“He thanked you for quitting the team so he could get your spot,” Dr. Dave says, not like it’s a question, but like he’s saying the words to hear how they sound outside his head.
I kick my legs up on the coffee table. “I think he was even being sincere. It’s hard to tell though, the prick is so damn smug all the time.”
“So you decided to take your anger toward Marcus and Sheila out on this Brett guy.” Again, not really a question.
“And I don’t even feel bad about it. It was kind of exciting. Thrilling. I felt alive. Even when he hit me, it was great. It felt good.”
Dr. Dave writes something in his notebook and then looks up at me, frowning a little.
“Don’t worry, Doc, I’m not going to go all Fight Club or anything.”
He holds my gaze.
“I swear. I’m not going to go looking for fights. It just felt good in the moment. That’s all.”
“Okay. Let’s go back to what your coach said about Stanford.”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I’m surprised. I didn’t think they’d still want me when I can’t even play my senior year.”
“So you’re really not planning on playing at all this year, then.”
“Did I ever say anything to make you think otherwise? Or have you not heard a goddam thing I’ve said this whole entire time?” I pace to the window and peer down into the parking lot.
“You shut down the conversation every time I bring up the subject. I guess I was hoping you would eventually trust me enough to really discuss your options.”
I turn and glare at him. “Well, let’s discuss, then. I’m not playing fucking football. Satisfied?”
“You feel strongly enough about it to jeopardize Stanford?”
“That fate was sealed the second I found my mom.”
Doc doesn’t say anything for a minute. On my way back to the couch, I can practically hear the gears in his head turning as he chooses his next words carefully.
“Have they contacted you? Stanford?”
“No. I don’t know. My dad wouldn’t exactly let me know if they had.”
“Is your dad hoping you fail?” he asks.
“I think our time’s up.”
? ? ?
“What’s that?” Jordyn asks, poking at my forearm as I situate myself at the computer.
“A gash.”
She pokes it harder. “I can see that. What’s it from?”
I shrug her off, but she grabs my wrist and examines the bruising and abrasions on my knuckles. “It was from teeth, not that it’s any of your business.” I yank my wrist away and head to the back for a Coke. That’s just what I need, for her to be all judgmental about me fighting.
“I just hope you weren’t fighting over that bitch Sheila, because she’s so not worth it,” she says.
Fuck her. She doesn’t know everything.
Henry intercepts me on my way back from the kitchen. He needs help replacing the white backdrop roll. We don’t say much as we work, but we don’t need to. There’s a difference since he told me about his brother, like a connection we share that most people would just not get. I don’t know who or what is responsible for our paths crossing, but . . .
“What else do you need for this one?” I ask.
“Not much. This one’s easy. A regular. They just like a plain white backdrop with a white stool, or a bench. The mom’s been bringing her kid here for about four years. She’s raising him on her own. They’re very close. They always wear complementary outfits without being obnoxious about it. The boy’s about the most polite kid I ever met too. So well behaved. And he worships the hell outta his mom.”
I hate them already.
“Jordyn!” Henry calls as he changes a lens.
Jordyn appears through the curtain.
“I think today’d be a good day to fiddle around with the retouching stuff. Tyler needs to learn.”
Jordyn looks at me, her face unreadable, and nods. Then she turns back through the curtain.
“Well?” Henry says, not looking up. “Go on. I’m not paying you to stand around drinking Coke.”
Jordyn’s pulled my chair next to hers. I set the Coke on the counter, take my designated seat, and await further instruction.
“Switch with me. I’m betting you’re the kind of person who learns by doing.” She gets up and pats the back of her chair, waiting for me to move over.
“Open the file with your name.”
I do as told.
“Your choice. Just pick whatever and I’ll show you how to improve on the perfection of Henry’s photographs. If only the subjects were as perfect as his work.”
I choose photo 113. Just because, why not?
The photo that pops up is the one where I look like I’m suffering something fierce.
“Good choice,” she says suspiciously. “How’d you remember which one was my favorite?”