And then, just to punctuate my point, the bell over the door jingles and half the hockey team walks in. I grab my bag, but Mel reaches out to stop me. “He’s not here, Josie. He and a couple other seniors stayed back to talk to their coach. Will’s meeting up with them later, but he and some of the other guys decided to stop here first, probably because our coffee is amazing.”
“Yeah, Will’s definitely here for the coffee,” I joke. “I have to leave anyway. I have some studying to do before my next class and then I’m working at the library until close. We’ll talk later, ok?”
“Ok,” she says. “I should get back to work anyway. I’m pretty sure that was my second half hour break of the day.”
Mel puts her apron back on and hurries behind the counter while I walk out the door and into the autumn sunshine, telling myself not to worry. She’s right; these things have a way of working themselves out.
Now if only I could believe that.
4
Van
The chairs in Coach’s office are hard as shit. They’re old metal folding chairs that were probably made half a century ago. The one I’m sitting in right now is wobbly as fuck and probably straining under my hundred-and-ninety-pound weight. I get this chair because I’m one of the leaner guys on the team. Pete Santos, our alt-captain and my best friend, who tops out at 265, would snap my chair in half.
And right now, I’m pretty sure Coach is about to snap his clipboard in half, and it’s my fault.
I feel like I’m in elementary school in the principal’s office again. I can vividly remember sitting around a big table with all these adults staring at me waiting for an answer I didn’t have.
And I don’t have it now, either.
Because the problem isn’t that I got in trouble. I didn’t act up or get caught doing something I shouldn’t have been. Not then and not now.
Nope, I’m just dumb.
I can hear my mom’s voice in my ear, telling me not to use that word. My whole life, my mom’s been my biggest cheerleaderand I love her for it. But no matter what she thinks, right now, I feel pretty fucking stupid.
“Out of the five courses you’re taking right now, you’re on the brink of failing two. Dr. Schoenbauer has agreed to let you resubmit your paper for Contemporary Lit, but you only have a week to do it. If your work doesn’t improve, that grade will dip below passing.”
Coach lets his words trail off, but it doesn’t matter. We can fill in the blanks. If I don’t ace this paper (and by ace, I mean get a C), I won’t be eligible to play. If I can’t play, scouts can’t see me. And if I’m not getting looks from scouts, then my chances of getting picked up as a free agent after I graduate this spring are pretty much the same as my understanding of Contemporary Lit—nonexistent.
After letting the weight of his pronouncement sink in, Coach looks at Booker, then Santos, then me. My team captains are here to support me, and I’m grateful. But I’m also embarrassed as shit. Booker’s as smart as they come, and Santos is studying to be a teacher. Me? I’m trying like hell to pass my classes. Some guys ride the bench for low grades because they focus too much on parties and not enough on coursework. And I’ll admit, I’ve had more than my fair share of fun at Bainbridge these past few years. My grades have never been stellar—not since kindergarten. Grade school was pretty much my version of hell. But when I hit middle school and it became clear that my only real skill in life was putting the puck into the net, school got easier. Or, I should say, everybody went easy on me. Teachers looked the other way when I was late on an assignment or failed to turn it in altogether. I rarely finished tests because I was always leaving early for games and practices. And group work is a gift from the heavens for a kid like me. As bad as it sounds, I'd smile, ask for more time, and magically, it would be granted. And I have no doubt that some people passed me because I'm anice fucking guy. That's part of it, you know—part of pulling it all off so no one knows what's really going on. If you're good to people, they'll be good to you. I learned that early. So, I made it through high school on good manners and athletic ability. I figured college would be more of the same, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The one saving grace I had here was Kevin Rodriguez. He was my tutor and one of the only reasons I’m still at this school. But Kevin graduated last spring. And, like the dumbass that I am, I figured I could make it through one final year on my own. Turns out that like every other open-ended question I’ve come across, I was wrong.
It’s the middle of October, our season has just started, and this needs to be my year. All I’ve ever wanted is to play professional hockey and my dream is so close I can almost taste it. But instead of working on my slapshot, I’m going to be hitting the books and riding the pine for the foreseeable future, unless we can come up with a solution.
I know Pete Santos would do just about anything to help me, and he already has. He’s part of the reason I managed to eke out passing grades for my math and science courses, and he’s helping me with Stats this semester. Booker’s good at everything, so he probably aces all his classes. I know he’s willing to pitch in. The problem is I need more help than these guys can offer.
I don’t just need a study buddy or someone to help me make flashcards or remind me to do my homework. I need someone who understands my learning disability and gets that reading and writing aren’t just my least favorite things to do—they’re damn near impossible.
Kevin got that, and he never treated me differently. He was chill about it and respectful and just awesome. Then the douchebag had to go and graduate.
Thanks a lot, Kevin.
“There’s got to be someone available at the tutoring center,” Booker says, his face full of optimism.
“There’s not,” I answer matter-of-factly. I checked. Several times. “Face it—we’re pretty much fucked. Scratch that, I’m pretty much fucked.”
“The hell you are,” Santos says, pinning me with his best teacher look.
“Actually,” Coach says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk, “we might have some recourse. You’re a hell of a hockey player, Van, and I know what this season means to you. I’m not giving you up without a fight, which is why I spent half my morning in the dean’s office. You’re right that the tutoring schedule is full right now. But the dean is especially proud of the strides we’ve made here in the last few years, and he was more than willing to call in a favor. It seems we have a student on campus who’s perfect for the job. Apparently, she’s finishing her undergrad while also taking some credits towards her graduate degree. According to the dean, she needs to take on some tutoring hours to fulfill a class requirement. And that’s where you come in. The arrangement is that if she tutors you, she can count the hours toward a credit. It’s a win-win, right? You need her and she needs you.”
This is perfect. A little too perfect. Like, too good to be true. And it must be, because I get an uneasy feeling before Coach starts talking again.
“You’ll have to be tutored at the library after practice several nights a week since she works there. She has family commitments, according to Dean Mercer, and her schedule is pretty tight, but we can make it work. We’ll need to reconcile her hours with yours, but from what I’m told, this girl is the best BU has to offer. So, report to the main desk at 8:00 p.m. tomorrow. And ask for?—"
Before the words are out of his mouth, I know what they’re going to be. “Josie Reynolds,” I say in chorus with Coach. He doesn’t notice though. He’s in problem-solving mode. And now that my situation’s been dealt with, he can move to the next crisis on the list.
