“So…” He draws the word out like a warning, and I’m instantly on alert. “I thought I’d surprise you yesterday with some ice cream. I was waiting for you outside your last class, but you weren’t there. Did you skip it?”
I take another sip of coffee, wishing I had the energy to get my own. “Yeah, something came up.”
“Something fun?”
Is that where Tate’s brain is these days? Is everything about fun? “Family stuff.”
“What’s going on?”
A few months ago, I would’ve spilled out every detail. But now? I can’t seem to dig up the motivation. What’s happened to us? “I should get something to eat.” With Wonder Woman strength, I work up a smile for Tate. “Two more days and we get to go home. Still coming up to In Between on Sunday?”
“Ah, about that.”
“Seriously?”
“I hope to make it, but things are crazy right now.” He hands me his last piece of bacon like a peace offering. “But, let’s stay optimistic.”
Yeah, I’m not that good of an actress. “Want to split an omelet?”
“I actually have to run, but I think I know something that will cheer you up.”
Of course, he has to go. Probably some quick meeting with a frat friend or some zany escapade he’ll excessively document on social media later.
“And what’s that?” Studying Tate’s smile, I think of the possibilities he might have up his sleeve: nachos with extra guac, tickets to a local musical, thirty minutes with an adorable puppy.
“A formal banquet,” he says, a little too proudly.
Life is certainly serving up the disappointments. “That’s gonna cheer me up?”
“Yeah, the Up Sigs are having a banquet next Friday. Go with me.”
“You’re giving me a week’s notice for something like a formal?” And he thought I’d be excited? Does he know how much this sort of thing costs?
“Grab one of your old prom dresses from your closet. It’s not like anyone here has ever seen you in it.”
I’m not sure I like his tone. Why do we always have a tone when we talk now? “I don’t know, Tate. I find out my part for the play this morning. After that, I’ll have lines to memorize. Lots of work to do.” He gives me an apologetic look, a boyish, aww-shucks-grin that I used to find adorable. Now I’m just ticked. “Yeah, I had my audition Tuesday. It went great, thanks for asking.”
He taps his finger against the rim of his coffee mug. “You know what I think?”
In the history of this question, has the answer ever been a good one? “No. Why don’t you tell me?”
“I think you want me to take an interest in your life, but you don’t care about mine.”
Wow. That is not what I thought he was going to say. “That’s not true.”
“The fraternity is important to me.”
It feels like it’s everything to him. “I’m glad you have something in your life that makes you so happy.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Let’s not fight about this.” I’ve got nothing left for another argument.
“We’re not fighting. We’re discussing.”
Is there a difference anymore? All our conversations seem to end with one of us mad. “I’ll think about the party.”
“What else do you have to do?”
Would my mom need me? Will she still be alive by then?
Tate reaches for my hand. “Think of all the plays of yours I’ve gone to.”
“My plays offered entertainment and exposure to the arts. It’s right up there with offering oxygen and water—life necessities.”
“Surely you know plays aren’t my thing.”
No, I don’t. “Since when?”
“Since forever. But I went to be supportive.”
I retract my hand, peeling my fingers from his. “All this time, you didn’t like the plays?”
“I liked you in them.”
“So, you were what—bored?”
“Kind of.”
The theater lover in me is beyond offended. The girlfriend in me who thought she knew Tate is just hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because…because theater’s important to you. And this banquet’s important to me. Go with me and meet my friends. See what the fraternity’s all about. You might even make some friends.”
“I’ve made friends.”
“How many?”
“Tons. Scads. Too many to count.”
“How many not including your roommates?”
“It’s way too early to be doing math, Tate. I’m not a human calculator. Besides, we’ve only been here two weeks.”
“The banquet’s just a dance. What are you afraid of?”
That I’ll look like an outsider. That people will see me and know instantly that my life’s a mess, I fail pop quizzes, mess up shower schedules, and my mom’s a junkie in a hospital with her own guard. “I’m not afraid.”
