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  “But now,” I said slowly, “those things don’t seem scary at all.”

  “I know.”

  “Why are you making things harder than they already are, Brett? Fighting with Dad only makes it worse.”

  He sighed and stared into the trees bordering our yard. “How can you believe what Dad is doing is right? He’s using us to make himself look good.”

  “Come on. He’s not like that,” I said, but we both knew I was lying.

  “He’s changed.”

  I wanted to tell him I agreed, that Dad had changed and nothing in our house seemed right now that Mom was gone. But I couldn’t because a bigger part of me wanted to go to Beacon. If I said something, it might ruin it.

  I pushed off the wall and swam to the deep end and back, holding my breath to see how far I could go without air.

  “He won’t even listen to us,” Brett said when I surfaced.

  I grabbed the wall near him. “I know.”

  “Each day goes by, and it’s as if he forgets about us more and more. We’re not his family. His team is. He cares more about those guys than he does about us.”

  “That’s not true.” But lately it did seem possible.

  “It is, and he’s screwing us over in the process.”

  I ducked under the water so I didn’t have to decide if Brett was right.

  www.allmytruths.com

  Today’s Truth:

  If you’re not in, you’re out.

  Beacon Is Excellence

  This declaration written in gold letters on a large maroon board greets you from the bottom of the

  winding drive into Beacon’s campus. It’s there before you head up the hill lined with large black lights, before you make it to the ancient iron fence arching high over the entrance of the school, and long before you enter the manicured lawn covered in trees and brick buildings.

  Beacon wants everyone to know they are entering excellence.

  The sign doesn’t state that Beacon is a school, the year it was founded, or show a picture of the mascot. Instead, it issues a simple yet firm declarative: Beacon Is Excellence. The statement seems to leave no room for anything else.

  Beacon produces excellent athletes. The basketball team wins championships year after year, girls in field hockey go on to win college scholarships, and swimmers compete and break records in nationals.

  Beacon produces excellent students. Dozens go to Ivy League schools and become doctors, lawyers, and stuffy managers. They continue their presence on campus by donating large sums of money as alumni.

  Beacon also produces excellent musicians: students who join city youth symphonies, singers who open baseball games with the national anthem, and jazz bands who perform for senators.

  Beacon announces its excellence to all who enter the school and continues to remind its students every day.

  The sign stares you down as you arrive.

  Beacon is excellence, and if you aren’t, then why are you at Beacon?

  Posted By: Your Present Self

  [Monday, August 19, 6:08 AM]

  Chapter 3

  Slipping into Beacon was easy for me.

  The kids at my old school guarded the entrance to their groups, never letting in anyone new. I thought it would be just as hard to break in to Beacon’s world, but I found friendships were flimsy and easily stretched to fit in a new person if her dad was the school’s basketball coach.

  Brett may have hated the team, but there was no way I shared those feelings. They were hot, and I would’ve been lying if I didn’t say I was hoping to see some of the boys as soon as I walked through the main doors. I kept my eyes open but didn’t spot them until PE when I arrived at the competition gym, their primal watering hole.

  Construction paper stars covered in glitter lined the walls outside, each a message of encouragement to an individual player. A banner filled with signatures wished the team good luck in the upcoming season. Framed pictures of past teams holding trophies lined the walls. It was impossible to forget that Beacon was where champions played.

  I pushed open one of the double doors and was welcomed with the smell of sweat, the screeching of shoes against the slick floor of the court, and the unintelligible yells from a group of boys playing basketball. I recognized the players from Dad’s team. I’d met most of them briefly two days before at the faculty and alumni welcome-back picnic. Dad, as the new coach, had been one of the guests of honor, and I learned it was tradition for the basketball team to serve the staff and alumni. However, it seemed as if most of the men on the faculty had taken over the barbequing and the boys hung out in big clumps joking loudly and looking hot, hot, hot.

  Brett refused to go, claiming he’d already made plans to go hiking. When Dad tried to argue, Brett stressed how important it was to see the friends he wouldn’t be spending time with anymore because he was being forced to go to Beacon. Brett disappeared an hour before we were supposed to leave, so Dad, not wanting to be late, settled for just me. Together we’d create the image of at least half a happy family.

  I stood next to Dad for most of the night, and he kept his arm around me, something he hadn’t done in years. I was introduced to the team players: tall, lanky boys who grunted hellos and then turned their attention toward Dad, more interested in impressing him than me. I met their families, the other coaches, and the faculty. Names were thrown at me all night so that by the time people started coming over to say good-bye, it was all a blur.

  Well, most of it was a blur. There was one face and name I kept thinking about.

  Jack Blane.

  I’d met him in the parking lot. I’d run to Dad’s car for a sweatshirt, and his mom was dropping him off.

  “Now remember. Coach Franklin doesn’t know a lot about you.”

  I paused when I heard her mention Dad’s name.

  “You’re a guest at this picnic. That means you take one serving. You may eat me out of house and home, but you don’t do that here.”

  He threw his hands up. “Give me a break. I know how to act. Besides, I ate two peanut butter sandwiches at home.”

