Monday morning comes way too soon. I drag myself out of bed, and I’m amazed at how I already have a routine here. How quickly I’ve remade my life and become this other person. One who works out every day. One who is nice to his mother. One who is nice to his brother. I’ve always been nice to my little sister. That part comes easy to me. But this other stuff? Knowing the Jack Daniel’s is available—and that tiny bit of weed—I’m able to push all the anger down.
“You need to eat more.” Mom’s on her stool, bathrobe on, sipping her coffee as usual. “You’re exercising a lot, and your body needs nutrition.”
I can’t help feeling happy she’s noticed my eating patterns or anything at all about me for that matter, but I’m exhausted, like Monday snuck up on me, so I just nod.
“Will you try a shake?”
My stomach turns at the thought of her intervention, remembering some of the awful stuff she made Ryan eat and drink over the years, all in the name of good nutrition. But she pushes a glass of something at me, and I feel I’ve got no play, so I take a sip. It isn’t awful, but it’s also not good. “Mmm, thanks. What’s in it?”
“Some protein powder, some frozen fruit, and almond milk.”
“Thanks.”
I can’t help inspecting Mom. I wonder if that’s how parents feel about their children and why all of a sudden I feel the need to do that to her. What I see is not good. She’s thin as usual. Her eyes look sunken and dark. She coughs, even as I scrutinize her. “Tell you what, I’ll drink this if you’ll get that cough checked out.”
This makes her chuckle. “Since when is it your job to take care of me?”
“Family takes care of each other.” This slips out, and I’m sort of surprised by how much I actually mean it.
Her eyes wet. “OK. Deal. I’ll get it checked out if it doesn’t go away by next week.”
Beep.
I chug the rest of the shake, grab my coffee cup and lunch that Mom has ready for me and my lacrosse bag that no matter what I say or do Rosie will not let me take care of myself, and head out the door. All the while noticing Mom’s wistful smile and glad that for a change, I’m actually making her happy. God, I hope I can keep this up.
“Happy Monday.” Emily greets me with a smile. She points to the vent, which is thankfully blowing cool air. “You’re a genius.” As if that huge-assed smile on her face wasn’t enough thanks.
I tip my coffee at her.
When we’re on our way, she says, “Seriously, thanks for everything this weekend.”
“No prob. Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You seem to know a lot about Ryan.”
“That’s not a question.” She nods as she turns onto the street that leads to our high school. Then she flashes me another smart-assed grin.
“Getting to it. Have you ever heard my mom talk about sending Ryan away?”
“She’s never said anything to me about that, but when I was watching Livy the other night, I did hear something.”
“What?”
Her hands come off the steering wheel. “I’m not a snoop. I want you to know that. It’s not my thing. I just overheard…”
“It’s OK. Tell me.”
“On the answering machine, I heard someone calling about an appointment. From the Next Step. It’s one of those group homes. My mom’s a social worker, so I happen to know that place.”
The intense rush of emotion surprises me. Not anger this time, but worry. For Ryan. And all of a sudden, I want more than anything for him to stay. Which is so stupid, because I don’t actually know he’s going anywhere, and I don’t exactly get a say anyway.
“I’m sorry, should I not have said anything?”
“No. I’m glad you did.”
We get to the parking lot. Early as usual. I decide I like being here before everyone else gets here. It helps me to get my legs under me.
We walk together to the front of the building. “It’s a nice place,” she says, reading my mood. “I used to volunteer there. He’d be fine there.”
I face her, those unbelievable green eyes focused on me, like a kaleidoscope I want to keep looking at, but it’s her concern that touches me. I’m used to being the one to worry. Like Mom said. “Thanks. You’re a sweetheart.”
She laughs like maybe I insulted her a little, like maybe she thinks I’m dismissing her. But she is a sweetheart. I mean, she can’t be my sweetheart, but she is a really great girl. I take her hand. “I mean it. Thanks.” I lean over and kiss her cheek.
