“Just have to grab my notebook,” Haley says. She walks between them to her desk and picks up the notebook and phone. The only sound is Jenny sniffling. As she turns to leave, Haley exchanges glances with the blonde. Her wide, copper--colored eyes communicate nothing. Her mouth forms a thin half smile. She nods good--bye, dismissing Haley from her own room.
What the hell? Haley thinks as she power walks to the class she’s already late for. They haven’t been speaking, her and Jenny. Not beyond the automatic “Hey how’s it going.” Frankly, Haley’s pissed. She’d apologized for supposedly yelling the other night; wasn’t that enough? And you’d think, given how awful she’s felt this week, lying in their room with her head throbbing, Jenny would’ve been maybe a little thoughtful? Offered to bring her a sandwich, or at least ask how she was doing, especially after Haley’s parents showed up? You know things are not going well when the ’rents show up and it’s not Parents Weekend.
Instead, Jenny--Mouse was more furtive than ever, bordering on unfriendly. Avoiding eye contact. Huddling on her bed with her back to Haley, whispering into her phone. And that’s if she thought Haley was asleep. If Haley was awake and Jenny’s phone went off, she’d tell whomever on the other end, “I can’t talk now. I’ll call you later.”
As if I give a damn about her little dramas. Haley pushes open the doors to the lecture hall. It’s a big survey class, Ameri-can history from the colonial period to the Civil War, and she slips unnoticed into an empty seat in the back.
She’s had her fill of drama lately. This morning at breakfast, for example. When she broke the news to Madison that she was off the team.
Madison stared at her across the dining hall table. “That so. Utterly. Sucks.”
The crowded room was a riot of light and noise. Haley felt far from great, but the docs told her she could give the big dining scene a try.
Madison was the first one she’d told.
“There’s still two weeks left of the regular season,” Madison persisted. “Can’t you get back for postseason?”
“It’s not about the postseason, or any season,” Haley said. “It’s about ever. Coach won’t play me. She’s afraid if I bang my head again and permanently damage my brain, we’ll sue the college. I’m a liability.”
Madison waved one hand dismissively. “Sign a waiver or something.”
“Not an option.”
“Why?”
“Because Coach said no! Trust me: it came up. If she doesn’t want to put me out on the field, she doesn’t have to. Play time isn’t a right. It’s a privilege.”
Not Haley’s words. Repeated words. From yesterday’s meeting. With her mom and dad. Coach. The college medi-cal director, who reviewed the results of Haley’s impact test (they finally did one) and pronounced her soccer career officially over.
The look on her mother’s face was priceless. Her mouth popped open in this little O as the doctor explained the risks she faced if she concussed again. Haley’s first thought was: That’s what they mean, in novels, when they describe someone’s jaw dropping in surprise. And she was surprised by her own detached observation. As if this weren’t happening to her. As if the defining activity of her life hadn’t just come to an abrupt end.
She was surprised that she felt nothing beyond mild curiosity, while her mother appeared tearful and her father grim.
Actually, that’s not true. She felt awful about Coach.
It hurt, the way she shook their hands, businesslike, and hurried off to some other appointment when they were done. Hurt, the way she responded when her mother brought up signing something. A waiver.
“You may be willing to put your daughter at risk, but I’m under no obligation to do so,” she’d said. Steel in her voice. “Participation on my team is not a right. It’s a privilege. And Haley revoked that privilege when I recruited her and she neglected to tell me she’d had multiple head injuries.”
There was a long silence following that. Broken by Haley’s mom.
“Your kicking her off the team would appear to support our decision to withhold that information. The fact is if she’d volunteered her private medical records, you wouldn’t have recruited her. And if she hadn’t bumped heads with someone last weekend, she’d still be your starting striker.”
“And still be at risk for permanent brain injury,” Coach shot back. “May I ask, what’s the goal here? No pun intended.”
Haley’s father rose. “The goal,” he said quietly, “is good health and an education.” He extended his hand toward Coach, who stood as well. “Thank you. We wish you and the team every success.” He looked pointedly at Haley’s mother. “Let’s go.”
That was when Coach spoke directly to Haley.
“By the way, you haven’t been ‘kicked off.’ You are benched due to injury and expected to attend every game. Your teammates will want you there, and I want you there, right on through to the end of the season.”
Haley could feel her own grateful smile. “Thanks.”
Then Coach hurried off without another word. Her mother had no choice but to do the same.
Madison seemed exasperated after Haley repeated this story. “Haley—duh!” she had exclaimed. “Listen to the woman. Benched is not kicked off! Give yourself time.”