“Is there anything you do miss about it?”
I trace the edge of the leather cushion with my middle finger. “No.”
“Nothing?”
I shake my head.
“Not the rush of adrenaline before a game?”
“Not even that.”
“The camaraderie with the team?” He’s being sarcastic. He knows how I feel about most of the guys on the team.
I manage to smile. “I never thought I’d be one of those people, you know? Those people who don’t know what the hell they want to do with their life. Those people who don’t have a thing. But here I am. I am thing-less.”
“Or maybe you just haven’t found your thing. You have time. That’s what college is for.”
“I’m not doing the whole college thing.”
“Why not?”
“That was my mom’s—”
“Bullshit.”
“What?”
“I said that’s bullshit. You wouldn’t have busted your ass as much as you did if it wasn’t something you also wanted. I’ve seen how your eyes light up when you talk about Stanford.”
“Well, without football, there’s no way Stanford will still want me. And I can’t do football, because I need a job to make money to spend on frivolous things like socks. And food.”
“Food?” He leans forward looking a little alarmed.
Shit. “I’m exaggerating. You know what I mean.”
I know I should tell Dr. Dave everything, but unfortunately, he’s obligated to go to the authorities about stuff like that.
“I could try to talk to your dad about—”
“Yeah, that’s not happening. He wouldn’t talk to you anyway.”
“All right, fine.” He holds his hands up in defeat. “Tyler, you say Stanford wouldn’t want you without football, but I think you’re wrong about that. I think you know you’re wrong about that.”
“Grades and SAT scores only go so far, Doc. And even if they’d still take me, I can’t afford it. Academic scholarships don’t come close to football scholarships, which speaks volumes about the state of our country, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Then check out other schools. Stanford isn’t your only option.”
“And then what?”
“And then you go to school. You meet girls. You have lots of sex. You figure out what you want to do. You enjoy life.”
“What the hell kind of shrink are you? Telling me to go have lots of sex?”
“The kind that wishes he had that option when he was in your shoes. So, on behalf of all the schlubby Jewish boys who couldn’t get girls to give them the time of day, go have fun. Be safe, but have fun.”
“And by fun you mean . . .”
“I mean sex,” Dr. Dave says.
“Do they know you give this kind of advice?”
He shrugs. “But it’s good advice, am I right?”
I laugh. This is why I come here.
“So what’s your plan for this week?” he asks.
“No clue. I guess I have to find another job, so I’ll probably head to the mall or something.”
“That’s good. Now, what about the journaling? How’s that going?”
“Dear Diary, today Sheila wore green nail polish, and it made me feel sad.”
“You make fun, but I think it might be helpful. You don’t have to write about your girlfriend. You don’t even have to write about yourself. You know what? I have an idea.” He heads over to the cabinet behind his desk. “While you’re out looking for a job, I want you to watch some people interact and write about it. Specifically what their interaction evokes in you. Do you pity them? Envy them? I think this could be good. Let’s reconnect you with your feelings.” He sits back down and tosses a spiral notebook to me. It’s black with a big yellow smiley face on the front.
“Did you seriously just say that? Reconnect me with my feelings? That may be the shrinkiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“That may be the shrinkiest thing I’ve ever said, but I still want you to do it.”
“And is there some significance to this?” I hold up the notebook, smiley face out.
He grins. “It was on sale.”
? ? ?
“That asshole boss of yours called. Said something about your final paycheck. You get fired or something?” Dad sounds exhausted. He’s lying on the couch with a beer resting on his chest and about five empties lined up on the floor. The TV’s off, but he stares at it like he’s watching a riveting episode of CSI. There’s a wadded-up ball of tissues on the floor. I really hope he wasn’t just watching porn.
He blows his nose and tosses the used tissue next to all the others. Oh. He’s sick. Perfect.
I turn back toward the kitchen. “I think there’s some NyQuil—”
“Did you? Get fired?” he interrupts, still staring at the blank screen.
“I quit.” Not that it’s any of his business.
“I’m not paying for any of your shit.”