  “I’m sure you did. Just make sure Coach doesn’t think you’ve been raised by a pack of wolves.”

  “I promise to be on my best behavior. Cross my heart.” He made the gesture over his chest with his fingers. He headed toward the crowd and then turned back to her.

  “Well, that is if they don’t serve chocolate cake for dessert,” the guy said. “If they do, I can’t make any promises.”

  “Get out of here,” his mom said.

  I laughed out loud. I covered my mouth, but he heard me.

  “Oh, man, I didn’t think anyone was around.”

  “I was grabbing a sweatshirt, but I had to stop when I realized how dangerous you were.”

  “Dangerous?” He ran his fingers through his blond hair, making it all messy and sexy.

  “Your killer appetite.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re right. That has been known to get me in trouble before.”

  A couple of guys slammed car doors nearby.

  He waved at them.

  “I’m Kate,” I said, seizing my chance before it was too late.

  “Jack.” He scuffed the dirt, a cloud of dust floating around his old-school green and gray Nikes.

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you there.” I pointed toward the cookout. “I’m heading over to make sure that if there’s any chocolate cake, it’s good and protected in case you get near it.”

  “Good idea,” he said with a smile that made me hope I’d run into him again.

  Now, two days later, I searched for Jack in the gym and found him under the basketball hoop. He was crouched in defensive position watching another guy to see if he would shoot. I stared at him and willed him to look back at me. No such luck.

  A ball bounced near my feet, and I forced myself to look away from Jack as one of the other guys on the team ran past me. These boys were the only people I knew at Beacon, and technically I didn’t even know them.


  I snuck another look at Jack. He was deeply tanned, no doubt from a summer spent vacationing at some beach only a Beacon family could afford. A white line on the back of his neck divided his hairline from his tan.

  I looked around the gym. All the boys shared the same new haircuts. Keeping up appearances was Dad’s specialty. He wouldn’t stand for scruffy, greasy, or sloppy appearances. Basketball was a three-hundred-sixty-five-day-a-year commitment, and his team needed to look serious.

  I touched my own hair, already tangled from the humidity outside. I wished some of Beacon’s magic would’ve rubbed off on me this morning and my hair would behave, but no such luck.

  Brett was no different, but he opted to keep his blond hair shaggy, no doubt an act of defiance.

  Dad’s demands on his team didn’t rub off on the two of us, but he didn’t seem to notice anyway.

  I took my gaze off Jack when a small, pretty blonde girl walked into the room. Her uniform skirt was rolled up to a level I knew wouldn’t pass the fingertip rule stated in the student handbook, and she wore heels instead of the ballet flats most girls were wearing. Luckily she caught me looking at the team and not her outfit.

  I gestured toward the boys. “Not a bad way to start the day, huh?”

  “I could stare at them for hours,” she said.

  I pretended to look at my watch. “I think I

  already have.”

  “Hey, I won’t judge,” she said.

  She was exactly the type of person I wanted to be friends with. “Really, I was trying to find the gym. I have class there now.”

  “Our gym is this way. This is the competition gym where the team practices. You’d think we’d all use the same gym, but they keep us regular students segregated from the greatness of the basketball team. Well, unless we’re cheering them on and checking them out.” She grinned.

  I couldn’t help but smile back. “Thanks.” I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed her out.

  Her long, blonde hair was caught behind her book bag, and she pulled it out and let it fan across her back, the light above making it shine.

  I sped up to walk alongside her. For someone in heels, she sure moved fast. “I’ve been to this gym before for a game. I assumed it was for regular class too.”

  “Prepare to be shocked.” She led me out of the gym, leaving behind the pack of boys who continued to dribble and make shots from all over the court. Their shouts and cheers echoed after us as we walked out the doors. I thought back to the days when Mom, Brett, and I were surrounded by the sounds of Dad’s basketball games, but I quickly pushed the images out of my mind. Now wasn’t the time to get upset.

  We went down a hallway that curved away from the competition gym. I tried to take it all in. “How the heck does anyone find this place? It would be nice if they put up arrows or a sign.”

  “That would take away from the beauty of the shrine we’ve built to our gods of the basketball court. Beacon doesn’t want to remind the world that there is life beyond basketball here.” She rolled her eyes. “That there are regular students who walk amongst the champions.”

  We arrived at a door labeled Girls, and she pushed it open. “Here’s the locker room, and beyond those doors is the gym. It was built over a hundred years ago when Beacon didn’t allow girls. Now? Voila.” She paused for effect and then flung the door open. “Lucky us, they’ve let us in. We’re privileged enough to get the old gym floors.”

  I did a double take. The gym was old. Wait, not just old. It was ancient, as in Abraham Lincoln could have taken classes here. Wooden planks with small cracks between lined the floor. Some areas were repaired, and in those spots, the wood was different colors. I thought of the glossy, slick floor in the competition gym with Beacon’s logo in the middle. I walked farther in. “This is awful.”

  “Isn’t it? You just have to be careful not to sit on it with bare skin or you might get a splinter.”

  I laughed. “I’m Kate, by the way.”

  “Oh, geez, I never told you who I was. I’m Ali.”

