own personal barrel at sixteen, it would’ve been in the dead of a Kansas winter. Snow blowing, skies as gray as my mood, maybe a patch of black ice at the ready to land me on my ass physically as well as metaphorically.
Instead, it’s 98 degrees outside in August and approximately 410 degrees in my stomach as it stutters and flips under the withering stare of Coach Kitt.
We’re in her office at Northland—my new school.
Aka the place housing my now-ex-boyfriend (Jake, who broke up with me a hot minute after I punched his ex) and about fifteen hundred kids I don’t know because I grew up across town before we moved in with my sister. My time in public school—elementary or middle—wasn’t with a single person at Northland.
All this, plus the woman holding my softball dreams in the palm of her manicured hand, because of course my parents couldn’t pay for me to stay at Windsor Prep.
In fact, even if they could have, they wouldn’t have, because they were so pissed at me for getting in a fight. In front of everybody. Over something that they think had to have been stupid mean-girl stuff.
I still haven’t told anyone what Stacey said, and I probably never will. The point is that I lost control. Even though I was in the right, how I handled it was so, so wrong.
And now, because I’m the luckiest girl in the world, my sister’s house sits just inside the boundary for Northland. Two blocks over and I’d be enrolling as a junior at Central. They have a horrible softball team there, but at least I’d get to be a star. Here, I may not even get to play.
Not if Coach Kitt’s face is any indication.
She actually hasn’t said anything to me yet, and it’s been five minutes since I walked into her office this afternoon—with less than a week to go before my first day of school. And so I glance at the personal photos over her toned shoulder—snapshots that include a husband and what looks to be a boy in a Northland letter jacket.
When I can’t take the silence anymore, I start to talk again, even though I’ve already said varying versions of: I’m sorry. I apologize. I want to be on your team this year. I can add value. I can be a good teammate. I promise I won’t send another Tiger to see a plastic surgeon.
What I don’t say and won’t say: I need to be on your team to make sure I get a college scholarship.
I clear my throat. “Coach, if you need a reference, I’d be happy to put you in touch with my club coach, or Chad with the Junior Olympic te—”
Coach Kitt holds up a hand. “Olive, I believe you’re not only genuine in your remorse but that you’re a genuinely talented player. My team would benefit from having you.”
I take what feels like my first breath since I stepped into her office.
Junior year is crucial for a would-be college softball player. Senior year is a wash—all the scholarships have already been awarded and accepted before seniors even step on the field. Meaning that even with the attention I’ve already gotten, I can’t fade away or my future will, too. And just like a Windsor Prep education, college isn’t possible without a scholarship.
“Now, though you have impressive talents and are possibly the best third baseman I’ve personally seen play in Kansas City—”
“Thank you.”
She doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that I spoke. “—a successful team is made up of more than just talented players. A successful team is a careful balance of talent, drive, personality, and unity.”
I nod because I know all of this. If a team doesn’t mesh well, it can suffer, no matter how good the players are.
“And, honestly, at this juncture, my opinion is that you’re not a good fit for my team.”
“I—”
“That opinion may change by tryouts in February. But that’s not a guarantee. I have to do what’s best for my team. We were third place at state last season.” This is a fact I know well, because we placed second, losing in the title game, with my suspended ass riding the bench.