Her hand goes to where my kiss was, and her eyes flit to the ground, then meet my stare. We stay like this for what is probably only a second but feels like forever. A voice from behind me makes me look away but not before noticing Emily covering her mouth with her hand, probably to cover her embarrassed smile.
“Mr. Strickland.” A woman, probably in her twenties, in a tight black skirt and jacket approaches me. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“You’ve found me.”
“I’m Miss Quinlan.” She extends her hand. “Your guidance counselor, and I’d love it if you would come to my office with me.”
“Sure.”
Emily gives me a nod like good luck. I smile in answer. A guidance counselor is not concerning to me.
Miss Quinlan’s office is, thankfully, not over the top with that crappy stuff that’s supposed to smell good but looks like a pile of artificially colored mulch. The guidance counselors who have that shit are passive-aggressive, militant women who have nothing but bad things to tell me. This guidance counselor has some family pictures, a couple of her running a marathon, and a plaque that reads life, happiness, love. So far, so good. She waves to the chair opposite her desk, wraps her hand around her coffee mug. Her French-tipped nails and straight blond hair remind me of Leah, but I try not to let that get to me.
“So how are you settling in so far, John?”
I shift into good-boy mode, thinking whatever she’s got on her mind will be dealt with much easier if I pretend to be on board. “Good.”
“I see you’re on the lacrosse team, and I hear you are doing well in your classes so far.”
The anger starts seeping in. Who is this woman to ask about me? To check in with my teachers?
“I’ve been told your probation officer will be here to see you sometime this week. I wanted you to be aware.”
I nod. Chew on the knuckles on my middle and ring fingers. It’s awesome to have this good-looking woman already know I’m a piece of shit.
“I hope you remember they will be doing drug tests.” She says that while she types my student number into a computer screen. There’s no judgment in her voice, like she’s working hard not to piss me off, which makes me wonder why she cares. She prints a couple of pages as I shift in my seat, trying like mad to damp down the dragon that is circling, circling.
She slides the papers across the desk in front of me. With a red pen, she starts her own brand of circling. My GPA. My SAT scores. All these stupid numbers that say absolutely nothing about me. Even though adults always seem to think they do.
“I took the time to contact your guidance counselor at West Lake.”
Fire ignites in my belly. Stupid fucking counselors.
“Mr. Hicks, wasn’t it?”
I chew on my knuckles some more. “Uh-huh.”
“He says you’re a really great kid.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“But…one who hasn’t exactly given a lot of thought to his future.”
That’s one person’s opinion. My plans for the future may not be what this woman or Mr. Hicks feels is reasonable or relevant or in line with what kids like me who come from households like mine should be doing. I’ve got news for her. She’s got no idea what my house is really like. Dad may make a crap ton of money at the bank, and Mom may be this highly educated person, but never have they sat me down to have this talk. They know better.
I rub my hand across my stubble and slouch lower in my chair. Could be she’ll decide I don’t have the posture to carry off college.
She takes a sip of her coffee. The sound irritates the crap out of me, even though it’s quiet. She stares at me. “Do you have any idea what you want to do after high school?”
I slink lower in the chair. Of course I do—I’m not an idiot—but it’s not like she’s going to be on board with my plan. Even if it’s completely legal.
She shakes her head. “Your GPA is not great.”
“Good enough to play sports,” I say.
“Yes, but given your SAT scores and your grades last year…you could be doing more than that.”
I sit quietly. Wondering how long this do-good speech is going to take. Hoping this is the end of it. I’m about to push my way out of this chair when she launches the biggest bomb in her armory.
“Mr. Hicks told me you had a hard year last year.”
And there is what I was hoping I wouldn’t have to talk about. Maia Cetus stands on two legs and roars. His fire breath climbs up my throat.
“He said you lost someone who was close to you.”
I try to sit still and act like none of this is getting to me, but visions of sitting in Mr. Hicks’s office flood me, and I have to close my eyes. His hands were folded in front of him. I remember thinking he looked so casual as he slayed me. “I’ve always liked you, John. You’ve always had a chivalrous attitude, an honor code, that most guys your age don’t. I’m sure that was a quality Leah saw in you.”
