Mr. Edwards clicks the pen almost in time with the seconds ticking on the clock on the wall. He’s looking over the financial aid form he had asked me to fill out. Mom hates filling out forms and always says she’s too busy, but since she’s not working, she lost that excuse. He points at the phone number space on the form. It is blank. “You forgot to fill that out,” he says, sounding bored.
Rather than tell him that Mom and I don’t have a phone, I write in the number to Ryan’s.
“And on this line.” He jabs the silver pen at the line for parental income. “This should be total monthly income.” He doesn’t ask outright if I’ve filled out that line correctly, but I get that he thinks the number’s too low to be right.
“I’ll fix it,” I say, except it’s not a mistake. That’s what Mom brings home, even with two jobs. I figure LeBron makes per minute more than Mom earns all year. “Anything else?”
“Just sign here to say that you’re not lying on this form.” He laughs. I don’t know why. “Which is ironic, because if you get accepted on an athletic scholarship, they’re going to lie to you, Lucas. The recruiters will tell you a bunch of stuff and none of it will turn out to be true. Trust me.”
I would not trust this man with anything, especially my future. He continues, “So, if you don’t get a scholarship, what do you plan to do? Did you talk to Russell about trade school like I told you?”
I shouldn’t feel bad, but I do. I hide my face. “I want to be on the court, not under a car.”
He sighs. “How about your mother, siblings, other relatives? Do they have careers that interest you?” He fakes caring like an expert.
“My mom works in the hospital. Mrs. Thompson thought maybe I could do that too. Maybe study to be a doctor or something?” Edwards scratches the back of his head with fury but says nothing, which says everything. He clicks his pen to cover the big silence in his small office.