Never Gonna Tell

by Sarah M. Ross

  I rest my head on Charlie’s shoulder and just try to be there for him. He never talks much about his mom, but I know it was a really hard time in his life. He must be reeling right now. After several minutes, he stands and takes a deep breath. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

  I’m not sure if he believes it or is just trying to convince himself. Most likely the latter. “When does he have to go?” I ask Mom.

  “Now. Today.”

  It’s like adding salt into the wound. “This can’t be happening.”

  “Well, let’s not go to the dark side just yet,” Mom tries. “Things might be different this time, and this might be a good opportunity for you two to reconnect.”

  I don’t believe her words. Charlie folds the letter carefully and places it in his back pocket, biting his bottom lip to keep it from quivering. I take his hand in my own and squeeze, fighting back my own tears. He takes a deep breath before saying, “Thanks, Clare. Maybe you’re right. So how does this work now?”

  “I have a ticket for you on a bus leaving at eight tonight. Why don’t you go upstairs and pack a bag and we’ll go out for dinner before dropping you off?”

  Charlie nods and heads for the stairs. “That sounds nice. Thanks.”

  My heart is breaking as I see him trying to be strong. I know he has to be crumbling inside, and it’s killing me that I can’t do anything to help. I begin to follow him, but he stops me as I reach the bottom step. “Can I just have a little time to myself? To process?”

  I stop. “Of course.” He reaches the top of the stairs before I stop him. “Charlie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know that we’re here. No matter what the courts say. If you need to leave or things are bad, just say the word and we’ll be there for you.”

  His smile is genuine. “And that’s why you’ll always be my family, Reagan.”

  SEEING CHARLIE OFF yesterday was one of the hardest moments of my life. Not knowing what kind of situation he was walking into and realizing I couldn’t be there to help frustrated me to no end. He promised to call when he arrived and tell me how it was going, but I know he’ll sugar-coat the truth so we won’t worry, which in turn makes me more worried.

  I need to take my mind off Charlie. If something were really wrong, he’d call, and since I haven’t heard from him, I have to hope that everything is okay. I try to refocus my thoughts on my story, which has stalled. I have the basics, but I need sources to confirm what I already know so I can begin to dig deeper.

  Six months ago, our football team was undefeated and on its way to the state championship for the third year in a row. In rural Tennessee, there is nothing bigger than high school football, and our star quarterback, Hunter Everett, was a god among men in our town. He can do no wrong. In the two years since he made the varsity team, he hadn’t thrown a single interception or been sacked, and his completion percentage rivaled Tom Brady. He is All-State, All-American and destined for his choice of colleges—and then most likely a career in the NFL.

  But all of a sudden, Hunter started losing. Not the team, just Hunter. He went from zero interceptions in over twenty games to three a game. We’re not talking tipped balls or the defense being in the right place at the right time. These were throws that seemed to be aimed directly at his opponents.

  Not only did he throw interceptions in the game, he started allowing sacks. It was like he would just stand in the pocket and brace for the defenders to hit him, not even making a big effort to get the ball to one of his wide-open receivers before going down.

  The coaches thought at first that he might have had a medical condition that was causing his playing to suffer so much. Yes, because everyone’s first thought should jump to “It must be a tumor.” Idiots. They tested, scanned, and probed every inch of Hunter but couldn’t find anything wrong with him. Well, physically anyway.

  Their next conclusion was that it was some type of performance anxiety: the pressure of the scouts and college getting to him. He began to see a therapist, and teachers exempted him from projects and assignments. Funny how losing seemed to make everyone feel sorry for him rather than be pissed as hell. He got more sympathy than when his mom passed away from cancer.

  Oddly enough, after just one of these therapy sessions, Hunter went back to his old self. His passing percentage shot back up, and we’ve won the last four games. All over town people praised the therapist, believing her to be some sort of quarterback whisperer. Everyone seemed to think that Hunter had suffered from performance anxiety and had been miraculously cured.

  Everyone but me.

  I have a different theory, a much darker and more cynical version of events. I think one of two things happened to Hunter: either he got himself in trouble with steroids, and it adversely affected his performance, or someone else got into trouble—like maybe his high school sweetheart, Beth—and he was throwing games to help her out of a jam. She was rumored to have had a problem with Adderall last year when she was cramming for finals. Maybe she never kicked that habit, and the cost of her daily fix was more than she could handle, so Hunter was betting on himself to lose and then throwing games.

  No matter the why, if I can somehow prove that Hunter has thrown games, it will be a huge story—one that could make a big difference in how my college applications are perceived. I’ve been suspicious about what happened ever since his miraculous comeback. That’s when I began researching the story. I don’t have a lot of confirmation yet, but the one lead I did get has me chomping at the bit to find out more.

  After doing a cursory search on the therapist who supposedly cured Hunter, I found that she received her doctorate at some third-rate school in the Caribbean, and before Hunter, she hadn’t worked with athletes at all. Instead she’d worked with inmates at a correctional facility in California. So, how did she go from prisoners in California to high school athletes in Hope Mills? It didn’t make a lot of sense and raised a lot more questions than answers.

