by Kai Juniper
"Coach decides that, not you."
"You really want to test that theory?"
Wyatt blows out a breath. "If I tell you, it stays at this table. Don't go spreading this shit around school."
"Yeah?" Miles says. "So what is it?"
Wyatt leans forward, motioning us to the do the same. Once we're huddled together, he says, "The cops are looking into the Andrea thing again."
"No shit?" Miles whispers. "How do you know?"
"My dad plays golf with the chief of police. They played on Saturday and the guy told my dad they were reopening the case."
"Why would he tell him that?" Miles asks. "Shouldn't that shit be private?"
"He got a call when they were golfing, and from what he was saying, my dad figured it out. He asked him about it and the guy admitted it. He said they got new evidence."
"Against Braden?" Kade asks.
"I don't know. I only know what I told you."
"So that's why the lawyer's here," Kade says. "Fuck. He better not get arrested. If he does, there goes our chance at State."
That's all they care about? Their friend may be going to jail but they're more worried about winning and going to State?
"Bell's about to go off," Dante says, getting up.
We take our trays to the drop-off area.
"When do you have Pruitt?" Dante asks.
"Right now." I groan.
He laughs. "She's not that bad."
"You're lying."
"She's strict, but outside of class she's nice." He opens the cafeteria door for me as we leave. "She goes to our church."
"You go to church?"
"Only on holidays, but my parents go every week. Ms. Pruitt does too. She was going to be a nun but decided to go into teaching instead."
"Ms. Pruitt was going to be nun?" I say as we go down the hall. "I guess I could see that."
He stops at the door to my class. "Good luck."
"Thanks. I'll need it."
The door swings open and there's Ms. Pruitt, standing straight and tall, her hair in a tight bun, her glasses perched on her nose.
"Ms. Halliway," she says, shoving the doorstop in the door with her tan leather loafers. "How are you adjusting to the school?"
"Great!" I say in an overly enthusiastic way, a big smile on my face. "I love it!"
She stares at me, knowing it's a lie. "Please take your seat."
I sit in the back, like I always do. The class quickly fills up, nobody wanting to be late now that Ms. Pruitt is back. When we had the sub, everyone came in right before the bell rang.
"Welcome back everyone," Ms. Pruitt says. "I'm going to start by handing out the quiz that was administered last Friday. Unfortunately, many of you did not pass. I expect you all to work extra hard this week to acquire the knowledge you'll need for the next exam, which will be coming up soon."
She hands out the quizzes. I got a D, which is better than I was expecting. The girl next to me got an F.
Ms. Pruitt begins her lesson. I scribble notes down as she talks, trying to listen at the same time. I don't know why I'm trying so hard. I don't care about this class. It's more like I feel this need to prove to Ms. Pruitt I'm not as stupid as she thinks.
By the end of class I'm exhausted and have a hard time focusing for the rest of the day. At four I wait for Trystan, but as usual, he's one of the last to leave. He gets mad when he has to wait even a minute for me in the morning and yet he's at least ten minutes late leaving school every day.
"Why are you always the last to leave?" I ask when he finally shows up.
"I'm not the last," he says, swinging his backpack over his shoulder.
"Look around. Everyone's gone."
He gets his phone out, ignoring me as we walk to the car.
"What happened to Braden?" I ask.
"What do you mean?"
"Your dad's lawyer showed up at lunch and took him away."
Trystan shrugs. "They must not have talked long. I saw him after lunch."
"He didn't say anything?"
"No." He smiles at me as he opens his door. "Did you guys go make out in the cleaning closet?"
"You're disgusting," I say, getting in the car.
"Under the bleachers?" he says as we're driving off.
"We didn't make out. And stop talking about it. I'm gonna throw up."
He laughs. "I think it's cute the way you pretend you don't like him."
"Yeah, you're hilarious. Oh, on Wednesday, I have to see the stupid counselor after school so I need you to wait to take me home."
"Fuck that. You'll need to find someone else."
"What if you went home and came back? I'll give you gas money."
"I don't need fucking gas money. Dad pays for that."
"Then what's the big deal? Just come back and pick me up."
"Ask someone else to do it. Like Peyton. She seems to be your new best friend. I saw her following you around all day."
"She's not my friend. She lies. And dates old guys her dad works with."
"She's the one who needs counseling."
"I know, right? Trystan, c'mon, will you just pick me up? It's not that far."
"Can't do it. I have a date on Wednesday."
"A date? With who?"
"None of your damn business."
"Is it someone at school?"
"I'll repeat. None of your damn business. Just get your damn driver's license and this wouldn't be a problem."
"To get a license I have to get a permit and then wait an entire year before I can get an actual license where I can drive without having someone with me in the car."
"Yeah, that sucks. My dad used to pay a guy to ride with me since he wasn't here."
"Like a stranger?"
"It was a guy he knew. Another actor. He needed money so he agreed to do it."
Trystan turns his music on and blasts it, ending our conversation.
When we get to the house I go to find Brock. He's in the kitchen with Ana. She's facing the stove and Brock's behind her, his arms wrapped around her, kissing her neck. At least he's single again.
