Sweet Sorrow

by Tricia Drammeh

  Sweet Sorrow

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. Quotes from the play, Romeo and Juliet, which is in the public domain, are attributed to William Shakespeare and are used sparingly throughout the book.

  Sweet Sorrow Copyright © 2015 by Tricia Drammeh

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: tricia@triciadrammeh.com

  Cover Art by Maegan Provan

  Stock art by Deposit Photos

  First Edition, 2015

  Published in the United States of America

  Chapter One

  My dad’s office has been the site of many lectures, pep-talks, disciplinary hearings, and football strategy meetings. Today, it’s the site of football equipment returns. As head coach for the varsity football team, my dad is feared by some, but revered by all. Few females have had the privilege of stepping foot on this hallowed ground, but here I am for the fourth year in a row helping my dad sort through mounds of football pads, helmets, and jerseys. It’s a thankless task and my presence here is not voluntary. I know better than to complain, though. In our family, we’re a team. And, apparently, I’ve taken on the unofficial role as equipment manager, at least for today.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say, swinging my backpack into the tiny space between his desk and the wall. “How long is this going to take?”

  “Not long, Row. I promise.”

  “Yeah, right,” I mutter. I’ve helped with equipment returns often enough to know the process takes forever. There’s always some dumb jock who forgets his pads or helmet or some essential piece of equipment. Then with glazed eyes and a gaping, dumb mouth, he’ll stammer, “Uh, I didn’t know I needed to return that, Coach.”

  My dad doesn’t like it when I call his guys “Dumb Jocks.” Most of them are dumb, but not all of them. A few football players earn good grades, but the rest have grades handed to them. There’s a feeling of entitlement among some of the more talented players. They expect to receive special treatment, and most of the time, their expectations are met or exceeded.

  “I’m gonna miss some of these guys,” Dad says, interrupting my thoughts.

  I roll my eyes and take the clipboard he offers me. The names are familiar even though I can’t put a face to some of the names. I’ve had classes with a few of the guys on the football roster. Some of the names are only familiar because I’ve heard them announced over the intercom, seen them splashed across the headlines of the school newspaper, or whispered in gossipy rumors involving steroids, sexual exploits, or general bad behavior. A few are only familiar to me because I’ve helped my dad with spreadsheets and other administrative tasks involving his team.

  It’s funny because even though I couldn’t pick out some of these guys in a lineup, almost all of them know who I am. They know me as Coach Murdoch’s daughter and often say hello to me in the hallways. I think they do it as a sign of respect for my dad. When it first started happening during my freshman year, I felt sort of famous, especially when seniors singled me out in front of my friends. Now I’m used to it. It’s part of my life as the coach’s daughter.

  The first few players file into Dad’s office and I drop my eyes to the clipboard, pen at the ready.

  “Adams, Michael,” Dad says. “Helmet, shoulder pads, practice jersey…”

  I mark tiny checks in the appropriate columns as each piece of equipment is returned and deemed in good condition. I barely glance at the players. I ignore the banter between Dad and some of his favorite guys, seniors who will graduate in the spring, provided the teachers continue to let them slide by. I stand by Dad’s desk, my hip leaning against the hard surface, my eyes glued to the clipboard, my mind a million miles away.

  Dad chats with a few guys I’ve had classes with. They’re okay. Rob Martin and Zach Collins. I glance up from my clipboard to smile at them. They’re not the stereotypical dumb jocks. Good grades, good reputation, all-around nice guys. On the surface, they’re perfect, but I’ve learned not to trust what I see, or even my own instincts. Memories wash over me and I look back down at my clipboard, wishing I was home instead of here.

  More football players drift in and out. Sometimes they’re sent back to the locker room to retrieve missing equipment. Other times, they produce crumpled checks from their back pockets—checks procured by parents ahead of time because they know they won’t be able to return all the required materials.