  “Late day, sweetie?” Dad asks as I walk in the front door. School only let out just over an hour ago, but he’s not used to me staying after for anything, especially with both Charlie and Kally gone now. They’re my tickets to a social life.

  “Not really, just working on some stuff.”

  I toss my backpack on the floor and head to the kitchen where Dad is in the middle of whipping up one of his crazy dinner concoctions, like truffle mac ‘n cheese with taco meat topped with guacamole. Yeah, that’s a taste you never get out of your mouth.

  Dad nods, tossing in a handful of herbs to the pot. “Charlie called while you were gone. He said things are going better than expected, and they’re staying with some cousins he hasn’t seen since he was a little boy.”

  “You mean the ones who used to kick and punch him for being gay?” I can’t keep the anger out of my voice.

  Dad puts the spoon down and sighs. “No one likes this, Reagan. Your mom and I included. But I promise he honestly sounded happy.”

  I snatch a handful of Oreos from the jar before pouring myself a big glass of milk to dunk them in. I need to stuff my mouth with something before the things I’m thinking are able to escape. Besides, if Dad is cooking, I need to fill up on something else and claim I’m not hungry. I sit on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, my feet dangling since I’m too short to reach the footrest.

  “He said he’ll call you tonight. You guys can Skype. Now, tell me about what you’re working on.”

  I twist another Oreo in half. “I’m working on a story for the newspaper. I stayed late to follow up with some sources.”

  “Did the school finally approve the budget to get it funded again?”

  I shake my head since my mouth is full of chocolate and cream goodness and then follow up with a large swig of milk. “Not yet, but the vice principal said if I bring them a few stories on my own, they’ll put together a small feature piece to see if they can garner interest from the other students. He thinks with enough student interest, he may be able to
convince the PTA to fund it for a year, and since I’m a senior, a year is all I need.”

  This is, of course, a total lie. I hate lying to my dad, but he tends to worry. And if Dad worries, he’ll tell those worries to Mom, who’ll pull her protective mama bear routine and I’ll never finish this story. Plus she has enough to worry about already. Mom’s worries are one of the main reasons we moved from Baltimore. After those students went missing, and then two others died from gang-related shootings, Mom decided that the city wasn’t the appropriate environment to raise a child. I didn’t bother to tell Mom that there are just as many drugs, just as much sex, and just as many problems here in rural Tennessee as there were in Baltimore. Kids here just hide behind their sweet southern upbringings and church-going parents more than they did in Baltimore.

  “Well, that’s great, honey. What’s your story about?” He doesn’t look up as he chops random vegetables: zucchini, kale, edamame, and a sweet potato. I don’t even want to guess what he’s making tonight.

  “I can’t go into too much detail about it right now; it’s still in its infancy. But I have some promising stuff I’m working on and if all goes well, I might have it ready to go in a few weeks.”

  Dad dumps a handful of random spices in the pot with the vegetables and potato before coming around the corner and hugging me. Our house is starting to smell like dirty gym socks. “I’m so proud of you, Reagan. When you were a baby, we may have hoped you’d become president, but I’m pretty sure we’re still going to see your name in headlines one day.”

  “So you won’t object to me skipping dinner to follow up on a lead tonight? I just want to go to the county library and do some research using their newspaper archive machine. Their online archive system doesn’t go back very far. Technology out in the boonies isn’t great, so I need to do this old school.”

  Dad sighs. Family dinners are a big deal in my house, and getting out of them usually requires something major—midterms or a huge project or something. I try to sweeten him up. “I wouldn’t leave if it weren’t important, not with how good dinner smells, but they’re only open until nine and I don’t want to miss dinner two nights in a row if I can’t get enough time in today. Please, Daddy?”

  I can see his resolve weakening and want to beg when I see him pull out salmon patties and curry powder.

  “All right, but I want you home no later than nine-thirty. I’m sure you have other homework to do and I don’t want you up all night because you spent all your time working on a story instead.”

  I jump up and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you so much. You’re the best.”

  He tosses me his keys as I throw my backpack over my shoulders. “Take my car. I’m sure your ankle’s still bothering you, and besides, I don’t want you out walking by yourself at night.”

  I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. Sometimes I think he forgets we moved for the very purpose that I could walk around by myself at night. Instead I just say thank you.

  “You want me to save you some of this?” he yells as I head out the door.

  I pretend I don’t hear him, but know he’ll leave a covered plate in the oven for me. Charlie is so lucky that he’s missing this. It’s times like this I wish we had a dog that I could feed Dad’s cooking to, but I doubt even a dog would gobble tonight’s concoction up.

  HALFWAY TO THE library, I turn the car around. My gut is telling me that if I just talk to Hunter—under the pretense of being a reporter for The University of Tennessee, that is—I’ll be able to get a better sense of if he’s lying or telling the truth. I’m very good at reading people. At the very least, I can try to snoop around and maybe find some evidence.

  Pulling up in front of his house, I see his obnoxious bright-red F250 sitting in the driveway. Of course it’s got one of those over-the-top lift kits where you have to have a running start to get in and spotlights so bright Ray Charles could see them. Perfect.