“Then go. I want to spend the evening with my girlfriend and pretend like things haven’t changed, and we’re okay and not drifting apart.”
My brain is an empty crossword puzzle, devoid of words, but filled with fragmented hints and meaning. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” I hear myself agree. “I’ll go to this dance.”
Tate reaches across the table and presses his lips to mine.
Like it’s now all right.
But nothing’s right. Including us.
Chapter Ten
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Jeremy asks me as we wait for our coffees. According to my phone, we have fifteen minutes before our first class and ten before we learn if we’re both cast in the play.
“I’m fine.” Aside from my unexpected announcement to my roommates this morning, I haven’t told anyone about my mom, and I’m not sure when I will. When life throws curveballs, I tend to either react explosively and instantaneously or process with sloth-like speed. “Just ready to get back to In Between for a few days. Are you staying here this weekend?”
“Headed home to meet my newest stepmom. I think I’m at least ten years younger than this one.”
Jeremy’s last stepmom was in her early twenties. She lasted about as long as her manicure. “Maybe don’t call this one Mommy Dearest.”
“I meant it in the nicest possible way.”
The girl behind the counter at the Grizzley Coffee kiosk hands me a steaming cup. “Here’s your one Americano, whole milk, extra shot of espresso, and a dash of cinnamon.”
“It’s a big day for us,” Jeremy tells the girl, who pretends to be interested in his oversharing. “We auditioned for a play, and we’re about to find out if we made it.”
“That’s exciting!” Her voice is all enthusiasm, but her focus is on the long line behind us. “Good luck. Or break a leg. Whichever applies. Next!”
We move out of the way, then head toward Dr. Maddox’s office, where the cast list will be posted. Today I’m wearing shorts, a retro Queen T-shirt of my bio-mom’s, and hoop earrings large enough for Westminster dogs to jump through. Hundreds of people walk by us, and I study everyone’s outfit. Do I need to change my style? Look more college girl? Is there a Hendrix University look?
As the Texas sun beats down on my head, I push my sunglasses onto my face. I try to play it cool, like seeing my name on this cast list isn’t the most important thing in the world to me right now. But all I want to do is throw down my bag and take off in a sprint like I’m on the last leg of an Olympic relay. It’s very old-school to post the results on the door. No email, text, or website reveal for Dr. Maddox. I guess I can respect his tradition, but a text would’ve been some nice instant gratification.
As we get to the professor’s office door, I see a gaggle of other students. Some wear faces of anticipation as they wait in the back of the crowd to get their turn. Others shout for joy, finding their names among the cast. A few are crying, but mostly I see disappointment in the many who clearly aren’t
the chosen ones.
“Ready?” Jeremy asks.
“This is so exciting.” With cinematic finesse, the crowd parts as if on cue, and taking Jeremy’s hand, I tug him toward the front. I scan the paper for either of our names.
“Oh, my gosh!” Jeremy cries. “I made it! I made it! I got a part!”
His finger hovers over his name, and I see he’s Gavin, Rich and Arrogant Teenage Boy.
“Katie, you’re on here, too!”
I squint to find a list toward the bottom. “Girl Who Holds Yellow Umbrella”? Disappointment weighs as heavy as the cafeteria pizza. “But I didn’t try out for that. I don’t even recall that part.”
“The big parts go to upperclassmen,” says a girl with a halo of buoyant, curly hair. “You gotta start somewhere. It took me a year to get a speaking part. Be glad you got something.”
“What part did you get?” Jeremy asks.
She grins. “Lacey Potter. One of the leads.”
The role I’d wanted.
Jeremy and I walk away, him whistling a happy tune, and me struggling not to return to my dorm and climb back into bed.
“I don’t understand,” I say as we head toward our first class. “I nailed that audition. I was so prepared.” And, pardon my arrogance, but I was good. As good as one can be when acting like she’s swimming in a stream of nuclear goo while trying to outrun reactive alligators.