  I glance at the digital clock on my dad’s messy desk. 3:50. I shift from one foot to the other and scan the list of names. Five players have to come back tomorrow with payment for missing items. Two players have yet to show up.

  “Velasquez.” My dad’s tone of voice dips down, irritated. Gone is the jovial banter he uses with his favorite players or the friendly detachment common with his less talented members of the team. It’s clear he doesn’t like Velasquez. I look up, curious to find out who this player is and why my dad seems to dislike him. My dad’s expression is rigid with disdain.

  I glance at Velasquez. His gaze locks on my mine and my body tingles. He’s gorgeous with tan skin, sexy eyes that are dark and brooding, and thick, black hair with a slight wave. His white t-shirt is tucked into snug-fitting jeans, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist. My quick assessment of the football player my dad seems to despise takes place in less than a few seconds. I quickly look down at the clipboard to locate his name.

  Velasquez, Eduardo. The name is familiar, but I can’t recall ever meeting him in any of my previous classes. Maybe Dad mentioned the name during one of our family dinners when he droned on and on about the team. Or, more likely, I just recognize his name from seeing it on rosters year after year.

  “Helmet, jersey…” My dad barks out a list while I check off each item. Each piece of equipment is accounted for.

  “Coach, I just wanted to say…” Velasquez has a slight accent.

  “Save it. Don’t want to hear it.” Dad’s clipped tone brings back memories of every time I’d ever been in trouble, whether it was for staying out past curfew, or bringing home a bad grade.

  “If you’d just let me explain…”

  “Explain it to the cops, Eddie. Or Principal Dansen. Explain it to your parents when they ask how you managed to blow a full-ride scholarship to USC.”

  Eddie. Eddie Velasquez. Cops. Everything clicks into place. Of course I’ve heard of Eddie Velasquez. He was one of the best players on the team before he got suspended for the last three games of the season. There was a huge incident involving drinking and property damage, but I can’t remember the details. No wonder my dad is pissed off. Everyone is pissed off at Eddie for involving half the team in whatever trouble he supposedly caused. Well, not everyone is pissed. Some people don’t care about football, but there are loads of people who blame Eddie for ruining their chances of going to the state championship.

  “Well, anyway, I’m sorry, Coach,” Eddie says, turning around to leave. His gaze catches mine once more before he moves out the door. I watch him until he’s gone.

  “Of all the…” my dad mutters, shuffling a stack of papers on his desk. “Who else is left?” he asks, gesturing toward the clipboard.

  “Mark.” I don’t need to say his last name. We both know who I’m talking about.

  “He’s out sick.”

  I let out a deep breath, relieved I don’t have to see Mark.

  “I guess that wraps it up for
today. You gonna be able to help me tomorrow, Row?” Dad asks.

  “I have auditions, remember?” The senior play is a huge deal, at least for drama nerds like me. In our sports-centric school, the arts are usually an afterthought. My dad would have been thrilled if I’d taken up cheerleading or volleyball, but I take after my mom. Acting is my calling and I plan to be a drama teacher one day.

  “Right, right. Well, I guess I’ll manage on my own. Maybe you can help out on Thursday,” he says hopefully.

  “Unless I have callbacks for the play.”

  As I gather my backpack, I remember the other reason Eduardo Velasquez’s name seemed familiar when I’d first heard it. If the rumors I’ve heard are true, the senior play might be more exciting than anyone has anticipated.

  Chapter Two

  My best friend Morgan is almost guaranteed the role of Juliet. She’s had the lead in every school play since elementary school. I was her understudy in sixth grade, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. Over the years, we’ve gone on vacations with each others’ families, shared clothes, finished each others’ sentences, and concocted hundreds of inside jokes only the two of us find funny. Less observant people have asked if we’re sisters, but it’s pretty obvious that we’re not. We’re opposites in terms of appearance. Morgan is tall and slim with straight, chestnut hair that falls to the middle of her back, stormy gray eyes that tilt up at the edges, pouty lips, and a perpetual tan, whereas I have wavy strawberry blonde hair that tends to frizz, green eyes, pale skin that’s always pink in the summer, and gentle curves that make my five foot two frame look slightly overweight even though I’m not. I have a hard time wearing contacts, so silver-framed glasses add the finishing touch to my serious and somewhat nerdy appearance.