  I dig around in my bag for my fake college ID—one of several I’ve made over the years in order to get my foot in the door for stories—and head up to his front porch. One of the many benefits of being a social hermit is that I’m not recognized very easily. Since he’s one of the most popular people in school, I’m next to positive that he’ll have no clue who I really am. Before I ring the doorbell, I shake out my hair from its ponytail, rake my fingers through it, and undo the top two buttons from my shirt. If I need to use every weapon in my arsenal to get my story, then that’s exactly what the girls and I will do. I might not have much in the boob department, but I’m willing to take whatever help the girls can give me.

  A few seconds later, Hunter swings the door open, shirtless and dangling a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand. “What.”

  It’s not a question, and I stumble for a second. This is not what I expected to see when he opened the door. The team has a playoff game tomorrow, and I know they have a strict “no fun until the game is won” policy.

  “Hunter Everett?” I ask, even though I know it’s him.

  “Who are you?” He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, not even bothering to conceal the alcohol.

  “My name is Reagan Green,” I lie. “I’m a reporter at The Daily Beacon at The University of Tennessee. I’m doing a story on potential recruits for the football program, and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions.”

  This piques his interest. He straightens his stance and nonchalantly hides the bottle behind his back. “Oh. Hey.”

  “So can I come in?”

  He looks around inside the house. “Um, sure. But you should know I haven’t decided on a school yet. I’m not sure if I will.”

  “If I will?” I question.

  “When. I meant when I will. I have a lot of things to consider right now.”

  He ushers me into a very cluttered living room that’s in desperate need of a good scrubbing. There are several empty pizza boxes piled beside a recliner that has seen better days. Red Solo cups fill an already-overflowing trashcan just inside the entrance to the kitchen, and there are dishes piled high in the sink. I move into the dining room and glance through an array of framed family photographs—each with a thick layer of dust. I guess since it’s just him and his dad, they don’t care too much about cleaning. I head back into the living room and move several newspapers out of the way before taking a seat on the couch.

  “I’m sure you do have a lot to think about. There’s a good deal of hype around you right now. You’re one of the best prospects coming out of high school this year.” I smile sweetly, hoping that I can butter him up so he won’t clam up on me when I ask him the real questions. And if not, maybe he’s drunk enough to let something slip.

  Hunter plops down on the recliner across the room and lets out a belch. “Excuse me.” He’s already used my distraction with the mess to stash his bottle somewhere. “We’ve had a great season. I’m lucky I have a great team supporting me.”

  Fabulous. He’s giving me canned answers. I need him to open up or at least let his guard down a little. “I want to start with some background questions, okay?”

  He nods. “Shoot.”

  I take out my phone and press record, then flip open a notebook so it looks like I’m prepared. “You grew up in a football family. Your dad played college ball too, right? How has that influenced your love of the game?”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say he influences my game,” he says, rolling his eyes. “My dad played in Georgia. He was a second-string safety, so he didn’t get much college playing time.”

  I nod. “I assume he’s not home at the moment?”

  “Thank God for small miracles,” he mutters, taking a swig out of a Coke bottle I’m fairly certain is spiked. There’s obviously some tension there, but I can’t press too hard too fast. I need to change the subject.

  “Was football big in your family growing up then?”

  “We live in Friday Night Lights country. It’s big everywhere.”

  I flip the page of my notebook. �
��Your mom died a few years ago. How did that affect things?”

  Hunter glances at a framed picture on the mantle, fighting to keep the emotion off his face. “It changed everything. My mom was … a grounding force. Our center. And without her, well…” He pauses, biting his lip in an attempt to regain control. I feel like a total ass for bringing up an obviously painful topic.

  “Let’s just say that things aren’t the same without her.”

  I inwardly cringe. “I’m sorry to bring up something so painful.”

  He offers a half-smile. “It’s okay.”

  There’s an awkward pause where we’re both just staring at each other. I panic and abruptly stand. “Can I use your restroom? It was a long drive from Knoxville.”

  He scrunches his face, clearly questioning my timing, but doesn’t object. “Down the hall to the left.”

  “Thanks,” I reply as I scoop up my phone and hit pause. “I’ll be just a minute.”

  Once inside, I turn the water on and begin a search of the medicine cabinet and other drawers. It’s not like I think I’m going to find a bag labeled “evidence of wrongdoing” or anything, but even a recently filled prescription for painkillers or syringes could point me in a direction.

  The medicine cabinet is empty save for a tube of travel toothpaste and an old, rusty razor. There isn’t much under the cabinet either, just a couple of spare rolls of toilet paper, a towel, and some toilet bowl cleaner.

  I’m reaching that limit where it’ll look very suspicious that I’m still in here and know I need to leave. I turn off the water, irritated that my search was fruitless, and I’m just about to walk out when something catches my eye. There’s a newspaper sitting on the back of the toilet, and someone has scribbled something in the margins. Without time to sit and read it, I tear off the portion with the writing, fold it, and put it in my pocket to inspect another time.

  I don’t waste any more time and quickly head back to the living room, where Hunter is taking out the trash and straightening up.