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I then inquired about her return to England when school ended. My mother said it was up in the air. Tanya had told her she might want to visit another US city like New York or Miami before going back home, so she hadn’t yet purchased a return ticket. Knowing my mom’s passcode, I managed to access her iPhone, hoping to find an email or text from our exchange student with her British Airways ticket info. To my disappointment, I found nothing. Maybe my mom had deleted it and written down the information elsewhere. Though we’d met Tanya in front of LAX’s international terminal, there was still no proof she’d boarded a flight from London to Los Angeles. And I knew the airline would never divulge passenger information.
When it came to finding out the first name of Tanya’s mother, I asked her directly on the way to school one morning. Slightly put off, she prefaced her response, “Why is it important for you to know that?”
“Oh, I was just curious.”
“What does it matter? She’s dead.” And then she shut me out and returned to her phone. From the corner of my eye, I watched as she took yet another pursed-lips selfie and posted it alongside the hundreds already on Instagram. Her following was approaching five thousand.
After her living with us for close to a month, I still didn’t know much more about Tanya Blackstone. Except that Insta-Queen had a tongue whose length rivaled Miley Cyrus’s. To my frustration, neither Will nor I had been able to gain access to her room. She was always in it whenever we were home. And she guarded her laptop and phone with her life. It was like they were appendages.
Overnight, she had become the most popular girl in my class. Every girl wanted to be her. Every boy wanted to have her. They were in awe of her lithe, long-legged, carefree beauty, loved her style, and fawned over her English accent.
Academically, she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the pack. She struggled with her schoolwork and oddly had no familiarity with classic British authors. When I asked her if she liked George Eliot, she told me he was one of her favorite British singers and broke into the song “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” Yup, Stanford material.
But despite her academic limitations, our quote, unquote “English” exchange student was clever. She had an enviable knack for getting away with things, and whatever assignments she couldn’t handle, she charmed others to help her. She got by. Male teachers were particularly forgiving, and it made me want to puke.
Worst of all, I couldn’t escape her. On top of being in every class I took, except for AP Chemistry and Advanced Sculpture, she decided to try out for the girls’ basketball team. I urged her to try out for soccer, a sport she called football and claimed to play back home, but she was insistent on trying something new. With her height and agility, she was a natural. She shoots, she scores. With my best friend and teammate, Jordan, having gone off to Berkeley, there was an opening for a forward on the team; Tanya landed the spot.
Throughout the month of September, we had practice every day after school in preparation for our first game with our rival Huntley Hall, an equally prestigious private school located not far from Coldwater. Hence, I was tasked with driving her home from practice. She was always chatty, wanting to know things about my parents and especially my boyfriend, Lance. I was close-mouthed, and finally told her to bug off and stop asking me questions about my personal life. It was none of her business. She simply shrugged and muttered, “Whatever,” and occupied herself with her phone until we got back to the house.
With each passing day, I missed my best friend, Jordan, more and more. Her full name was Jordan Jackson, but everyone on the team called her Air Jordan, a nod to the legendary Chicago Bulls player Michael Jordan. My nickname for her was Fly because in addition to having wings on her feet, she was stylish and attractive, as well as fiercely unique. A FaceTime call with her was long overdue. I badly wanted to catch up with her and vent about Tanya, but I knew she was adjusting to college life and didn’t want to burden her with my problems.
Despite all the angst in my life, and the fact that Tanya was in it, like a tick burrowed under my skin, the month of September flew by. On the first Monday of October, basketball season officially kicked off. We had our first game with the Huntley team. No matter how many times I had experienced this day, I was a jittery mess. My stomach twisted with nerves, and my chin had broken out with zits—those painful, below-the-skin cystic ones that lasted forever. And to make things worse, Tanya—the thorn in my side—wanted to ride over with me to their campus for the game.
