Dylan(12)

Fuck. How sick is this—that I talk to her photo, and feel so close to her this way, when I can’t ever approach her again in real life?

Gritting my teeth, I throw myself onto the bed, and I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow.

***

The security job at the gala on Saturday is a go, and Charlie and Kate have agreed to keep an eye on my brothers. Meanwhile, Miles refuses to talk to me about the bullying, and Teo isn’t eating. This morning I loaded them both into the school bus and prayed they’ll be returned to me whole and healthy in the afternoon.

As if worrying about them isn’t enough, Dad came and left again, leaving a mysterious message stuck on the fridge—“I’ll go, and when I return I will lift you up with me”—and I haven’t heard from him since.

Now the bus is late, I’m frozen to the bone, Coach West is waiting for me—and I should be heading to work. Goddammit.

Thank God it’s Friday, I guess.

The bus finally arrives, and I find a seat, which is a miracle. The ride goes by in a blur, as I try to calculate in my mind how much money is left in my account, how much is left in the prepaid card for my cell phone, how much I need to set aside for any extra school expenses my brother may have, their clothes, the new jackets they need… I want to bang my head against a wall repeatedly, but my head hurts enough as it is already.

Instead, I rest my forehead on the cold window pane, staring at the trees, the buildings, the parked cars, the people and dogs and bicycles. We enter the campus, and normal college life unfolds around me, full of what-ifs and maybes. Teasing me. Mocking me.

Suck it up, I tell myself. Pull yourself together.

So I get off the bus and jog to the sports center. God, but I can barely lift my feet, and it’s cold. Too damn cold for this time of year. It’s like a storm is brewing.

Shaking off the foreboding, I tear through the double doors of the sports center and let them slam behind me. Inside it’s warm, but I still shiver.

Two women in dark suits talking outside an office stop and stare at me.

Ignoring them, I hurry down the familiar corridors of the center, turn the corner, and almost plow into Jeff and Tyson, from my football team. They stagger back, confused, then grab me, pat my back and start asking when I’m coming back to training.

Fuck. I escape with a few noncommittal answers and set off again, finally reaching Coach West’s office.

He’s standing outside, a frown on his face.

“Dylan.” His tone is as crisp as his white T-shirt. “You’re so late I thought you weren’t coming. Again.”

“The bus,” I pant. I wipe a hand over my mouth. “It was late.”

“And you’re out of shape,” he says, sounding disgusted. “Come on in.”

Bowing my head, I enter his office and sink into the plastic seat across from his desk. Warily I watch him as he circles the desk and sits behind it. Formal. Distant. Displeased. Coach West has always been chatty and friendly, and the change sends a trickle of ice down my spine.

Then again, what’s there to be afraid of? I’ve already failed the first year of college, lost my scholarship—and am about to tell Coach things haven’t changed. At least, not for the better.

“How is it going?” Coach gives me a long look from his steel-gray eyes. “I don’t see you much around here these days.”

“That’s because I’m not. I don’t have time for college and practice.”

“You need to fight for what’s important to you, Dylan. You’re star material. You’re wasting the opportunity of a lifetime, throwing away your talent.”

I shrug, suddenly defensive. It’s hard, letting down the people who believed in you, and there aren’t many like that in my life.

“I am fighting for what’s important to me.”

“And what’s that?”

Coach knows a bit of what has been going on at home, though not everything.

“My brothers,” I say. “I’m responsible for them and things haven’t been too good lately. Sorry, Coach, but my future career isn’t worth more than their wellbeing.”

His eyes turn somber. “I see. Many people still have faith in you, Dylan. They hope you will come back to college and resume practice.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“I can help you.” He folds his hands on the desk and leans forward, the ice in his gaze thawing. “It’s not gonna be easy, but I can find you a smaller scholarship, if only you promise you’ll come to practice regularly and attend classes.”

But that’s the whole point, and he isn’t getting it. “I can’t.”