  “You’ll be there today, right?” Morgan asks, referring to the auditions. Side by side, we navigate the crowded hallways as we make our way toward the history classroom.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply.

  “Good. This is your play, Row. You know Romeo and Juliet like the back of your hand. You’ve got this.” Morgan assumes I have just as good a chance as she does at landing the role of Juliet. Maybe I do. I hope so, though I’d hate to take something from Morgan that she wants for herself.

  “I know the play, but from an English textbook point of view, not from a performance standpoint,” I reply truthfully. I rocked the Shakespeare portion of our junior English studies, but I’d never performed the play, though I’d watched several interpretations on the screen.

  “Still, I think you’re going to nail the audition,” she says.

  “Do you know how many people are trying out?”

  She shrugs, stopping right outside our classroom door. I move to stand with my shoulder against a locker, trying to avoid being trampled in the hallway.

  “I don’t know,” she says, “but have you heard who might be auditioning for the part of Romeo?”

  I shake my head even though I’ve already heard the rumors. I just want to hear her say it—Eddie Velasquez. His name gives me a thrill down to my toes and I’m desperate for the slightest bit of gossip about him. Last night, I sat up late on my computer, searching for articles about the scandal. There were several.

  Several Ocean Front High athletes were involved in a late night arrest…

  A fire in an affluent Ocean Front neighborhood…

  …bail is set at ten-thousand dollars. One man remains behind bars pending a hearing set for Monday morning. No additional information is available at this time…

  Snippets of a half dozen articles flicker through my mind while I struggle to focus on Morgan’s words.

  “Yeah, so apparently Eddie Velasquez told Graciela Parsons he’s trying out for the play, but I don’t know if it’s true. I can’t imagine him trying to draw more attention to himself after what happened. Personally, I don’t know why everyone blames him, though. I mean, he wasn’t the only one to get in trouble. He was just the only one who didn’t have parents who were rich enough to bail him out.”

  Keep talking, I plead inside my head.

  “I had a few classes with Eddie during my freshman year. He’s a nice guy, or at least he used to be,” Morgan says. “I haven’t talked to him in ages.”

  She eases into the classroom, cutting off any further conversation about Eddie. I can’t wait to see him again. On one hand, I desperately want to see him at the audition this afternoon. On the other hand, I hope he isn’t there and that all the rumors are unfounded. I tend to get nervous at auditions, so having Eddie there will up my anxiety by about a million notches. There’s nothing worse than having your secret crush watch you make a fool of yourself up on stage.

  Secret crush. There, I’ve finally admitted it to myself. I have a huge crush on Eddie. A crush I will never share with anyone, even Morgan. She’ll never understand how I can harbor a quick obsession over some guy I barely knew existed less than twenty-four hours ago. I can’t understand it myself. I’ve had crushes on guys before, of course, but never on the bad boy. Or, at least not on the obvious bad boy. Some boys are bad underneath a nice-all-American-boy-next-door façade.

  “Rowan Murdoch.” The gravelly voice of the history teacher breaks into my thoughts, which is probably for the best. My thoughts aren’t exactly traveling down a healthy path.

  “Here,” I say, snapping myself back to the present.

  After history, Morgan and I go our separate ways. Half my classes are fluff, meaning they don’t contribute anything toward my education as a whole. Since most of the required classes are already under my belt, I’ve filled up the rest of my schedule with classes that are meant to pad my GPA. Easy grades. Creative writing is a class I enjoy much more than I had expected. It’s a class I share with Victoria Penny, the biggest gossip in school. As I settle into my usual seat, I rack my brain trying to think of ways to bring up Eddie, desperate to hear anything at all about him, even if it’s bad.