I clear my throat, startling them. They quickly break apart.
"Rumor," Brock says, turning to me. Ana remains at the stove, stirring something. "How was school?"
"I had to see the counselor today."
"And?" His brows lift.
"She's making me meet with her after school. I won't have a way home. I need you to pick me up."
"What about Trystan?"
"He won't do it. He has a date."
"With who?"
"I don't know. He wouldn't tell me."
Brock turns to Ana. "What are you doing on Wednesday? Could you pick her up?"
She glances back at him. "I suppose I could. What time?"
"Probably around five," I tell her. "I could text you when I'm done."
She nods and turns back to the stove.
"Are you busy on Wednesday?" I ask Brock.
"I'm not sure yet. I might have a meeting with Gunner."
He has nothing planned but he won't pick me up? He's so self-centered. I can't believe he had kids, but I understand why they're so messed up.
"I set up an appointment with Ms. Robbins,” Brock says.
"Who's Ms. Robbins?"
"The counselor I told you about. The one the boys saw. She'll be meeting with you next Tuesday."
"I thought you were going to wait until I was done seeing Ms. Adams."
"Which should happen by the end of this week. Did you do as I told you?"
"I tried, but she kept asking me questions."
"Which I told you not to answer." He comes over to me, taking my arm and leading me out of the kitchen to the living room. "I don't want you seeing Ms. Adams. And I don't want you talking to her about me or this family."
"Why? Do you two have a history?"
He hesitates. "We might have gone on a date or two, but that's beside the point. I don't want you seeing her because I don't feel she's qualified. The next ti
me you meet with her, I want you to keep quiet, no matter what she asks."
"Okay, but I don't think she'll end our sessions. She'd get in trouble."
"That's not for you to worry about. Just do as I say and keep quiet."
The doorbell rings.
"That's the lawyer," Brock says. "Go tell Ana what you'd like for dinner."
He leaves and I go in the kitchen. Ana is still stirring something on the stove.
"What are you making?" I ask.
"Bone broth," she says.
"What's that?"
She glances back at me. "You boil bones in water to make a broth."
"No offense but that sounds disgusting. What's it for?"
"Braden. It's been shown to help athletes heal faster after an injury."
I walk over to the stove, putting my nose to the pot. It smells awful.
"Have you tried it?" I ask.
"Yes. It doesn't taste good on its own but I'll add some seasoning to make it more palatable."
Braden walks in. "Is it ready?""
"Not yet," Ana says. "It needs to simmer a little longer."
"I'll be with Dad in his office," Braden says. "Text me when it's ready."
"What's going on?" I ask Braden. "Why's the lawyer here?"
He glances at Ana, then back at me, giving me a look that says I shouldn't be talking about this around Ana.
"Oh, I remember," I say. "Never mind."
When he's gone, Ana turns to me. "What would you like for dinner?"
"I know it takes forever so you can say no, but could you maybe make lasagna? You don't have to make your own sauce or anything. You don't even have to make it tonight. I just really miss lasagna. It's one of the few things my mom used to make."
Brock must've told her what happened to my mom because she gives me that sad look people give me when I mention my mom. "I'll have it ready at six. Will that work?"
"That's great! Thanks! And thanks for agreeing to pick me up Wednesday."
She nods and goes back to stirring her sauce. She doesn't seem very happy. I wonder what her life is like outside of work.
When six arrives, I race to the kitchen, smelling the cheesy lasagna the moment I leave my room.
"That smells amazing," I say to Ana as she gathers up her things.
"It's plated and on the table. Enjoy."
"Thanks!" I say as she leaves.
I take the plate from the table, bring it to the kitchen island, and take a seat on one of the metal stools.
"Something smells good," Brock says, coming into the kitchen. He's holding a glass of bourbon. He has bottles of it in his office.
"I asked Ana to make lasagna. You can have some. She made a whole pan."
"Lasagna." He takes a drink of the bourbon. "Your mother's favorite."
"It was. How'd you know?"
He sits beside me, almost falling over. He's drunk. I've never seen him drunk.
"Sonia took me to her favorite place in Little Italy. She said she could eat lasagna every day for the rest of her life."
"You and my mom went to dinner?" I set my fork down. "When was this?"
"Before you were born," he says, waving his hand around as he takes another drink. "I was in New York to see Devon perform in an off Broadway play." He smiles. "Your mother was in her portrait phase where all she wanted to do was paint people. She wanted me to pose for her but I didn't have time."
I turn to him, eager to hear more. I didn't know he knew my mom before I was born. I thought my dad introduced them later.
"Did my dad pose for her?" I ask.
"Probably. He had nothing else to do, other than be in that ridiculous play."
"Is that when you first met my mom? When you went to see my dad in that play?"
"I'd met her before." He finishes his drink, then gets up. "I'll be in my office."
"Wait!" I follow him down the hall, thinking his drunken state might be my only chance to get the truth out of him.
"What is it?" he asks.
"I need to see my dad. Tell me where he is."
He frowns. "Rumor, you know where he is."
"No, I don't. The rehab place said he left weeks ago. Is he back at his apartment?"
