Fading Out

by Trisha Wolfe

  “You don’t have to…” Coach starts but trails off. He knows the hard facts, though he’s never pushed the subject too much with me.

  “Yeah,” I say, already unsnapping my helmet. “I know I don’t have to take it. But if I don’t, he’ll just call my—” Shit damn. I clear my throat. “I’ll take the call,” I say to them.

  On my way to his office, I inwardly curse the timing. But of course something like this happens now. It’s like an unseen force decided things were going too good for me—it needed to throw a wrench in; make things interesting.

  Then I berate myself for being so self-centered. Thinking that everything revolves around me, and he somehow wanted to ruin my day. That’s about pathetic. But what I don’t want to happen is for him to upset her; that’s why I continue to accept the calls. Make the trips. Pay the money.

  By the time we reach his office my hands are clenched so tightly, my knuckles throb. I forcefully flex my fingers, pumping my hands until some of the feeling comes back. Then I take a seat in a chair opposite the counselor’s. He’s new, I think. I’ve never been to his office before. Usually it’s Miss Rinehart’s office where I take the collect calls.

  He picks up the black phone and hits a button, then hands it to me. “I’ll be just outside,” he assures.

  I nod, placing the receiver to my ear. “This is Ryder Nash.” My voice comes out harsher then I intend, my words clipped.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice says, stern but polite. “Mr. Nash, I’ll need your TelCon account number in order for this collect call to be accepted.” I recite off the numbers I’ve had memorized since the very first time, and she connects me to Newfall Penitentiary.

  Not the holding facility, I note. He’s already been transferred.

  The line clicks a few times, my heart pulses in my ears, then, “Hey, bro.”

  It’s like the air is kicked from my lungs. I’m struggling to breathe, to work my suddenly barren voice up to an audible octave. I force the words past the hard knot in my throat. “Jake.”

  “Damn, don’t sound happy to hear from your big brother, or anything.” He laughs.

  I can’t tell if he’s been locked up for days or weeks. Or maybe even months. He always sounds the same; as if it’s all some kind of joke. Like it’s all the fault of the “system” and he’s the victim it keeps picking on.

  “How long you been in the pen? They transfer you today?” I ask this, because whenever he was first picked up, he didn’t bother calling then. He knew that he was in for a while. Or maybe he called Mom first. That thought has me tightening my grip on the phone, my knuckles aching from the pressure.

  “Nah,” he says. I hear him moving around on the other end, probably trying to get privacy from the other inmates. “I’ve been here a little while. I transferred from shit holding a couple weeks ago. I just—” He breaks off. “I didn’t want to bother you with it until I had my first hearing. Thought I might make bond or OR.”

  I press the tip of my tongue against the roof of my mouth, biting back my words. I’m about to tell him that I doubt he’ll get out on OR—own recognizance—or even make bond. He most likely used up those wild cards a while ago.

  “You didn’t call Mom, did you.” There’s a hint of threat in my voice, and I know he hears it clearly, even though I’ve phrased it carefully.

  “No,” he says. “I didn’t call Mom. Shit, Ryder, what the hell?”

  “Then you need me to bail you out?” I want this conversation over with quickly. Needing him to get to the point of his call. Because I know he wants something, and I’m fucking sick of the phony calls, like we’re just two brothers shooting the shit.

  “Time’s ticking,” I say.

  I hear his deep breath over the receiver. “I just fucking said that I didn’t make bond, hell. I was actually just calling to check in.” He never calls just to check in when he’s not in jail. “Make sure you were good.”

  “I’m good, Jake. When are they planning to release you?” I’m sure he’ll end this conversation with a request for a ride. Which I’ll agree to. Only because I don’t want our mother bothered. She’s got enough problems; she doesn’t need to deal with this shit anymore.

  “Not sure.” The line is silent for a minute, and I refrain from asking the obvious: what he did to get put in there this time. I don’t really want to know. And it’s old hat, anyway. “You still playing ball?”