  Groups of noisy girls walked into the gym. We followed them to the bleachers. A few girls waved to Ali as we took our seats.

  “Remember,” Ali whispered. “No bare skin on the bleachers, or you’ll find splinters in places you don’t even want to think about.”

  “Got it.” I made a point of smoothing down my blue plaid skirt to cover as much of my skin as possible.

  Ali did the same.

  A redheaded girl in front of us turned toward me. “Are you Kate Franklin?”

  “Yeah,” I said quickly, knowing where this was heading.

  People turned to stare.

  “Is Coach Franklin your dad?”

  I nodded.

  “I thought so.” She leaned in close. “I’m Michelle. I’d kill to be in your position right now. Do you get to see the team a lot? What do you think of them? Who do you think is the hottest? Does your dad invite them over to your house?” Her inquisition was cut short when a muscular woman walked in and blew a whistle to silence us. She introduced herself as our gym teacher, Miss Gallagher.

  I turned away from Michelle as Miss Gallagher started to discuss the beginning of the school year and the class.

  Clearly upset she’d been interrupted, Michelle tried to catch my attention again with heavy whispers.

  I acted interested in Miss Gallagher’s stimulating discussion of gym shorts versus sweatpants.

  “You didn’t tell me your dad was the coach,” Ali said.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I said, but I knew it was.

  Michelle was going to strain her neck if she kept trying to get me to talk to her, and the other girls started looking at me too.

  Ali whispered, “But the stuff I said about basketball before—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m kind of sick of basketball.”

  “What? You don’t like it?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like it,” I said cautiously. “I’m surrounded by it. It gets old sometimes.”

  “I’m not sure you can go to Beacon and not be a basketball fan.” Ali shook her head.

  For a minute, I thought I’d blown it. Beacon was basketball, and here I was putting it down.

  But then her expression shifted into a smile.

  “I know,” I said. “I’ll have to work on my school spirit. But from the looks of the team, I don’t think that’ll be hard.”

  “I have a feeling you’ll soon enjoy basketball again.”

  “I think you’re right. It does seem important here.”

  “Yeah, just a little bit.”

  I laughed with her.

  Miss Gallagher paused from her oh-so-important speech and shot us a warning glare.

  Ali leaned into me. “Beacon basketball is a whole new world, its own society. You’ll soon learn the team has their own rules and way of living.”

  “Which is why they have swelled heads,” I said. “I think I saw a few when I was in their gym.”

  Ali winked. “Their egos aren’t the only things big about them, if you know what I mean.”

  I covered my mouth to keep my laughter in and tried to listen to Miss Gallagher. It felt good to laugh, as if I hadn’t done that in a long, long time.

  Chapter 4

  I left the gym and headed to lunch with Ali.

  “You don’t mind if I eat with you, do you?” I said as we started through the lunch line. I’d imagined Beacon having fancy food to match their fancy everything else, but it was the same old junk. One cafeteria worker slopped mashed potatoes onto a plate, and another handed out burgers apparently flattened by a steamroller. I reached for a peanut butter and jelly, thinking they couldn’t mess that up, and continued, “I don’t know anyone and—”

  “Of course you can eat with me, but only if you promise to ignore what I said before about the basketball team.”

  “Forgotten,” I said and vowed to make sure it was. I couldn’t believe I’d told her I didn’t like basketball. I
t was the type of thing people would flip out about, me being the coach’s daughter and all.

  What I didn’t tell Ali was the real reason basketball wasn’t my favorite—why I’d stopped watching it, playing it, loving it. She may have accepted that I was sick of it, but I had no idea how she’d react to the truth. What would she say if I told her about the night I fell out of love of with the sport?

  Everything was going great that night as Betsy’s parents drove us home from our basketball game. I was pumped. We’d won by over twenty points. The eighth grade team was on fire, and a win this big had put us all in good spirits. Betsy and I were singing along with the radio, making up our own lyrics, as we arrived at my house.

  Both of our cars were in the driveway. Dad was never home so early during basketball season. Something wasn’t right.

  I walked in and saw Dad, Mom, and Brett at the table. I sat with them and waited for Mom to tell me I stunk and order me to take a shower before dinner.

  Instead, she offered me a weak smile. “Did you win?”

  “We did. I scored twelve points, Betsy scored eight, and the other team kept trying to foul us.”

  Mom leaned in.

  Dad went to the oven to pull out whatever was cooking.

  Brett slowly shredded a napkin.

  Dad placed the serving pan on the blue and purple potholder I’d clumsily weaved in first grade as a Mother’s Day gift.

  “Lasagna?” I said and tried to figure out if I’d forgotten something important. Lasagna wasn’t a meal Mom whipped up casually. She made the noodles and sauce from scratch, the process taking hours. Lasagna was reserved for birthdays, holidays, and when my grandma came to visit. “Why are we having lasagna? Did I miss something?”

  No one answered, so I helped myself to a huge plateful.

  Everyone else sat at the table not eating.

  Mom cleared her throat a few times, Dad rearranged his silverware on the sides of his plate, and my brother built his mountain of napkin scraps.