34
SUTTON
“You still with me?”Devin nudges my arm, but he’s grinning, one of those brilliant smiles that reaches all the way to his eyes.
“Sorry.” Heat floods my cheeks. “I spaced.”
At the worst possible time.
I scan the studio to see if anyone else noticed, but Mac’s busy explaining lighting technique to a group of students gathered around the main set. Those of us working in the wings are cast in shadow, so I doubt he can even see me crouched in the dark, sorting cables like my GPA depends on it.
Which it does.
“Relax, Shorty. We’ve got this.” Devin grabs a mess of black cables that all look the same and attempts to untangle them. Mac’s assigned us audio production, which means if anything goes wrong with the microphones or sound effects during today’s mock broadcast, we’re screwed. “I was up half the night memorizing the setup.”
That makes one of us.
Me? I dropped like a stone after practice last night.
Between my course load, gymnastics, and my Wildcat duties, I’m spread thin. Like, transparent.
Only one more week to go.
It’s the Friday before fall break—not that it’s much of a break since the football team has a road game at Rutgers tomorrow and Maryland at home next Saturday—but I’m looking forward to a few days off. I haven’t seen my family in months, and it’ll be nice to sleep in my own bed.
The reprieve from my hellish schedule is just an added bonus.
Maryland is the football team’s last regular season game.
It’s also my last Wildcat appearance.
Hallelujah.
“Since you have the cables memorized, I’ll leave you to it.” I stand and turn my attention to the lavalier mics laid out on a rolling electrical cart.
“Any plans for Thanksgiving break?”
“I’m going to sleep late, veg on the couch, and do absolutely nothing.”
“What?” He stares up at me in mock horror. “No great big turkey dinner where you eat until it hurts and slide into a food coma while the rest of the country watches football?”
“Not this year.”
My mom texted a few days ago to let me know she won’t be cooking a traditional Thanksgiving meal this year.
No pavochon. No mofongo stuffing. No flan de coco.
And I can’t even complain without looking like a pendejo.
“Why not?” Devin frees a cable and sets it aside. “What’s different this year?”
“My family is skipping the traditional holiday meal to support Gabby.” Which apparently means strict diets all around. Even my dad—whose sweet tooth is bigger than mine—is watching what he eats. “She needs to be in the best physical shape possible, heading to the National Team training camp in January.”
I get it. I do. I can’t exactly afford to pack on the pounds either, but it’s one freaking meal.
One I look forward to all year.
Thanksgiving’s always been a special day for my family, the start of the holiday season and the magic it brings. It’s a tradition my grandparents started long ago in Puerto Rico, and though I’ve only visited the island once, the knowledge that we share the same traditions makes me feel closer to them, even when we’re an ocean apart.
