basically throwing his things up on the shelf while my eyes burn with a cocktail of anger and guilt. The top shelf becomes crowded with these trinkets that helped form the animosity my brother now exhibits against me.
Even his photos were kept down here. I lift up the one from our freshman year, his skinny arms barely filling out the varsity jersey, and as I hold it up to study, a folded piece of paper slides out from the back of the frame.
Setting the photo in the very center of the bookcase, I straighten out the paper, instantly recognizing the logo on the letterhead. I applied for Olsen Training Academy in eighth grade. It’s a boarding school in Texas where sports are treated with the same weight as math and science. It’s a factory for elite athletes, and more than half of the athletes that go through the program end up playing in the pros for whatever sport they specialize in. Almost all of them play in college. Dad helped me apply, and I bugged my parents every day for three months asking if they’d gotten a call, an email . . . a letter.
I fall to my ass and sit, holding the letter in both hands as I imagine this life I could have had, my almost life.
Provisional acceptance.
I was one visit to the campus away. An interview that I no doubt would have aced. There’s no way my dad knew about this, because he was the one who encouraged me. He was ready to travel with me, to buy a second home or a condo near the campus so my family could visit. It was my motherfucking dream!
There’s no way to fashion a second-place trophy for this. If I went to Olsen, I went alone. Hayden stayed behind. I went top shelf and he went bottom.
Without pause, I take my phone from my back pocket and glance to the still-closed doors behind me, my mind vacillating between who to blame—Hayden or my mom—while I listen to the rings sound. My dad answers by the fourth ring.
“Tory, hey. Something wrong? Aren’t you in practice?” He knows I should be.
“Dad, I think maybe I need to come stay with you. For a little while at least. I just . . .” I break down, swallowing hard and feeling my lungs tighten as the air leaves them and my body grows numb. This is what betrayal feels like to the utmost degree. This is how he felt when he found out about Mom’s affair.
“You’re going to have to drive back for school on your own,” he says, giving me the only roadblock to the plan. I have a thousand dollars saved from various birthday and holiday gifts and shitty summer job I took at the local pool.
“Okay,” I agree, getting to my feet and moving to my room to pack my things. “Can you pick me up soon? Like . . . now? I’ll buy a piece of shit car.”
“On my way,” he says.
I end the call, not sure whether my dad likes the win that comes with me choosing address sides or he senses the urgency in my voice. Maybe it’s the aftermath of our pitiful therapy session. Whatever the motivation, I’m glad he’s coming. And I’m glad I’m getting out of this place. It’s suffocating me.
14
Abby
It’s been a while since I’ve felt like myself. I told June all I really wanted for my birthday weekend—because yes, I get an entire weekend, and yes, Friday nights are weekend-eligible—was to do something that felt like the old me.
“Anything you want,” she said.
She regretted it the moment the last word left her lips. She could read party all over my face. I don’t care what she says, though. Deep down, June needs tonight, too. She misses us.
“Are you sure you don’t mind driving?” She doesn’t, but it makes me feel polite to ask. I like getting ready at June’s house. There aren’t papers all over her table, and her mom is in a pretty good place. Mine is buried in the fight to give me a life without my father’s greed picking away at it. Tonight, I want to forget that version of myself.
“I’m not going to drink, and the van has plenty of room,” she says while running a brush through her hair. I smile because she’s repeating my talking points.
“Exactly,” I say, leaning close to the small mirror on the back of her door so I can perfect the shade