  I nod, like he can see me. “Yeah. Going to the championship this year.”

  “Damn.” Another long, silent beat. “You don’t sound too stoked about it. Shit, that could’ve been me.” He chuckles. “You know that you could’ve quit a long time ago. Hell, you never even had to start playing, Ryder.”

  My back teeth clamp down hard. I forcefully relax my jaw to speak my next words. “Didn’t I? Look, let’s not go there. Just tell me when I need to be there to pick you up. I have to get back to practice.”

  “Right.” I hear the sarcasm. “Well, then. You’re welcome. Glad I could be of service to your dreams, bro. To think, I thought I was bailing you out back then. Helping you so that you didn’t have to play that fucking sport. That was the whole point, remember? And now—” He huffs, and I can envision his gritted teeth. The scowl pulling at his features that are similar to mine. I know just what he looks like right now. I’ve been seeing that guy too often in the mirror lately, and that insight makes me ill. “You don’t owe that man anything,” he says. “You can do whatever you want to do. Dad’s dead.”

  And the anger bursts forth, unhinged. “Yeah, I know,” I say. “We killed him.”

  17

  Arian

  Vee is ridiculously happy about this secret party thing the team is planning for the boosters. I’m trying hard not to let on that I know anything about it—which isn’t hard, since I technically don’t. Ryder’s being more than vague, and that makes me wonder if they’ve even planned anything past the actual get-together.

  I guess that’s not important, but I was hoping that it would be something classy. I know, a classy college football team party for their devoted fans and groupies. I’m delusional. But after the bonfire, where I was subjected to crudeness, a girl can hope. There’s still a big part of me that enjoys caviar and quiche over chips and dip. Wine and champagne over beer and heavily liquored-up drinks.

  Rolling my eyes, I tap the button to slow the treadmill, and pull out one ear bud. Beethoven is doing nothing to soothe my nerves. I’ve been on an anxiety binge since I woke up, zoning out during every class, mentally coaching myself not to run off and find a bathroom stall.

  I haven’t had to purge since…I think, since the day Ryder first asked me to the event. I’ve been sticking to my meal plans, exercise routines, and I’ve even gained some muscle mass. This is not fat, I remind myself. I’m going to weigh more as I become toned, but it’s that anxiously blaring voice inside my head that heightens the panic.

  I have to keep control over my body—it’s the only thing I have control over.

  I’ve been avoiding calls from Becca. The one I did answer, she was attempting to set me up on a date with Lucas. She had a reservation at a restaurant already in place, my outfit picked out, and kept coaching me on his current interests.

  After that, I texted her with excuses about upcoming exams and needing to study. And really, since I rarely suffer the morning calls anymore, I feel less stressed. Even with the knowledge that this is temporary. But I’ve made a note on my calendar that I do better when I don’t hear from Becca.

  “Oh, my God,” Vee whines next to me. “Jesus, Ari. How do you do this shit for so long.”

  A reluctant smile pulls at my lips. I give her a halfhearted shrug. “Hang in there. The endorphins will kick in soon and then you’ll be thanking me.” And I totally get that Vee is messing around, but I’m still so invested in the idea that I’m always in the wrong, not doing things exactly right, that her scolding—even as a joke—makes me feel guilty for overdoing it. Again.

  B
aby steps.

  I haven’t “gotten sick” for a good while. The rest will fall into place. Just have to keep focused on the goal.

  Which is what, exactly?

  Before, it was being healthy, mentally and physically, for myself…for some reason. Because I know that I don’t want to live the rest of my life this tightly wound. I’ll go mad. If I don’t keel over first. Not that I’m making light of my illness. But it’s just that if I have to go on for the rest of my life in this constant state of push-for-perfection anxiety…I can’t. The thought is too exhausting.

  Sometimes I wonder if just going to sleep, peacefully, dreamily, giving up, would be easier. Of course it would be easier, I mentally shake my head at myself. But maybe it’s more about whether or not the fight is even worth the hardship.

