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I don’t know. And it burns me. I have to know.
At home, I run through my house until I reach my office.
Lies. It could all be lies. Years of it.
Hands shaking, I tear open my filing cabinets, intent on ripping out old tests and essays. Papers flap, slap, and flutter to the floor. I grab an old test, ready to pick it apart, when I stop, my breath coming out in hard pants.
The page wavers before my eyes, the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. And then I crumple the test in my fist. I can’t look.
“Fuck!” I chuck the balled-up paper as hard as I can. It hits the wall with an ineffectual tap. “Fuck!”
Sinking to the floor, I grab the ends of my hair and blink hard. I’m shaking, and I can’t stop. I want to vomit. I want to kick my desk apart.
I’m a coward, because I can’t bring myself to know the truth. If they’ve all helped me, I can’t live with the humiliation. But the doubt is already seeded, and I know it will never go away. I can try to be the best person I can be, but the world only wants to see one side of me. And I feel sick to my bones.
fifteen
Drew
Another game, another win. We’re undefeated. The playoffs, a first for college football, are closing in, and the championship is ours to lose. The guys are jubilant as the bus rolls back onto campus.
Rain comes down in thick, hard sheets that pound the top of the bus like gunfire. It doesn’t stop us from running out into it, or laughing as Marshall slips in the mud, falls on his ass, and curses.
I stop to get my bag, waiting my turn as the driver sorts through the luggage. Seems the sensible thing would have been to stay on the bus.
Across the way, Harrison’s girl is waiting under a massive umbrella, her butt leaning against a gleaming black Range Rover.
“Wooo.” Rolondo Johnson, our star wideout, whistles under his breath as he comes up beside me. “That’s one sweet ride.”
“Whose car is it?” I ask, frowning as Harrison runs over to greet his girl. Because we both know it was either an overly supportive booster or an agent who handed him that car. Agents are particularly aggressive in their pursuit of us. They can’t outright give us things, but they are masters of finding gray areas—lend a luxury car indefinitely, buy a guy’s destitute parents a mansion, buy his childhood friends gifts in exchange for putting in a good word for them, and a dozen other shining carrots dangled in our faces if we just sign with them.
“Garrity’s.”
One of the sleazier agents. Oh, there are some who are subtler. They show up at games with company reps, promising massive advertisement deals they can work for you. Or they arrange for girls to take personal care of you. I touched my first pair of fake tits courtesy of an agent’s special room delivery. Lesson learned? Plastic is never as good as real flesh.
Rolondo shakes his head, sending water scattering from the ends of his dreads. “Harrison better not get hurt or he’s gonna miss that ride.”
“He shouldn’t have taken it at all. It’s risky. Not to mention he’s playing Russian roulette with the Committee on Infractions.” Who have brought down bigger and better players for lesser violations.
Hearing my tone, Rolondo glances at me, and his expression goes tight, rain bouncing on his shoulders. “You think it’s so easy? You already have money.” He frowns. “You didn’t share a shithole room with two siblings or search your sheets for roaches at night.”
His words wrap around my neck, choking me. Should I feel guilty? Maybe I should. Maybe I should nod and shut up. Not like he’d notice; he’s still laying into me.
“You didn’t have to deal with any of that. You had a family who—” Rolondo stops short, his eyes wide with horror, and worse, pity. “Damn, man, I didn’t mean that.”
“No, you’re right, I had it good.” I refuse to be pitied about the loss of it. “And you can call me a patronizing bitch if you want. But Harrison, you, me, we’ve got the talent to do it all on our own. Not suck some agent’s dick cuz he’s got fancy toys.”
Rolondo’s nostrils flare, his mouth hard, but then he breaks out into a wide grin and laughs. “Shit, you don’t need to go all After-School Special on me, Battle.”
“Me?” I snort. “You’re the one expounding the disparities of our upbringing.”
His feathery brows lift, and he gives me the amused look he always does when I fall into what he calls “Professor Mode.”
Heat spreads over my cheeks and intensifies when Rolondo says, “And here I thought I was pointing out the impact of our divergent socio-economic status when faced with potential agent-induced incentives.”
We both look at each other for a second then laugh again.
“Fucking sociology major,” I mutter.
