Chapter 8

While the game and conversation the night before were occupying a lot of my thoughts, it wasn’t the only thing I had to focus on. Football was a priority, but now, so was school, and I’d been busting my ass to get the year started off on the right foot.

So Friday morning, I was sitting in the front row of my math class, trying very hard to follow everything Ms. White was putting up on the board and wishing I was a better student in my dream life. Remembering it had done a lot to get me ahead in football and deal with personal life problems, but it wasn’t doing me any good in class.

So I struggled, trying to understand what I was seeing and hoping at least some of it would stick. I was focused enough that the bell ringing made me jump a little bit.

As with every time the bell rang, everyone started shoving stuff into backpacks and getting out of the classroom as fast as they could. Changing classes was a good point to stop and talk to friends for a few minutes before heading to the next class, so the faster we got out, the more time we had to talk.

I didn’t move quite as fast, trying to copy the last few problems she’d worked out in my notebook so I could refer back to the steps when I was doing the homework.

I wasn’t the last one out, but I was close.

Even with that, as I headed for the door, Ms. White said, “Blake, could you wait a moment, please?”

I diverted and stopped at her desk, waiting until the last two kids walked out, hoping this wasn’t a bad ‘talk to me.’

She smiled and held up a paper. “I have your quiz from Wednesday. I wanted to discuss it with you.”

“How did I do?”

“You did very well, Blake. Take a look.”

She handed it to me, and I looked through it. It was only one page front and back, I guess since it was our first quiz, and only one of the questions had an x on it. The rest all had check marks. On the front, the number ninety-two was circled.

An A. I couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride.

“You told me you’d show me you meant business, and I’ve been watching you. You’ve been focused and paying attention every day, but this shows me that you really are taking this seriously. So, I’d like to give you some additional work to help accelerate your progress. I think with some extra effort, we can get you on level by the end of the year, but I want to make sure you feel you can handle it with your other obligations.”

“I think I can handle it. I want to do whatever it takes to graduate right so I can get into a good program.”

“That’s an unusual sentiment for a freshman. A senior ... yes, but most freshmen see four years from now as an eternity away.”

I just shrugged. “I guess I’m not most freshmen.”

“First, I have to ask, how are you managing your time? Between football, schoolwork, and these new responsibilities, it’s a lot for anyone to handle.”

“To be honest, it’s been a struggle. I feel like I’m constantly running from one thing to the next, trying to keep up. But I know if I can stay organized and focused, I’ll find a way to make it work.”

“Have you considered setting up a schedule? Mapping out your time can help you prioritize and stay on track. And don’t be afraid to ask for help, maybe even a study partner.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” I said.

I wasn’t sure where I’d find a good study partner. No one on the team, that was for sure. And it wasn’t like I had time for socializing outside of football, not and get all the homework done.

“Well, think about it. If you can’t, you’re welcome to come by during lunch if you need help. Or if mornings work better, I’m here thirty minutes before first bell, since I know afternoons are out with football practice.”

“Thanks.”

“And I expect all of the additional work to be completed by Friday each week. No exceptions.”

“I understand. But what if I can’t catch up fast enough? With football and everything else.”

“I think you can. Your progress has been excellent. If you maintain this focus, there’s absolutely no reason you won’t reach your goals.”

I nodded, hoping she was right. It was the ‘everything else’ that was really worrying me.

She must have seen something on my face, because she asked, “Is there a problem with that?”

“No, it’s just ... not all my teachers are as willing to give me a chance. Especially Mr. Walsh.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He seems to have this thing against athletes. Like on Tuesday, I gave the right answer about different levels of classification of organisms, domains, kingdoms, phylum, etc, and he just dismissed it. Acted like I must have been guessing and got lucky because, you know, football player equals dumb jock.”

I don’t know why, but something about her expression made it seem like she knew what I was talking about. She pressed her lips together for a moment and her eyebrows dipped.

But she only said, “I see.”

“I mean, I get it. Some guys live up to the stereotype. But I’m trying to prove I’m different.”

