Thankfully, he responded but ignored my invite. I mean, it was a legit invite. That place was awesome, and I’d go back. With Ian. But also with Whit. He’d love that place. I could see the whole gang of us there, eating pizza and playing games like a bunch of overgrown kids.
I fill up my water bottle at the sink and grab some cold chicken from the fridge. I can always use the protein and I definitely need to hydrate. I’m not used to drinking alcohol during the season. I head up to my room and grab a shower before slipping on shorts and crawling into bed.I’m hotblooded. I don’t know if that’s why I like the ice so much, or if it’s a result of spending endless hours in a giant refrigerator. But it means I sleep mostly naked and usually end up kicking the blankets off at some point during the night.
I flip my phone over and study Ian’s text again, like reading it for the sixtieth time is going to unlock some hidden meaning.
Ian: Glad you had fun. Hope you don’t have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.
Booker: You and me both. The boys made a homemade rink out back and we did shots.
I send along a pic of Whit holding up a shot glass with the net in the background.
Ian: Nice. Looks like you had a good time. I’m glad. You deserve it. Happy birthday.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to tell him that last night was just as much fun. I want to say that tonight would’ve been better if he’d have been there.
I want him here with me now.
Thankfully, sleep claims me before I can type any of that.
* * *
I wake up with a headache,which is unsurprising. I should’ve drunk more water before crashing. I reach on the floor for my water bottle and take a drink, closing my eyes against the sun that’s streaming in my window. I massage my temples, willing the dull ache away. I can’t stop myself from reaching for my phone. I’d never admit it out loud, but I’m totally checking to see if Ian texted again.
He didn’t, but I have three missed calls from my dad. It’s after nine, and I need to be in class in less than an hour, but I call back because if I don’t, he’ll have my mom call, and, well, it’s just easier this way.
The phone rings once before he picks up.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Certainly not an apology for the other night. If I was waiting for one, I’d be waiting an eternity. Grant Zabek doesn’t apologize. Ever.
“Booker.” The sound of his voice has a chill racing up my spine. It’s like I’m twelve years old again and he found my porn stash—well, the porn stash Whit gave me. I never really got what all the fuss was about.
“Hey, I have class in a—”
“You left your backpack at home the other night.”
I did. I ran out of there so fast that I never gave it any thought. I ended up typing notes on my iPad yesterday. Not ideal, but definitely a first-world problem.
“Yeah, thanks. I guess I’ll come and get it soon. I was bringing back a bunch of Fallon’s stuff. I’ll swing by sometime next week, ok?” I slip on sweats, eager to hang up and get moving. If I end the call soon, I’ll have time for a smoothie before I have to head out. Or…if I hustle, I could swing by Drip. Hmmm…that idea has appeal.
“...won’t be needing it anyway.”
“Wait, what’s that? Sorry, I missed that last part.”
“I saw your…textbook, though I use that term lightly. I had an enlightening conversation with the athletic academic advisor this morning. He assures me Psychology of Sexuality is an excellent course.”
The words hang in the air like an ax about to fall.
“I assuredhim,” my father continues, his voice steady and clear, “that such a course should never have been scheduled for you. In fact, if my donor dollars have anything to say about it, that course will cease to exist at Bainbridge University. Booker, I am deeply disappointed in you, sitting in a room with a bunch of hormonal teenagers, talking about sex. How on earth is that education? It doesn’t matter now. I’ve had you pulled from the class. You were taking fifteen credits, so you’re still a full-time student with twelve. This might give you more time to visit or to volunteer. I know Pastor Adam is looking for help with the youth group.”
“Dad,” I start, though I have no idea how to finish that sentence. Is this class my own personal version of hell? Yeah, sometimes. But it’s also interesting. Eye-opening. And I don’t want to drop it.
“Save your breath, Booker. I’m a busy man and I don’t have time to listen to your pleas or arguments. I can only guess that this class and the suggestive, indecent material in it is the reason you’ve been so defiant lately—coming in late for dinner, avoiding church. Encouraging your sister to pursue whatever her little heart thinks she wants this week.”
He can’t do this. There’s no way he can do this. At least that’s what I tell myself as I scramble for the right words to turn this situation back around. “Dad, it’s too late to drop. That ended weeks ago. I can’t withdraw without a penalty.”
“I’m aware, Booker.” His voice is cold, colder than usual, and it’s clear before the line goes dead that our conversation is over.
I look down at the phone in my hand. Just when I think he can’t get worse, he does.