Every word worse than the last.
“She told me about you. In case you were wondering how I knew.”
With each word, my wall went higher and higher.
Sitting here in this Miss Quinlan’s office, I have to shift in my seat to keep the heat from building.
She leans forward, just like Mr. Hicks. Her hands are folded in front of her, like it’s something they teach you when you become a guidance counselor. Some bullshit lesson on looking interested in the idiots who sit across from your desk and plan to waste their future. “John, these SAT scores are excellent. You could get into any state school with these scores. Some private ones too.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. I’m not so sure about…”
“I’d like to have you do grade forgiveness for some of your classes last year. In retrospect, they should have maybe even withdrawn you, but that’s no big deal. But what is a big deal are the classes you are in now. They are not college-bound classes. So we need to fix that.”
I don’t answer, because obviously, she’s not listening to anything I have to say. I’m filling my mind with thoughts of the Pacific Ocean. The last snowfall of the year. Ice on my neck and shoulder after practice. How a Coke ICEE feels in my mouth. Anything to get that stupid dragon of mine to stand down, because losing it in front of this do-gooder isn’t going to help anyone.
Miss Quinlan pauses like she wants me to answer but also gets that I’m not going to. “Do you have any interests at all?”
“I’m pretty sure my interests are not offered at most colleges.”
She smiles. “I’m pretty sure you’re mistaken.” She laughs a little as she says it. Then she stops looking at her computer screen and lays her hands flat on the table. This shit’s about to get serious. “The thing is, John, education is power. And power means choices. I don’t know how many choices you see for your future. Maybe you haven’t even considered that you could have one.”
I pick at the hem of my jeans that is starting to unravel. She doesn’t even know me.
Her eyes go back to her computer screen. “And that’s a shame. Because with scores like these”—she points to the papers with the stupid numbers all over them that say exactly zero about who I really am—“and with you being an athlete and with the recommendation from your guidance counselor from the last school…” She clicks keys on her computer. “You could probably do more than you think you can.”
I stay silent.
“Would you like sports management?” she asks.
I shake my head. Trying to deal with a bunch of arrogant jocks would in no way appeal to me.
“What about art? Are you good at drawing?”
“Not really.”
“Cooking? We have an excellent culinary track.”
“I like to eat,” I offer. “You have classes in that?”
She laughs. Clicks more keys. “Are you interested in architecture?”
A little beam of light shines. I sit up. She must notice my change in posture, because she keeps going. “We have an excellent architectural drawing and computer-aided drawing class. I think that will serve you so much better than that extra gym class you’re in. No offense, but you need to fill your schedule with classes that the college admissions counselors would like to see. We might need to switch some of your other classes to make the schedule work, but if you’re interested…”
I think about the buildings in Chicago. The ones I loved. “Yeah. I like that stuff.”
I listen as she clicks and types and clicks some more. She’s deciding my future with her clever, clever choices, and I should be grateful—I know I should—but all I can think of is that bottle of Jack and how Mr. Hicks looked right inside me when he said, “The best way to honor people we love is to be our best person.”
Which of course made me want to do the opposite. But that’s just who I am. Gotta work on that.
Miss Quinlan, for her part, is sitting taller in her seat, a really pretty smile on her face, like I’m making her day by letting her help me.
As she types and types, I keep pouring buckets of ice water on my beast. What I know from my experience with adults who want to save me is there’s no point in arguing with Miss Quinlan. But maybe this class would be fun. Maybe I could make something awesome. Maybe, just maybe, I could start thinking about being the person I was supposed to be all along. If there’s an Old Ryan, maybe there’s an old me too.
• • •
My new teacher, Mr. Bonham, is sitting behind his desk when I walk into his class. He motions me forward.
“John?”
I nod, slide my paper in front of him—the one that says I’m supposed to be here—and all of a sudden, I’m hit with this wave of doubt. In my other classes, I don’t care, but taking in this room with all the amazing pictures of bridges and buildings on the walls and actual models on the shelves, I worry I’m not good enough. It’s weird—that never stopped me on the lacrosse field or the football field or the basketball court.