“I’ll speak with your other teachers. See if we can coordinate to help you get completely back on level and to see if there is some additional support available. But Blake, the ball’s in your court. You’ll have to prove you’re serious.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good.” She gestured toward the door. “Now, get to class before you’re late.”

I hurried out, just happy someone had listened to me, and hoped she’d have better luck with Mr. Walsh than I had.

My legs ached as I walked up our driveway, still feeling the burn from Coach’s “special conditioning” after yesterday’s game combined with the walk home. He’d really torn into us, angry at how some of the guys had played the game. It annoyed me a little bit that, while everyone knew he was calling out Elijah, Hunter, and Jake specifically, he didn’t actually say any of their names. It was more of an admonishment for how mistakes were made in general, as if everyone had dropped the handoffs or missed their blocks.

Then he’d run us like crazy, until some of the guys puked. I remembered a phrase from a documentary I’d seen in the dream life about prison camps in World War Two. Something about collective punishment.

It was bullshit then, and it was bullshit now.

At least the rest of the day’s classes had gone well. Surprisingly well, actually. My afternoon teachers, at least those whose classes I’d had a chance to get back on level in, had pulled me aside to give me similar assignments to work on, just like Ms. White had, which suggested she had indeed talked to them.

It was a lot of additional work and I was going to be extremely busy with normal homework, the additional work, and studying plays. But, it was what I’d asked for.

The screen door banged against the house in the September breeze as I reached for the handle. Before I could touch it, the crash of splintering wood inside stopped me cold.

“Where is it?” Joshua’s voice carried through the front door. “You took it! You always take my stuff!”

I yanked the door open to find our kitchen transformed into a war zone. One of the dining chairs lay in pieces near the fridge, its wooden slats scattered across the linoleum. Joshua stood by the kitchen counter, his face bright red, fists clenched at his sides.

“Sweetie, I promise I haven’t seen your binder,” she said, using that placating tone she always used with him, like she was talking to a toddler instead of a thirteen-year-old. “Let’s look for it together...”

“Shut up!” Joshua’s arm swept across the counter, sending the toaster and a stack of mail flying. The toaster hit the floor with a metallic crunch, pieces of plastic skittering across the tile. “You’re lying! You always lie!”

Mom took a step toward him, hands raised. “Josh, baby, please...”

The moment I saw Joshua’s muscles tense, like he was about to raise his arm and swing at her, I dropped my backpack and moved, grabbing him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides before he could reach her.

“Let me go!” He thrashed against my grip, trying to twist free. “This is your fault, too! You’re always trying to make me look bad!”

“Stop it,” I said, tightening my hold as he struggled. “You need to calm down.”

“Blake, let him go. He’s just upset.”

“He was about to attack you,” I said, nodding toward the destroyed chair. “Look what he’s already done.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Joshua would never hurt any of us. He’s just frustrated.”

“You’re such a kiss-ass.” Joshua’s elbow slammed back into my ribs, but I held on. “Always playing the perfect son, like you’re better than me. Like when you told Dad I was the one who dented his car. You’re not better than me. You’re nothing. Pathetic.”

“You did dent his car. You know damn well you rode your bike into it.”

“Blake, language,” Mom scolded, like that was the biggest problem here.

“I hate you! I hate both of you! Let me go or I’ll-”

The threat died as I pulled on his arms tighter, putting pressure on the joints, causing him to cry out in pain. Mom took a step toward him when he yelled out, reaching out her arm, which is when I saw them. Three angry red scratches running down her forearm, fresh enough that tiny beads of blood still dotted the skin.

“What happened to your arm?” I asked, nodding at her arm while I pulled him back a step so his wild kicks wouldn’t hit her.

Pulling her shirt sleeve down to cover the scratches, she angrily said, “Blake Andrew Sims, you let your brother go this instant!”

I grimaced, but she was really mad now. She only used my middle name when I was in serious trouble. It didn’t matter that I was keeping him from attacking her. She was always unreasonable, but when she got like this, she was almost as bad as he was.