  “Damn, you’re deep in thought over there.”

  Vee’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a sharp blade. Reality bleeds into my awareness.

  Glancing over at her, noting her drenched hair and shirt, I say, “I’m in the zone.”

  She laughs. “Well, clearly. But save some of that flow for Ryder.” When I give her a puzzled look, she clarifies. “I think that boy has it for you. Bad. You’re going to need all your wits to do battle at the party. Unless…” She tilts her head and nearly stumbles off the walker. “Shit.” She hits the button until the speed is reduced to a crawl. “Whatever. You know what I’m saying.” Then she’s off, not bothering to bring her heart rate down or finish her statement.

  She heads toward the showers, and I’m left with her words pounding against my head.

  There’s another reason for which I might want to get healthy. A reason that, even though I’m more than reluctant to admit it—openly to myself—seems far more likely the real truth. I know from personal experience that you can’t keep an issue like mine a secret from your other half in a relationship.

  Unwanted memories assault me. Stephan always asking if I’m sick. Always offering not so helpful advice on how to get better. Be better. Just the always, always talking about it, until I was disgusted with myself.

  When you’re broken, your other half makes it their purpose to fix you.

  And despite my father’s desire to marry me off like some debutante from the eighteenth century, the real panic flares when I think about all those hours spent “getting to know the guy.” Even though I grew up with Lucas, we’re practically strangers. All awkward smiles and formal conversations. But then again, I doubt we’ll ever have to have a real conversation for the rest of our lives.

  Then there’s Ryder. It will never happen between us in a million years. Hardly. Other than my parents practically banning him from my presence, there’s still the question of his intent. With his reputation and proven track record with the girls of Braxton, there’s a huge, gaping hole of doubt.

  I’m really not the guy’s type, and maybe—like Vee sometimes claims—that’s the attraction. But nothing is ever that clear cut. That simple. Most people are selfish by nature. So there’s more to it than just him wanting to be friends.

  “Did you see the outfits? Oh, my shit.” Another member of the boosters, Carly, takes up the walker Vee abandoned. She’s talking to another booster girl (it’s kind of ridiculous that most of the team’s supporters are women; like it’s a women’s only club to swoon over the players).

  “I’m going to have some fun with this,” the other girl says. “We should’ve thought of it before they did. It would’ve been awesome to see the surprise on their faces.”

  “Did the Bobcats get new uniforms?” I blurt. Really, they’re talking around me, not to me, despite the fact that we run in the same club. There’s a stupid hierarchy among the boosters that is high school worthy.

  Carly laughs. Her long ponytail swipes across her back as she begins to lightly jog. “If the team wore those outfits…oh shit, Jessica. That would be hilarious. But no.” Her gaze swings back to me. “Not new uniforms. Our ‘outfits’ for the party this weekend.”

  The way she makes air quotes as she says this makes my stomach churn. I slow down my treadmill. “Is it a costume party?”

  Jessica looks at me and smiles. “Yup. You can back out, if you want. It’s understandable that only the most devoted fans would be okay with it.” She glances at Carly. “And they’ll probably record it, too. It could end up on YouTube.”

  But she actually says this with excitement in her voice, as if that wouldn’t be the worst thing at all. My curiosity has gone from piqued to overly cautious in a matter of seconds.

  I’m thinking about texting Ryder to find out just what he’s planning for this party when Carly says, “You seriously don’t have to participate, Arian. Everyone knows Ryder’s only trying to win the bet, and this is probably his way to make that happen. If I were you, I’d tell him where he could stick it.” She covers her mouth as she laughs. “Oh, shit. I guess that’s pretty much what he wants you to do!”

  My face flames as Jessica laughs. Bet? “You so would not tell him off. You’d be all over that boy,” she says to Carly. “Just like last time. I swear, I had to practically pull you two apart.”

  That’s it. I’ve heard enough. I’m not so stupid to think these two are doing anything other than trying to discourage me from going to the party. For being some kind of competition to get to The Ryde. It’s a lame tactic, but one—I hate to admit—that’s working.

