George the zombie tale out of the stack. “You haven’t turned in your paperwork for the writing competition. What you should be
worried about is missing your opportunity at a college scholarship. If you win this competition, you’ll receive money toward any Kentucky school of your choice. It’s not a full scholarship, but it’s something.”
“I’m not going to college,” I say plainly.
She freezes and stares at me as if I’d
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announced her impending death. “Why
not?”
I gesture at my shirt. Is this lady for real?
“I’m a ballplayer. I’m going to play ball.”
“You can play ball at college. Ryan.…” She falters, then places my story in front of me.
“This is the most magnificent piece of writing I’ve seen from a high school student. Ever.
Have you considered that you’re more than a ballplayer?”
My mouth opens to respond, but absolutely nothing comes out and that shocks me into closing it. My mind’s blank. I’m a ballplayer. A damn good one. Isn’t that enough?
“Did you even read the information I gave you about the state competition? For three years I’ve watched you obsess over winning.
Aren’t you interested in winning this too?”
I say nothing as my face reddens. Mrs.
Rowe just called me out and she has a right to.
I didn’t read the paperwork. I haven’t even considered the competition since the other night when she first told me I finaled.
“I have a feeling you enjoyed writing this.
It’s too good for you not to have.”
She’s right again. I did enjoy it. Finding HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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those words, being in George’s head…I
stare down at the printed-out pages…it felt freeing. Just like when I step on the pitcher’s mound before the game and the pressure begins. The moment when it’s just me, a ball, and a mitt to throw into.
And he wondered what
happened to the world around him. Did it also collapse into chaos? Had everything ceased to exist as it was, just like how his life spiraled into nothingness? Or had the rest of the world continued on like normal, because in the end his position within it never really mattered?
The words I wrote glare at me in accusation.
A nagging ache pulls at my insides. I’m proud of those words and denying the competition is like denying part of me. In front of my computer, there were no secrets, no
complications—just a world that I could
control.
“In order to be considered for the award,”
Mrs. Rowe continues, “you need to complete a short story and turn it in a week prior to the HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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event. Your attendance is still required that day, however, as that’s when you’ll get critiques of your work and meet with faculty members from universities across the state. It’s one day. Just one Saturday.”
I hear my dad in my head. “I have games
Saturdays.” And I glance over at Chris, who’s eyeing me warily. How much of this conversation can he hear? “My team’s
depending on me.”
She pats the pages resting in front of me.
“Let’s start off small, okay? Turn this four-page beginning into a true short story. I can yank you out of every weight training, or you can promise me that you’ll write it in your free time at home. The choice is yours.”
And it’s a no-brainer. “I’ll do it in my free time.”
“Good.” Her eyes light up. “But I’m still keeping you for the next hour. I want you to get started now.”
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Beth
ALLISON OWNS A MERCEDES. Leather interior.
Jet-black on the outside. Isaiah would get all hot and bothered about the junk under the hood. She drives fast on the backcountry roads and a couple of times my stomach drops like we’re on a roller coaster.
“You smell like smoke.” Allison wears a red business suit and black stilettos. She’s slicked her blond hair into a painfully tight bun.
Maybe that’s why she’s uptight.
While waiting for Allison to drag herself away from the Ladies’ Planning Committee, I smoked one of the cigarettes I bummed from a stoner boy before the incident in Calculus. I hoped it would help me get over the fight I had with Ryan. I don’t know why, but yelling at him made me feel like crap. Kind of like I do after I fight with Isaiah. “Must be in your HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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head.”
“You smell like smoke when you come home from school. Scott may choose to ignore it, but he’s not ignoring your little stunt in class.” Allison pulls into the massive driveway surrounded by woods and notices when I glance at her. “That’s right. Your teacher called.”
Crap. I don’t have any idea how to get myself out of this.