Page 33 of The Way I Am Now
Fridays are always dead here, especially during summer sessions, so I finally have a chance to study. I’m wading my way through the chapter on research methods for my psych class, when I hear Coach’s telltale key chain jingling down the hall. I straighten up, take a sip of coffee, try to look more alert than I am.
As he walks up to the desk, he says, “Bright and early Monday morning, yes?”
“Yes,” I agree, “see you Monday.”
“Tell your father hello for me,” he adds.
“Will do, thanks, Coach. Have a good weekend.”
I’ve almost earned my way back into my coach’s good graces. He got me this work-study position for the summer, I think, mostly to keep tabs on me. He’s tried hard to make sure there’s been no time for study, no time for anything, except working my ass off to prove myself. Which has meant basically being errand boy for the whole department. Someone needs lunch, I go get it. A visiting bigwig donor or VIP needs to be picked up at the airport, I’m their chauffeur. Gym equipment needs cleaning, I’m the janitor. Struggling athlete requires tutor—that’s me too. He did at least let me take the weekend to go home; I told him it was a family thing, and I was thankful he didn’t press me for details.
I guess I deserve the punishment, considering what I did.
But every morning when my alarm goes off at the crack of dawn for practice, I have this tug-of-war in my head. Between the part of me that knows I’m lucky to have this chance and wants to follow through on my commitment. Because I made a commitment to take the scholarship and play on this team. Plus, I know it makes my dad happy. Then there’s the other part of me that just wants to sleep in every once in a while, wants to be a regular student, here to get an education instead of play a game I rarely enjoy.
Most of the guys on the team only take three classes during the semester because there just aren’t enough hours in the day for any more than that, but I’ve forced myself to take four this last year, against my adviser’s recommendation. This summer, I’m trying to get at least two more classes under my belt; otherwise, I’ll end up in college for an extra year at this rate, and I do not want to be playing any longer than I have to.
It’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting into, all the stupid sacrifice and pressure. But to be so burned out after two years and still not be even halfway through makes me want to leave it all behind some days. Basketball, school even. But this morning before class, my psych professor asked me something I hadn’t considered before and haven’t stopped thinking about since; she wanted to know if I’d be declaring a minor this fall.
“A minor?” I repeated—I’ve barely declared amajoras it is. Sports medicine was something Bella talked me into freshman year, and it seemed logical at the time. She was pre-med—still is, I’m sure—and she made a very convincing case.
“A minor in psychology,” Dr. Gupta clarified when she saw I wasn’t computing what she meant. “You have all the prerequisites already.” I’ve taken two classes with Dr. Gupta, and another psych class last semester to fulfill a social science requirement. I had my AP Psychology credits from high school, so I didn’t need to take any extra intro-level courses to start taking psych classes—it made sense. After all, I’m interested in the subject, but it wasn’t part of some larger plan. Just sort of happened. So, I didn’t know how to answer her.
“Think about it,” she told me. “Let me know if you have questions.”
But now that I’m sitting here, really thinking about it all, Bella’s argument was mainly thatIplayed a sport andshewas studying medicine, so we would be able to take some classes together.
I take my phone out—she texted me at the beginning of the week. The first time I’ve heard from her since we broke up in December. She wrote:
Are you on campus for the summer?
Want to get a drink sometime, catch up?
I’ve been putting off responding because I’d feel bad if I said no, but if I said yes, I can foresee what would happen. She’d take me back even though I hurt her, and I’d let myself go along with it because we made sense on paper. And that rational part of me, the one that keeps my commitments even when I don’t want to, does sometimes wonder if I threw away a good thing with her. It wonders what would’ve happened if I hadn’t answered Eden’s call that night. I’m 99 percent sure Bella and I would still be together and I wouldn’t have found out about what happened to Eden and I’d be blissfully ignorant about my dad’s relapse and I never would’ve screwed up basketball last winter, and these last seven months would’ve been smooth sailing, everything going as planned.
But even as I reread her text now, I’m reminded of the things off paper that didn’t work.
She asked if I wanted to get a drink because she doesn’t even know I don’t like to drink. Because I’d never told her. And I never told her because then she’d ask why and I’d also have to tell her about my dad and how the handful of times I’ve been drinking in my life, I’ve drunk way too much and ended up massively regretting it and being terrified that I’m more like my dad in that way than I want to admit. Because even though we lived together and we got along and I genuinely liked her—loved her, I thought—there still were things I could never say to her. Not like Eden.
I leave Bella’s text sitting there and switch over to Eden’s text from this morning, the one that made me literally laugh out loud in the locker room.
At work rn, perfecting the art of latte foam
design
She sent a picture of a wide-rimmed mug with the Bean logo from back home—she’d mentioned a couple of weeks ago she got a job there.
I know, I know. a lot of baristas go for the
obvious heart or rosette, but my signature
shape is . . . the blob.
It’s very blobby (sp?). Starbucks has
nothin on the Bean
thank you.