  I’m off the walker and heading toward the showers before they can glimpse the discomfort on my face. I’m not so worried about either of them being interested in Ryder. Or having been with him before. I mean, it is the guy’s rep. I’m sure he’s had Carly, or hell, both of them, in more positions than my limited imagination can fathom.

  But it’s the fact that Ryder has put together some kind of unseemly party. Probably to try to embarrass me—maybe the way he was embarrassed by my family. That he’s using it to boost his rep further, even. Trying to prove to his team or whoever that he can and will nail the prude. I was such an idiot to think he was really doing something for Vee.

  It’s just easier to believe the worst over him being sincerely interested in me.

  That’s what burns. And has me heading right for her now.

  “We’re not going to that party.”

  She yelps, turning around and wiping the suds from her eyes. “Crap. I was actually relaxing. In a public shower…but still.” She adjusts the nozzle so the water hits her back, not whatsoever ashamed of her naked body.

  Again, for a brief and out of context moment, I’m envious of her confidence in herself.

  “Something’s not right about this party, Vee,” I say, moving to stand near the tiled wall, gaining balance. I skipped too many meals and didn’t drink enough protein shakes. The workout on the treadmill and the blood rushing to my head with my anger is making me dizzy.

  “Dude, it’s a party. Planned by the football team.” She widens her eyes at me. “I’m sure there’s all kinds of wrong with it. But that’s the fun part.” She winks, then turns back around to stand under the spray.

  The Bobcats could request that the boosters come dressed as prostitutes, and Vee probably wouldn’t bat an eye. I’m not going to convince her not to go. She’s been biding her time, doing menial things in the boosters, waiting for her opportune moment to get close to Gavin.

  I need something more.

  But then…am I really looking out for her, or finally finding an excuse not to be near Ryder? What’s the worst this party could throw at us? I mean, other than literally throwing me in a body of water again.

  Ryder having some kind of bet doesn’t affect Vee. That’s him being an asshole, not Gavin. This is about me, and my fears, not hers. I’m being selfish. If I have an issue, I should handle it, and keep my focus on making Vee happy.

  With that decided, I head back through the gym, ignoring the glances from the booster girls—even though I so badly want to demand they tell me what they know. And why they know. How they got their insider info and why I
know nothing about it. But I keep moving until the fall air engulfs me, sending a shiver through my body. Trying to ignore the creeping paranoia.

  I breathe in the crispness, the faint scent of wood and leaves, and keep walking. I only stop when I’m right in front of a vending machine, sliding in my credit card, and hitting the letter and number combo for the most fattening item behind the glass.

  When I sink my teeth into the giant chocolate chip cookie, an explosion of taste assaults my senses. I close my eyes and moan, savoring the sweet chocolate. My stomach feels nauseas after the first few bites, like I’m stretching it as I hurriedly eat, but I ignore the piercing pain. I’ve felt it a million times before; it will go away.

  Right now, I just want to enjoy the indulgence. I’ll deal with the guilt later.

  Last bite, then I’m quickly chewing and digging out my phone before the haze of food and sugar can cloud my mind. I send a text.

  Me: Anything you forgot to tell me? About the party…or the bet?

  Standing there, staring at the screen, I realize what time it is. Ryder’s probably at practice. The fact that I’m sort of tracking his schedule and away games, makes me feel more ill than the damn cookie I just inhaled.

  I shove my phone into my pack and hike it over my shoulder. Not waiting to see if he replies. Actually, I wish I could take back the text I just hastily sent. I didn’t even think it through. I should’ve never let on that I knew anything.

  The ball always needs to stay in your court. My father always says keep the advantage. But maybe I can still save some dignity.

  Feeling thoroughly disgusted, I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead and start for the dormitory. Saliva is already coating my mouth, thickening in my throat. I crave just one second where the stress melds away after the purge. I hate myself for knowing so well what that feels like. Only I can’t stop the desire to feel it.