“It’s like that girl said, we have to start somewhere.”
I have an extensive resumé. Why do I have to start from the bottom?
“I’ve heard Dr. Maddox offers one-on-one coaching,” Jeremy said. “You could talk to him. See if he has any feedback or tips. We both could get some help.”
“Yeah, maybe.” It’s not that I don’t think I still have lots to learn. But I didn’t expect one of those things to be that I wasn’t good enough for college theater.
I somehow suffer through Comp I, turning in the worst persuasive essay ever on global warming. I do believe we’re majorly failing the planet, but when I got in at ten p.m. last night, I had little brain power left to assemble any cohesive thoughts or reference the stack of environmental essays I was supposed to mention. Basically, I ended up with 500 words of “Global Warming Is Like Really Bad.”
Sitting in Theater 101 beside Jeremy, I skim through the last chapter of our textbook, worried we’ll have a quiz. I dig in my bag for a pen, spying my grandmother as she finally arrives.
Maxine high fives a football player as she saunters through the classroom. “Saw your practice yesterday, Miller. You were looking sharp there. Mighty sharp.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dayberry.”
She props a jaunty hand on her hip. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, thank you, Maxi.”
Beside me, Jeremy frowns. “Maxi?”
“Hey, Wallace!” She fist-bumps a short guy with oversized glasses. “Thanks so much for that party invitation. Unfortunately, I have a colonoscopy the next day, so the only thing I’ll be chugging is a gallon of Milk of Magnesia.”
“You’ve always got an invite with the Alpha Gamma’s, Maxi.”
She yaks it up with a few more students before finally settling into her seat to my left.
I take a sip of my coffee. “Maxi?”
My grandmother sets down her bedazzled backpack. “Yeah, it’s my college name. My freshman handle. My collegiate persona. I think it makes me sound hip and young.”
“I think it makes you sound like a feminine product.”
“I’m going to forgive that sass due to your state of upset and grief.”
I turn away from a distracted Jeremy and lower my voice. “Millie told you about my mom?”
“She did. You should’ve asked me to go with you to see Bobbie Ann.”
“I needed to do it alone.”
“Why?”
I don’t quite have an answer for that. “I dunno. Right now, I want to keep the two worlds separate.”
“Well, you can call me anytime if you ever want to talk about it. Day or night. Except not at eight because that’s when I watch CSI reruns. And definitely not at noon on Mondays because I have my senior citizen karate class. Then, of course, there’s my pageant prep every day after two.” Maxine shrugs. “Just call my secretary, and she’ll work it all out.”
“You have a secretary?”
“I had to hire some help. Between schoolwork and getting gorgeous and obnoxiously talented for the pageant, I have so little time. Yesterday she tidied my house and fixed us dinner. Do you know, I think Sam cleaned his plate for the first time since we’ve been married? And I don’t mean by shoving it down the garbage disposal when he thought I wasn’t looking. He ate every bit of her pot roast and asked for seconds. I wonder what’s gotten into that man?”
Maxine can’t properly nuke a Lean Cuisine, so my adopted grandfather’s probably enjoying her pageant phase.
“When is this pageant again?”
“First week of October. Now, back to you. Tell me how you’re feeling.”
I veer us away from any more talk about my mom. “Play audition results were posted.” Maxine nods sympathetically while I explain the tragic outcome.
“I once lost out on lead Dancing Christmas Tree to Tipsy Malone. Girl might’ve had gams for days, but she didn’t get that name for nothing.” Maxine raises an imaginary bottle and makes a not-so-subtle sound of glug-glug. “I knew I deserved the principle part. I’d rehearsed like nobody’s business and eaten iceberg lettuce for a month to fit into the tiny pine-scented outfit. But did I get the gig? No. I was a back-row blue spruce with tangled tinsel.”
“But then everything turned out for the best, and it opened up a door of opportunity you wouldn’t have had otherwise?”
