Five months ago
You know those scared-straight shows? The ones where the army guy or ex-cop went all hardcore on badass kids and tried to reform them?
I didn’t need that.
I was completely hell-bent on getting my knee strong so I wouldn’t lose my Drexel scholarship. By some miracle, Drexel remained in the dark about my arrest and my injury, so I still had my early commitment and full scholarship. Everyone in my counseling group said that since my arrest wasn’t big time and all over the news, Drexel probably would never find out. My dad was psyched about that bit of information. He said it was the only good thing he’d heard about me lately. Even though that stung a little, he was right, so I didn’t argue.
But my injury was what kept me up at night. Both the ER doctor and my surgeon had said I’d probably never play at the level I was used to. I chose not to believe them. Instead I gritted my teeth, sucked up the pain, and worked harder than anyone in my rehab. It didn’t matter which physical therapist I had working me out—I blew their mind every single time.
That was keeping me clean. My drug counselor must’ve told me how proud I should be of myself, like, a million times. What I’d said to Oscar was true. I hadn’t partied since the bonfire. In the beginning, my lack of energy helped me turn down the invitations, but after a while kids stopped asking, so I wasn’t patting myself on the back too hard. This injury officially kicked my ass. It also kicked my social life’s ass.
My schedule didn’t help matters either. I usually went straight from whatever thing I had after school to the bar to work.
Today was one of those rare Thursdays when my physical therapy got canceled at the last minute. I told Oscar to just go; I wanted to walk to the bar. The day was clear and crisp so I sat on the sidelines watching the football team run drills. Since I couldn’t play a sport, I got a rush watching other people do their stuff on the field. I even started going to WCHS’s ice hockey games.
Growler walked up and sat next to me. “You do know football has the most knee injuries, right?”
I tightened my brow. “No, it doesn’t. Basketball does,” I said with absolute authority. Let’s just say I’d become an expert on sports injuries, especially knee-related.
His mouth slid to the side. “Hmm. Maybe you’re right.”
“I am right. Hello.” I pointed to my knee. “It’s all I’ve talked about four days a week for the past three months.”
We watched the players run routes for a little while. The sun went behind a block of clouds, making the already cool November day go friggin’ cold.
Growler pointed to the field. “Liam’s having a party tomorrow night. Wanna go?”
“I’m working,” I lied. It was my go-to excuse when Growler asked me to party.
“Damn. Your dad’s a slave driver.” He snorted. “It’s after their play-off game, which they’re going to win. Look at them out there!” He cupped his mouth and shouted, “They’re animals!”
I didn’t want to be around alcohol or weed. I wasn’t ready yet. Couldn’t tell Growler that, but it was the truth.
“Everyone’s going. Come on, Vance. People’ll be psyched to see you out.”
“Can’t go, dude. Drop it.” I stood up and changed the subject. “Let’s go get coffee.”
“The Black Bean?” Growler asked.
The Black Bean was the coffee shop in town. “I feel like walking. It’ll be good to loosen me up.”
Growler nodded, and we crossed the end zone.
“When did they say you’d stop limping?” he asked.
I shoved my hands deep into my hoodie pockets. “They didn’t.” Growler’s real question was: When did they say you could play lacrosse? Even though practice wouldn’t start till spring, it was usually one of our main topics of conversation. Growler hardly brought it up anymore.
I’d made the decision that I’d see how I felt once practice started up. But four months of rehab remained, so I had time on my side. Time and determination.
No way I was going to let my scholarship go. I had to fight and claw my way back to a full recovery. For me, yes, but also for my dad. Things needed to be like they were before. Dad eventually came around and stopped just barking orders at me, but it felt different. He would watch me out of the corner of his eye and pretend not to. He had stopped dancing, stopped smiling, and drank himself into a slurring, unhappy mess every night.
His pride in me needed to come alive. I had to bring his happiness back.
“You guys going to Sugarloaf again for Thanksgiving?”
I hadn’t thought about that. Last year, Dad had talked about it every night once Halloween hit. This year, he hadn’t mentioned a word. We went skiing up there the Thanksgiving after Mom died. Dad said it would do us all good to get away from the house, and he was so right. Skiing at Sugarloaf meant we didn’t have to be in our silent kitchen. Mom always cooked a big feast for us.
I couldn’t ski. Shit, I was still gimping around. “Probably not,” I said. My physical therapists would lose their minds if I tried to ski.
Growler scrunched up his face. “Stupid question. Sorry, dude.”
I changed the subject. “You going to your aunt’s in Reading?”
“As usual.”
We walked a block without talking. That wasn’t an unusual thing for us to do, but now it felt awkward, like we were both thinking things we couldn’t say. My mind was locked on the fact that we’d be home for Thanksgiving—home without Mom.
Growler grabbed my arm and yanked me back. “Whoa!”
A car whizzed by. My eyes went wide.
“You seriously were going to walk across, weren’t you? I just saved your life. High-five.” His hand hovered in the air.
I folded in half and leaned on my knees. What was my problem?