Page 55 of Pitcher

“Yes,” he starts, lowering his glasses and matching my gaze.

He doesn’t want me to teach a class.

“I wanted to talk about your quiz this morning.”

I nod, remaining nonchalant as if I have no idea why he wants to talk about my quiz. I showed up to class and partook in the quiz and even turned it in. If you really think about it, I’ve handled my shit today. I really don’t see an issue.

When Professor Cline realizes I won’t be much of a contributor to this conversation—I’m no fool—he sighs and tries again. “Theo, you seemed very…” ADHD? Hyper? Pissed? Fucking lost? “—distracted this morning.”

Distracted is a nice way of putting it. I’m a fucking wreck. Fighting with Anniston has a way of fraying my soul—unravelling it slowly so it reminds me when I leave for Washington, I won’t keep but a thread with me. All of it will remain here, wrapped around Anniston’s finger. I will be lost and without the only person who has ever given a shit about me.

“Yes, sir,” I mumble, masking the aggravation with a cough. “I had a rough morning and forgot my medicine.” Because Anniston wouldn’t open her damn door!

The professor flashes me a look like he understands it’s Anniston’s fault too.

“How about you come back tomorrow and retake it? I’ll average the two scores.” He frowns, scratching his beard. “I’d hate to see all of your grades decline at the end of your senior year.”

I don’t really give a shit, but grades mean a lot to Anniston and my father, so I work hard to make them proud.

“That’d be great, sir. Thank you.”

Professor Cline smiles, the lines of his forehead prominent, and stands, extending his hand to me. “You’ve been a refreshing change in my class this year, Mr. Von Bremen. I wish you luck in the minor leagues.”

I nod, swallowing down the ball of dread that settles in my stomach. The date on my plane ticket is a constant reminder of what I’m leaving behind.

“Thank you, sir.”

Yeah, that’s all I can say.

I want out of this room.

I want away from this school.

I want to go home and grab my girl and shake her.

She deserves it.

I don’t shake her.

She’s not even home when I get there. It pisses me off further. So rather than taking the high road and study or run off the aggression, I drink.

I’m a simple man.

One beer turns into four, and since I didn’t eat—again, Anniston’s fault—I have a good buzz going on by the time she finally graces me with her presence. The door clicks shut softly, and I keep staring at the TV like I don’t hear her come in.

“What are you doing home? Didn’t you have practice?”

Yep. Blew that off.

Again, her fault.

I don’t answer her and, instead, take a swig of beer.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her set her bag down on the table and pick up the quiz I bombed.

“You failed your economics quiz?”

And the award for the most observant person in this room goes to…

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