Mr. Bonham catches me staring at a picture of one of the buildings I recognize. “That’s Chicago’s Home Insurance Building. You know it?”
I rub my hand over my cheek. “Not the name, no. But I’ve seen it. It’s kind of my favorite building.” The moment the words come out, I want to beat the crap out of myself. How effing needy do I have to be right now?
“It’s one of my favorites too. I can see we are going to get along. Have you had any CAD training?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“If you like those buildings, you’re going to love that. Sit at this computer, and I’ll show you around.”
I drop my gear by the desk. I can’t stop staring at the models. Some are made from this thin wood I’ve seen in those crappy airplane models in the stores Dad used to take us to before Ryan’s accident, when all Ryan and I did together was build things. Two liter bottles, Popsicle sticks, LEGOs, K’NEX—we built with whatever we could find. My hand wants to touch the models, especially the ones that are made from this white plastic-looking material I’ve never seen before.
“We have a 3-D printer.” A guy I don’t know who is sitting to my left, a total computer geek for sure and probably a lot smarter than I am, points to the cool models. “We get to make those next semester.”
My mind spins. I try to focus on the computer screen in front of me, but I can’t help thinking it’s cool to want something that has nothing to do with Leah or my family, that’s just about me—the me I used to be. Before I became the wreck of a person I am now.
• • •
Practice today ends with us crowding around the coaches, winded, ready to go, waiting for them to release us.
“Great work today.” Coach Gibson looks at his clipboard for verification. “We’re ready to test our team, so tomorrow will be a scrimmage with Parkland.”
Grumbles and some excitement travel around our little circle.
“John.” He taps me with the clipboard. “You’ll start at midfield. And maybe take a face-off or two.”
He keeps going, naming people and the part they will play in his little war game, but all I can hear is that I’m starting, that I’m taking some face-offs. I can’t wait. I hit the showers, then meet Emily in the parking lot.
“You look happy with yourself,” she says.
“I had a pretty good day.”
“You never said what Quinlan wanted.”
“Oh yeah.” I hand her my new schedule. “She wanted me to up my academic game too.”
Emily checks out my new schedule. English honors, computer-aided drafting, architectural drawing. And for the few seconds it takes her to review my new classes, I start to panic a little. I mean, is this crazy? Can I do it?
Her eyes go wide, and her lips turn upward, and then I feel proud and hopeful. Like a little kid. But then she high-fives me, and I stop being self-conscious as she beams. “Wow, Strickland! You the man.”
I’m not sure if it’s the post-exercise high or what, but I forget all the reasons I’m not supposed to do this next thing. “Does that mean you’ll let me take you out this weekend? To celebrate?”
Emily’s mouth drops open like she can’t believe I just said that. “You’re asking me out?” She lowers her voice as if she’s afraid someone will overhear. “Is that even allowed?”
“What do you mean?”
She parks the car. “Livy gave you the talk, didn’t she?” She uses air quotes to highlight the words the talk.
My little sister is something. “I’m pretty sure I can handle all four feet, five inches of her. But if you’re scared…”
“I am. Totally. But…I’m also curious. I’ve seen lacrosse John. Mechanic John. Drunk John and big brother John. I wonder what on-a-date John looks like.”
“You make me sound like some kind of Barbie doll.”
She laughs. “Yeah. I still need to collect cowboy John and surgeon John to make the complete set.”
“Didn’t know good girls were into role play…”
She blushes and opens her car door. I do the same. My lacrosse gear on my shoulder, I meet her on her side of the car, drag her field hockey stuff out of the backseat.
“So?” I close the distance between us. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a no to the role play but a yes to the date.”
“I can live with that.”
“Good.”
“For now.” I push. I can’t not.
I watch her walk to her door, wait for her to put the key in the lock. She looks back at me one more time, and I nod at her like a total dork, which makes her smile, and I no longer care if I look needy or stupid. I want to hold on to this incredible feeling that has followed me around all day. It’s one I haven’t been familiar with without chemical help—happiness.