“Why can’t you hitch a ride with someone else?” I asked, the irritation in my voice obvious, wishing Fly was with me instead. With her recently lightened blonde hair swept up in a high ponytail, Tanya was already wearing our team uniform—maroon-and-white basketball shorts and a matching sleeveless jersey—and I couldn’t help noticing how toned her long tanned legs and arms had become since joining the team. They were eye-turning to begin with; now they were even more spectacular. She belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated.
She stood outside my Jeep, holding the passenger door open. “It’s not like I really want to ride with you, Paige, and put up with your repugnant hairy armpit odor, but it’s more convenient. I can leave all my stuff in your car and go home with you. All my friends on the team—or coming to the game—live in Beverly Hills or Sherman Oaks, and it would be so inconvenient for them to drive me home. And if we lose, that would be really inconsiderate when they probably want to get home as fast as possible and drown their sorrows.”
Though I had the sudden urge to drive off and leave her behind, I gave in, her very presence grating on me. Wearing on my nerves.
“Fine. Get in. Just don’t talk to me. I need to concentrate on my driving. And the game.” With a cheeky grin, she hopped into my Jeep.
“I just know we’re going to win,” she cooed, buckling her seat belt. “Oh, and by the way, what’s that ugly thing on your chin?”
Looking in the rearview mirror as I pulled out of my parking spot, I caught sight of the monster zit that I’d picked at and turned into a fiery red mess. I scrunched up my face and grimaced.
“Did Lancey bite it and suck out the pus?”
“Shut. Up.”
“Aren’t we a narky one?” Without another word, she reached into her backpack and withdrew an open pack of gum. It was her favorite…Trident original. She plucked two sticks from the blue pack, peeled them open, stuck the wads in her mouth, and tossed the wrappers on the floor mat. To make things worse, she began chewing the gum like a cow. It was annoying, but better than having her chew my ears off.
The short drive to Huntley felt like an eternity. The only thing that got me out of my foul mood was a text from Jordan. Break a leg, Merritt! It’s what she always told me before our first game, with a high five. It had always brought both of us good luck. As we pulled into Huntley’s visitor parking lot, I texted her back. Thanks! Miss you! Love you! And added a kissy-face emoji. She signed off with F.L.Y. It stood for Freaking Love You. With a smug smile, I turned to Tanya.
“Break a leg, Blackstone.”
The dumb blonde grinned. “Thanks.”
Except I really meant it.
* * *
The Huntley gymnasium was packed, the bleachers lined with students along with some parents. My parents, as usual, weren’t in attendance. My mom was in an all-day meeting, planning her upcoming gala, and my dad was on a plane, flying home from a client meeting in Dallas. Lance wasn’t there either, unable to make it because he had track practice. He was on the cross-country team and generally ran several miles every day after school in preparation for his upcoming meets.
Despite Lance’s absence, it didn’t stop his friends from coming. I’d never seen such a big boy turnout for one of our games. There could only be one reason: The team now had hotness embodied in long, lean, beautiful player number twelve—Tanya Blackstone. Trust me, none of them was here to watch her bounce a ball; watching her big boobs bounce as she dribbled one was more like it. For someone so skinny, she was incredibly stacked. I wondered if she’d had implants.
Coldwater and Huntley were longtime rivals. Last season the Huntley girls’ team had been mediocre and we’d easily defeated them, but they’d since upped their game. The ball passed between teams, from court to court, the dribbling action so fast it was almost a blur. I was breathless and sweaty. We were now in the last quarter and the score was tied at 45–45. Tanya and I had been the high scorers, her score exceeding mine by three points. I had to say her beginner skills were extraordinary and I couldn’t help noticing how loudly the Coldwater crowd cheered each time she made a basket.
Five make-or-break minutes remained in the game. The ball was in our court. With a jut of my chin, I signaled to the player who had control of it to pass it to me. Though about twenty feet away from the basket, I was confident I could make the long shot. A very focused Tanya, her knees bent and arms outstretched, was breathing down my neck.
