I play along, biding my time until May thirteenth, the day I graduate from college and will finally—finally— be out on my own.
He laughs again and it reminds me of Pops. “Ignore me, Mar—Maggie. Jules would never let me hear the end of it if she knew I was lecturing you about your caffeine intake. And maybe all that stunted growth stuff is nonsense. Jules downs half a pot a day, I swear, and she’s taller than some of my hockey players.”
I laugh in return. “I think that’s what they call genetics, Uncle Hudson. And in case you’ve forgotten, Gam was just as short as I am.”
So was my mom, but I leave that part out.
“Fair enough. So, I’m guessing you didn’t message me to hear all about the dangers of caffeinated beverages.”
“That wasn’t in my plan, no,” I tease. He’s trying, so I will, too. “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out late tonight. I have a study group at the library at nine, and our first test is coming up, so I’m not sure how long we’ll be. I was thinking I might crash at Viv’s if it gets too late, but I didn’t want you to worry.”
I’m proud of the words I choose and the fact that my tone is so even. What I want to say is,I’m calling you to let you know I’ll be out until eleven or so and I don’t want you to flip your shitwith panic if I pull in the drive at 11:04. You know, like you did last night.
I know he worries, and I even know why. But it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut during his meltdown. I was late for curfew by four minutes. And I texted. What on earth did he think I was doing? Shooting up in a bathroom stall while giving some stranger a blowjob?
Well, yeah. That’s probably exactly what he thought I was doing.
I’m five feet, three inches tall.
My eyes are blue, and my hair is blonde. It’s not curly and it’s not straight. It’s some hybrid of the two which means it either looks fantastic or like absolute shit. Each day is a surprise.
My bottom lip is fuller than my top lip, and I can roll my tongue.
I am my mother’s daughter, her carbon copy, in so many ways.
But not that one.
I’ve done dumb shit, sure.
But never dangerous shit.
Never life-altering substances, or life-threatening ones.
I’m not Kirsten Baylor. Her mistakes are not mine to atone for.
I know this.
I just wish other people did, too.
“That’s fine,” my uncle says, pulling me back to the conversation. “But thanks for checking in. Will you get some dinner on campus? I could meet you, if you like.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But maybe another night? I have class in half an hour, then I’m going to a resume-building seminar at the union. I think they’re serving food there.”
“Good, that’s good. I’m heading to Virginia tomorrow afternoon to do some scouting, but Jules will be home. That’s the plan, anyway.”
“Great. Have a good trip,” I say. The words are bland, but at least they’re sincere. That has to count for something, right?
I hang up and send a silent prayer that my uncle’s players can make a texter out of him yet. Does it drive them crazy that the man is allergic to messages?
Pushing open the door to the bookstore, I step inside and scan the signs, hoping I can find what I need without too much trouble.
The textbooks for my Risk Management class were on backorder, so when I got the email that they had arrived, I carved out a few extra minutes to swing by and pick up my copy. Between hanging with Viv and staying at Uncle Hudson’s, I’ve seen more than enough Bainbridge University merch. I bypass the rounders filled with burgundy and silver clothing and make my way to the back corner of the store, which is where they keep the math textbooks. I’d like to think that’s just the way the store is laid out, and not some subversive comment on how math should be forced to sit in the corner because no one likes it anyway.
I do. I like math a lot.
It just makes sense. And it’s a good thing I like it so much, because Calc III is a bitch. If I didn’t love her so much, it’d be torture.
My eyes scan the shelves for the new book, but I don’t see it anywhere. Momentarily, I wonder if maybe they’re holding it up front? Just as I’m about to hoof it to the check-out counter, I catch a glimpse of purple that matches the cover I spotted online. Bending down to the lowest shelf, I pluck a copy, check the title and author, and hold it up triumphantly. “Yay!” I can’t hold back the cheer that escapes my lips as I do a little happy dance in the aisle. I have an assignment due two days from now, and everything I need for it is in this book.