  Minutes tick by and disappointment sets in. I’m saved from having to manufacture a lame-ass way to start a conversation with a girl I barely talk to when Kennedy throws herself into the desk between me and Victoria. She turns to her friend with a conspiratorial grin.

  “Guess what I heard?” Her voice is just above a whisper, but she still manages to punctuate each word.

  “What?” Victoria replies leaning forward. I lean a little to the side, hoping the Gossip Fairy is bringing gifts of joy instead of the usual boring crap.

  “Okay, you know how Eddie Velasquez is trying out for the play?” Kennedy asks. My heart jolts at the mention of his name and I send up a brief prayer of gratitude that the one time I actually pay attention to gossip, it’s about the one and only person I want to hear about.

  “Uh, yeah? So?” Victoria seems bored by the topic, but she’s persistent and dedicated to the pursuit of gossip, so she continues to listen.

  “Well, everyone thought he was trying out just to get attention. Like he needs more attention, right? Anyway, guess what he told Dale Patterson?”

  Kennedy is dragging this out, deliberately setting the pace so her message has maximum impact. I totally understand what she’s doing and why she’s doing it, but as Mrs. Abrams and a final stream of students meander into the classroom, I wish she’d just get on with the story. Obviously, Kennedy realizes she’s on borrowed time because the look of glee fades from her face and is replaced by a no-nonsense expression that hopefully means she’s going to get down to business.

  She lowers her voice and I have to strain to hear her.

  “This isn’t the first play Eddie has tried out for.” She pauses for a nanosecond, but plunges on while my mind struggles to sort through the vast catalog of plays our high school has performed. I can’t remember ever seeing Eddie at any of the auditions, but then again, he was never on my radar before.

  Kennedy continues rapidly. “Eddie hasn’t tried out for any of the plays at school because of sports, but apparently he’s been in community plays. Since he totally blew his f
ootball scholarship, now he’s trying to get into a liberal arts school. Like any good school will give him a scholarship.” She rolls her eyes.

  “So, that’s why he’s trying out,” Victoria says. “Makes sense, I guess.” As if she has to make sense out of any of the gossip she spreads all over the school.

  Mrs. Abrams closes the classroom door, thus ending the current gossip session. I use most of roll call to think about Eddie and what I’ve learned about him thanks to Kennedy. Eddie’s been in community plays? I wonder what sort of plays he’s performed in, and if he had a leading role in any of them. If he’s into acting, why didn’t he ever try out for any of the school plays? I mean, I understand he was busy with football, but it doesn’t last all year. Maybe he plays other sports. Wait, didn’t he used to play baseball? Maybe he didn’t try out for plays because he thought he’d get picked on by the other jocks.

  Maybe I should stop obsessing over Eddie and pay attention so I know what’s going in on class.

  With a sigh, I focus on Mrs. Abrams and our assignment for the day. We’re supposed to write about a time in our life when we were faced with a problem and how we overcame it. My mind immediately seeks out the biggest problem I’d ever been faced with and how I never overcame the problem—I just ignored it.

  Casting the pain of remembrance aside, I put my pen to paper and prepare to invent a problem to write about. Mrs. Abrams won’t know truth from fiction, and it is creative writing after all. Time to get creative.

  Chapter Three

  The students standing outside the auditorium are frequent fliers—the same kids who audition for every performance. Romeo and Juliet isn’t a musical, but that doesn’t stop the entire show choir from showing up. Like me, most of the show choir members are anxious for the chance to participate in any performance, even if there’s no music involved. At times, it has been challenging to find time to fully participate in choir and drama, but I can’t choose between the two. I love both too much to pick one over the other. And besides, I’m counting on at least a small scholarship based on these extracurricular activities. Every little bit of money counts.