Van sighs loudly. “Um...I'm failing it, Jos. What else do you need to know? Besides, if I ace the quizzes and the take-home stuff, I can pass. That's all that matters.”
Technically, that’s true, but it feels dicey. “But…what if you get stumped on a quiz? Or run out of time. Taking Fs on all the timed writes might work out, or it might not. It's a risky move.”
Van leans back in his chair. “And you're not a risk-taker, I know. But sometimes that's what life requires. Take a chance, lay it all out there. That’s my plan.”
“Just the thought of that makes me nervous. Besides, it might not be that tough of a fix. Seriously. A student last year was bombing Schoenbauer’s timed writes because of run-onsentences. As soon as we fixed that, he was getting Bs. It might really be that simple.”
“Trust me, Jos. It's not.”
There’s a finality to his words that has me worried he’s giving up.
I take a calming breath and aim for positivity. “Van, I've read your other essays. You have great things to say. They just need a little clean-up, a little polish. I’m sure these can’t be far off. I’m betting you just don’t finish them and lose the bulk of the points that way. Are you sure you didn’t bring your essay along? I know we talked about it last week.”
He shakes his head, refusing to meet my gaze. “Like I said, I left it at the house. We'll do it next time, okay?”
“Van—"
The look he gives me is a heartbreaking mix of frustration and hopelessness, so I drop the subject. For now.
“I might have a pop quiz in Philosophy, so can we work on those French guys?”
He pulls up the slideshow notes and begins to listen. Since Van’s tuned in, I feel like I have a few minutes to puzzle this out. He's stalling and I don't know why. I can't shake the feeling that there's more here than he's letting on, but I can't think of what it would be. I've read the essays he's submitted. They are a little rough, but nothing that would outright fail. How bad could these be? Does he have test anxiety? I don't know and I won't be able to help until he lets me in. But he's clearly put a wall up that he doesn’t want me to scale.
The rest of the session is fine. We even have some time left over, which gives me an idea. “Hey, if you want, we could swing by your house, and I could look at your timed write. That way I could give you ideas for how to improve your next score.”
A look of sheer panic crosses his face. “No, Jos, I’ll bring it next time.” His eyes dart away from me as he pulls his phoneout. He barely glances at it before turning back to me. “Sorry, that was Norris. He wants to work on blocking shots since we're playing Woodcock again this weekend and Dutton Wagner's wrister is fucking wicked. But I'll bring it next time. Promise. Unless I threw it away...don't kill me, ok?”
Van flashes me a smile that has likely gotten him out of nearly every jam he's ever been in. It's a great smile and I'm pretty susceptible to it. But thanks to raising four kids, my bullshit meter is top-notch.
He palmed his phone, but didn't open any app or tap any messages. He just glanced at a lit screen. But maybe I'm being suspicious for no reason.
Since our time is just about up and Van has other plans, we pack our stuff up and walk to my dorm. It’s a habit we’ve gotten into, and I don’t mind it, but I have to admit it feels a little off tonight. Van was moody and reticent, which is so unlike him. I know the failing grades have him frustrated, but I can’t shake the feeling that something else is going on.
There’s nothing I can do about it now, so I step inside my building and check my mail. As I head toward the stairs, I see my friend Leah stomping her foot in frustration on the other side of the door. She forgot her key, so I hold the door open for her.
And when I do, my suspicions are confirmed—Van’s walking toward the hockey house—away from campus, away from the arena, away from his supposed practice with Norris.
But why would he lie to me?
Is he going to meet some girl?
I mean, do I hate that? Yes, but I can’t be mad about it. I do feel like a fool, though.
I wanted to get closure tonight, but now I have even more questions than I did before.
19
Van
Three years earlier
"Vandaele!" a random guy in the hallway calls out my name, reaching his hand out for a slap. "Tough game, man. We’ll get ‘em next time."
"Damn right we will," I say, smiling, even though it feels kinda stupid. I mean, it wasn’t a tough game. My team and I just played like shit. It happens sometimes, and we’ve been working our asses off for the past few days to make sure it doesn’t happen again anytime soon. I’m all for team spirit, but I kinda want to say that it hasn’t been his ass that’s been getting out of bed before the sun’s up just to go to conditioning. But that’s part of playing a sport, so I do it without too much bitching. Besides, if I make it to the pros, these kinds of things will happen a lot.
I turn the corner and take the stairs two at a time. Josie said she’s leaving at six, but we’ve got an hour till then, so I’m hoping she’ll want to hit the dining hall or even just get a coffee. She doesn’t know I’m stopping by, but her dorm is right by the athletic center, and I figured why text when I can just drop in.
I mean, we’re dating, so it’s not weird. Plus, I really want to see her. Last Friday was possibly the best night of my life. Being with Josie, God, it was everything. And I just want more, not only of the physical stuff, but the everyday stuff, too.
