“It does. Haven’t you been listening? I spoke to the Provost’s office. They will allow you to add these two classes in addition to the ones you already have, but you need to go today. What time will you go today?” Her voice is sharp, losing the genteel quality she likes to put on to pretend that she’s a nicer person than she is. Truth is, my mother is a shark, but she has to be to live with my dad. Maybe she was soft at one time, and his constant cheating and absences wore it all away until she was just sharp points that stabbed at you until you bled. It’s a little amazing how far her points extend. How they still hurt even though we are miles apart.
My temples begin to throb. I really, really should have accepted that breakfast invitation from Knox Masters. “Western provides all the athletes individualized tutors. They’ll do a better job than me. Are you certain that I need to take these classes?”
It’s not a question. I know I have to take them. Jack is great at numbers and sucks at reading and writing. I suspect he suffers from a mild form of dyslexia, or maybe that’s how his mind works. I’ve been helping Jack out for a long time. That’s why I went to junior college with him when he didn’t get any D1 offers that made sense to my dad. That’s why I’m here at Western, even though I’d have liked to go somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“Do you need to ask that? Aren’t we in this together? Do you want your brother to fail? Aren’t you already responsible for the fact he wasted two years at that awful two year school out West? He only has two years of eligibility left. What if he doesn’t start this year?”
The list of horribles goes on. I tune her out and pull up the course catalog. The descriptions do sound reading/writing intensive. I bet he’ll have to write papers. He can memorize facts and do math problems in his head, but analysis of facts, reasoned conclusions that can’t be expressed in digits, are damn hard for him.
Then she pulls out the big guns.
“Need I remind you that your father and I write the checks for your tuition, or did you get a scholarship that we don’t know about?”
Masters asked me if I loved football, and the real answer is sometimes. Because while I can’t deny the glory of it, the game holds me hostage—or will until Jack graduates.
Frustration and hurt crowd out all the good feelings of this morning. When I ran the campus this morning, I thought about how it would be a new start for me. I found what appears to be an awesome roommate in Riley.
I’d make good friends, work on courses designed to help me get a good job out of college. Maybe I’d find the man I would marry. At the very least, I could find someone to watch movies with and kiss on Valentine’s Day.
On impulse, I’d run by Union Stadium to see where Jack would play, and when the gate hung slightly open and no one was around, I crept inside. It was so silent and so beautiful that I climbed to the very top and pretended that I was cheering on my brother and enjoying everything I loved about the game—the feats of physical strength, the excitement of the battle, the romance of it all.
Then Knox Masters came in, running fast like an arrow shot from a crossbow, straight and beautiful in motion. We’d flirted. We’d shared secrets. And after we’d run across the turf, I felt so…joyous in the moment.
Only to come home to this.
“I’m on it, Mom.”
“You’ll go right now?” It’s more a command than a question.
“Right now. I’m leaving as we speak.”
She sighs, but it’s not relief she’s feeling, but regret that she had to spend so much time talking me into something I should have agreed to do the minute I heard about it. Hell, I should have prevented it from happening.
“Thank you, dear. I hope your move went well. Don’t tell me about it now. Call me after you enroll in those classes.” She hangs up.
I stare at the phone. “Love you, too.”
I look up the administrative hours on the website and see I can’t actually talk to anyone for an hour. I have enough time to shower, change, and eat breakfast.
In the kitchen, I find Riley pouring milk over a bowl of cereal.
“Captain Crunch or Fruit Loops?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder at me.
“My mom told me that my scar looked ugly and I should eat less so I didn’t show it to the world.”
“So Cocoa Puffs with chocolate milk.” She sets both boxes back into the cupboard and brings out slow death by sugar.
I shake my head. “I can’t. I ate your Fruit Loops yesterday and nearly went into diabetic shock by noon. I don’t know how you do it. You are all of five feet nothing, eat like a horse, and weigh less than a hundred soaking wet.”
She grins and flexes. “I’m small but mighty and need this nectar of the gods to keep me going. It fuels my metabolism.”
“That’s not how metabolism works.” I grab a bagel and pop it into the toaster. “Sugar slows down your metabolism and—”
Riley holds up a hand. “You can stop right there. I don’t want to hear your nutritionist-in-training truths. I’ve eaten this kind of cereal all my life and I can’t stop now. It’d be a cruel shock to my system.”