Page 82 of Unloved

“Hey,” she replies, kicking her shoes off and pulling her slicked-back bun down, combing it harshly with her fingers. I want to offer to brush it out for her, to sit her in one of the chairs and take my time smoothing out the tangles so the stress lines marring her face disappear.

“Everything okay, Sadie?”

She heaves in a deep breath, stopping at the corner of our cozy kitchen breakfast nook and shaking her head.

“Honestly, I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Oh, yeah. Totally understand.”

Actually,I don’t. I hate it. Anxiety swirls as I try to think over every conversation we’ve had in the past week—maybe even the past month. Is it possible I’ve done something to upset her? Something that would make hernotwant to talk to me about whatever is bothering her?

The urge to apologize is nearly too strong to bite back, but I manage to strangle it in my throat and only nod with a too-bright, too-fake smile.

She turns for her bedroom without another word, while I call after her with a “Good night.”

The apartment feels empty, despite it being overly full, as I pad back into my room.

My phone vibrates and the shock of it is enough that I nearly drop it.

MOMMA

How is my girl? Resting well?

The sight of her text has me closing my eyes and imagining her arms wrapped around me, my head tucked into her shoulder while she scratches her nails lightly up and down my arm to soothe me.

For a moment, I consider calling her and telling her everything I’m feeling—how worried I am over Sadie, the fear I feel every time my phone rings, the complicated feelings I have for Matt—but the second tears start to well in my eyes as I consider what I might say, I toss my phone into a drawer and slam it shut.

My mom and dad are everything good in my life. They don’t deserve my complaints—they deserve my success for how hard they’ve worked to get us through the last seven years.

So I swallow it all down—a healthy dose ofis she mad at mefollowed by a scoop of homesickness and heartbreak, the fear that nothing will ever begoodagain—and turn on my sewing machine.

It’s past midnight by the time I stop, a pile of reworked clothes scattered across my floor like a fashion major’s project threw up in here, but the tie is on top. Navy blue with the Waterfell Wolves logo patched into the end, and white letters embroidered on the back.

When I check my phone again, there are twenty-five missed calls from two unknown numbers and my stomach sinks. I delete the notifications and slam my phone back into my drawer for the night, because eventhinkingabout what to do with that problem makes my temples pulse with an oncoming headache.

I force myself to study my actual major classes for an hour before falling asleep atop my comforter with a hardback textbook as a pillow.

CHAPTER 30Freddy

My knee is bouncing so rapidly I’m worried I’m gonna pull something before our away game this weekend, but the flurry of emotions is too high.

A fucking mandatory adviser meeting, with my math professor, like they’ve been invited to sit front row at my shame fest. All because I failed another test.

My mom stands in front of me like a warrior, barking words I don’t understand at my principal and the mean teacher who doesn’t like me.

I wait quietly, kicking my feet back and forth to keep from getting “spinny.” That’s what my mom calls it when my brain starts to go too fast and I can’t stay present or listen well.

Coach Ace’s car idles in front of the school, and he gives me a quick smile and buckles me in the back before getting in to drive us.

“He’s only in third grade,” he says to my mom, his hand grabbing hers. “It’ll be okay.”

“Archer, you should’ve heard the way they spoke about him, with him right there.”

They keep talking—hushed whispers that I can barely make out, but that one word they keep saying is confusing, so I finally ask, “What’s discount-ca-lala?”

Mom turns in her seat to face me. Her nails—green with whitesmiley faces and cool patterns—dig into the leather as she gives me a soft smile.

“Dyscalculia,” she says before giggling a little. “It’s a hard word, huh?”

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