“Hardly. Tipsy Malone got plucked for a movie by Old Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra.” She thinks about this for a moment. “After that, I couldn’t eat lettuce for years. To this day, a chef salad still makes me want to kick someone in the can-can.”
“And how is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Oh.” Maxine’s lips pinch into a pout. “Was that what I was supposed to do? I thought we were trading war stories. Did you catch the part about her movie deal?”
Yep, I should’ve gone back to bed and slept until the week was over. “I don’t mean to be a drama queen, but nothing is going my way right now.”
“Aw, sweet pea, I’m sorry. One time—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “Let’s stop talking while I still think I have your condolences.”
More students file in, and soon the class is full. I know I should be taking this moment to speak to people around me and attempt to make new friends, but I can’t find the energy. These people all seem to have it together. They’re laughing and chatting, carrying themselves with a confidence I’m not sure I have. They look like they belong at college. They probably go to cool parties and make A’s on tests and do their essays ahead of time instead of waiting until the last minute when they’re hungover with sadness and fatigue. I bet none of them have a mom in prison, a mom who walked away from her kid and might not wake up because, once again, she chose drugs over life.
What am I even doing here?
Sweat beads on my forehead, and my breath comes in shallow bursts. Digging in my bag, I grab a bottle of water, fumble with the lid, and down it ’til I feel my body temperature cools. It’s then that I notice I have a giant coffee stain on my T-shirt. Could this day get any worse?
Dr. Maddox breezes in like he didn’t stab me in the heart this morning then takes to the lectern. “Happy morning to you all.” He smiles and unpacks his laptop. “Clear your desks and take out a sheet of paper. It’s time for your first pop quiz.”
My mind drifts back to my mom. Should I go back and see her today? If I waited until tomorrow, would it be too late? I don’t know what to do here, and I wish I knew how long we had. The sight of her lying in that hospital bed will forever be imprinted in my mind, crowding out the few pleas
ant memories of Bobbie Ann I have.
Dr. Maddox walks by and hands me the quiz.
My heart sinks as I read through it.
I don’t know any of the answers.
Not to the questions on the quiz.
And not to the questions spinning in my head.
Chapter Eleven
On Thursday night, I climb the steps of my dorm with all the energy of a drunken slug.
I’ve been at the hospital all day, I’m exhausted, and my emotions have been pulsed through a slow, dull blender. I’ve always had to be the tough girl—life with Bobbie Ann made sure of that. But tonight I feel as fragile as a December icicle. My mom’s condition hasn’t changed. I don’t know whether to take hope in the fact that she’s not worse, or if this is the normal progression of things. There were any number of nurses I could’ve asked. But I didn’t. Instead, I sat by Mom’s bedside and read her a few chapters of my favorite rom-com novel, played some of her favorite songs, and updated her on college. I would’ve read scenes from my play, but that piece of literature could make anyone walk toward the bright, shiny light.
When I open the door to my room, the smell of pizza greets me.
Violet jumps up from her desk chair and rushes to hug me. “You’re home! We got you dinner!” She sends an expectant look to Jemma, who reclines on her bed with her phone in hand. “Didn’t we?”
Jemma removes her earbuds. “Uh-huh.”
“Come and sit down.” Violet grabs a paper plate and pulls a slice of pizza from a grease-stained box. “I hope you like pepperoni. It was half price.” Her voice drops. “I wanted to get Canadian bacon and pineapple, but Jemma wouldn’t let me.”
“Pepperoni just made economical sense.” Jemma’s monotone is extra dry tonight.
I’d only eaten a bag of pretzels and a banana today, so this was as good as filet mignon to me. “Thank you.”
Violet yanks a quilt from her bunk and spreads it onto the floor. “Sit. We’ll have a picnic.”
“Oh.” It’s a sweet gesture, but I just want to eat and crash. “Thank you.”
“Jemma.” Violet’s voice holds a warning. “Please grab your food and sit down with us.”
Something to Believe In Page 6