Brock puts his hands on my shoulders and leans down to my face. "Your father is a drunk. A junkie. He'll go wherever he needs to go to get his fix."
"Yeah? So how would I know where that is?"
"You don't. Nobody does."
"Then why'd you say I know where he is?"
"I was talking in a general sense, as in you know where addicts tend to end up."
"Where? At shelters? Under a bridge? Are you saying he's homeless?"
"He could be any of those places. Or..."
"Or what?"
He sighs. "Or he could be dead."
Chapter Eighteen
"Dead?" I shove away from him. "Why would you even say that?"
"It's a possibility. I didn't say it was true. But addicts don't typically have a long lifespan. Every time they overdose could be the end."
"When's the last time you talked to him?"
"It's been weeks."
"So it's possible..." I don't even want to say it. My dad's a shitty father but I don't want him to be dead.
"I'm sure he's fine. Devon's disappeared before and found his way back. Just give it some time." Brock turns and walks back to his office, closing the door.
Going back to the kitchen, I grab my plate of lasagna and go in my room, shutting and locking the door.
I text Jackson. Can you talk? My phone rings and I go in my closet to answer. "Hey, are you home?"
"I'm at the gym. I'm in my car so we can talk. What's going on?"
"Brock said my dad might be dead."
"Dead? How?"
"From drugs. He didn't actually say he's dead. He just said he hasn't heard from him in weeks and that he could be dead."
"Just ignore him. You can't trust Brock. He lies for a living."
"But why would he say that?"
"I don't know. To make you stop looking for your dad?"
"I guess that's possible. And Brock's really drunk right now so...."
"Then I definitely wouldn't trust anything he says. Why is he drunk? Did something happen?"
"Maybe. His lawyer showed up at lunch today and took Braden away. I don't know what that's about but it had to be important if he showed up at school. Oh, I have some news. Two other football players are injured. Dante hurt his shoulder and Kade hurt his wrist."
"After the first game." Jackson laughs. "Their season might be ending sooner than I thought."
"Braden went back to practice today. I saw him limping when he was home so his knee definitely isn't back to normal but he refused to miss practice."
"He's going to make it worse by not giving it time to heal. That'll work to our advantage. Any other updates on the team?"
"They were talking about their field being torn up. They said they checked the security cameras and didn't see anyone on the field the night it happened. They think someone messed with the video." I pause, not wanting to accuse him but wondering if he was involved.
"You think I did it?"
"No. Well, maybe." I chew on my lip. "Did you?"
"It wasn't me, or anyone else on the team. Some other school did it."
"Everyone thinks it was you."
"That doesn't surprise me. But if I did it, why would I do it now? We don't play them until late in the season. If I was going to do it, I'd do it right before the game."
"How were they able to erase that part of the recording? Is it that easy to do?"
"The guy I hired did it for a lot of people. But he's fired now so it won't be as easy to do anymore."
"Hey, going back to my dad, do you think we could go to LA this weekend? See if he's at his apartment?"
"I don't know if this weekend will work. I have two-a-days for football and I promised Kristen I'd—"
"Kristen?" I sigh. "You're doing something with Kristen this
weekend?"
"It's not what you think. I'm helping her with something. That's it."
"What are you helping her with?"
"I can't say. But I don't think I'll have to much longer."
"I'm really getting tired of this."
"Tired of what?"
"You hiding whatever you're doing with Kristen. Why can't you tell me?"
"Because I told her I wouldn't."
"That was before you had a girlfriend. It's different now. You and I can't have a relationship if you and her have all these secrets I'm not allowed to know about."
"It'll be over soon. I promise."
"That's not good enough," I say, getting angry. "I want it to end. I want you to stop seeing her and stop letting her come over."
"I can't. Not yet."
"Then at least tell me what this is about."
"I'm sorry, but I can't do that."
"Then don't call me again until you can." I hang up on him, furious he's being so stubborn about this, and being so loyal to Kristen. I'm giving him all this information about Braden and his team and he can't even give me a tiny clue about what's going on with him and Kristen.
I finish my lasagna, then try to do my English homework but end up falling asleep. I wake up at midnight and check my phone, assuming Jackson would've tried to call me back but he didn't. There isn't even a text from him.
Maybe I took it too far. Maybe I should've respected his privacy, and I would have if it didn't involve Kristen. I don't trust her. She wants Jackson for herself and she'll do anything to get him.
In the morning I go out to the car early so I don't have to deal with Trystan yelling at me. He does it anyway.
"Why didn't you tell me you were out here?" he asks, getting in the car. "I was searching the whole damn house for you."
"You keep telling me to get out here early and now you're yelling at me?"
"Because you never actually do what I say." He speeds out of the driveway and down the street. He's a horrible driver. I can't believe he hasn't had an accident.
"Ready for your date tomorrow?" I ask, laughing a little.
"Why is that funny?" He slams on the brakes as we approach a stop sign.
"I've just never heard you talk about girls."
"You've only known me a few weeks. And I keep that shit quiet. I don't go around telling people who I'm with."
"Have you had many girlfriends?"
