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Chapter 14
“Damien Rogers lives on campus, right? He’s the defensive end?” Beth asked as Ali made her bed.
“No. But Damien Jacobson does. He’s a wide out.”
Beth groaned. “Rogers missed art. I mean, art. You just have to show up and draw a picture. Is that really worth missing?”
“I’ll text him,” Ali said, pulling the phone down from her ear. She could shoot the right Damien a message, reminding him that art wasn’t worth skipping. But as she put Beth on speaker and scrolled through her contacts, Ali paused.
For seven years, she made herself available to all of her students, not just the athletes. But it was the athletes that needed her the most. Sometimes they called her asking for actual academic help—“I have an exam tomorrow and have no notes,” or “How bad would it be if I triple spaced the paper to make it ten pages?”—and other times they sent her funny memes, selfies of themselves in the library. Her job might have been about mentorship, but friendship came with it too, and that included texts at all hours.
I can’t focus because my dad got arrested last night.
I failed the last quiz. Too late to drop the class?
Ms. Whitaker, did you remember to get blow pops?
Her office was almost never without a student in it, arm deep in the candy drawer, whether she was in there or not. An open-door policy, that’s what Ali told everyone when she first met them.
That’s what I told Graham.
“Actually, Damien idolizes Cornell. You’ll have to tell him he missed class today anyway. He’ll talk to Damien. I’ll follow up on Monday with everyone who has skipped since I’ve been out.”
Beth sighed. “Ali, why don’t you take a little more—”
“I can’t,” Ali said. “I’m going crazy here.” She could hear her mother puttering about downstairs. “I need some normalcy.”
And all I can think of here is the reason I’m not there.She missed the distraction of work, a routine, Mowgli, her home, and Cornell.
Ali shut her eyes as guilt swept over her, knowing her absence was unfair to him.
“Mr. Rogers! You better get back here. Ali, I found him. I’ve got to go.”
Ali could hear Damien in the back, making all kinds of wisecracks. “It’s just art!”
She ended the call, opening up her contacts. There had to have been over a hundred students’ numbers. There were many who checked in regularly, asking if she would come up to their game, or even better, their graduation.
Ali scrolled to Graham’s name and deleted it. She wouldn’t delete the others, but she would never exchange numbers with another student again. The normalcy Ali was craving would have to be the slightest bit different if she wanted to go back to living.
* * *
Bobbi pulled into a spot in front of the office building. “Do you want me to come in with you?”
Ali didn’t want her mother to drive her in the first place. But Bobbi pushed and pushed. All her mother did was push.
“I went ahead and made you an appointment with Linda. Just talk to her once and see how you feel.” Or “Let’s get you a car today. Don’t worry about the down payment. When insurance reimburses you, we’ll sort it out.” And now Bobbi wouldn’t even let Ali drive the car she had bought her. “What if you’re tired after?”
Shaking her head, Ali unclipped her seat belt. “I’m a big girl.”
Big girls go to therapy by themselves even when they don’t need to, just to get their mothers off their backs.
Ali left her mother’s car, made her way into the building, and down the hall. “Alison Whitaker,” she told the receptionist, who slid her a clipboard that Ali took and sat down. She filled out the contact information and medical history quickly and then paused.
Reason for visit:
Tapping the pen against the clipboard, Ali crossed and uncrossed her legs, taking a deep breath. I’m here under duress because I have an overbearing mother, but Ali sighed, wondering if she should just be honest. I need help convincing my body it wasn’t taken from me. It’s still here and he’s gone, and I need to get over it. How do I make it stop?
Ali stood, handing the clipboard back, leaving the answer blank, trying to ignore the way her heart raced, her palms sweat, the throbbing of the now invisible bruise. She returned to the seat and rubbed her arm, trying not to make awkward eye contact with the receptionist.
