Page 19 of Seeds of Friendship
“Ecstatic,” Ethan says, grinning.
“If this doesn't work,” Alfie warns, “I'm transferring. To a different school. Possibly a different country.”
“If this doesn't work,” I counter, “we'll all be transferring. Because four years as social pariahs? That's not happening.”
“Not on my watch,” Troy agrees.
“Bros before banishment,” Ethan adds solemnly.
We all stare at him.
“I'm working on the catchphrase,” he defends.
But despite the banter, there's real desperation underneath. We all know what's at stake. This party isn't just a party—it's our shot at having an actual college experience.
No pressure or anything.
8
The house is weirdly quiet. Troy's at some engineering study group, Ethan's “networking” (translation: day drinking with some guys from his dorm-that-never-was), and Alfie's holed up in his room doing...whatever he does.
I'm sprawled on our questionable couch, laptop balanced on my stomach, pretending to read about “market fundamentals” when my phone buzzes. Dad's contact photo pops up—him and me at Megan's last middle school game, both of us grinning like idiots. Back when he was healthy.
I debate letting it go to voicemail, but the guilt wins.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Freddie!” His voice is too bright, that forced cheerfulness that makes my chest tight. But underneath it, I hear the wheeze. Subtle, but there. “How's my college man?”
“Good, yeah. Just studying markets.” I close the laptop, already feeling the weight settling on my shoulders.
There's a pause, then that wet, rattling cough that makes my stomach clench. He tries to muffle it, but I know that sound. Thirty-five years in the mines, breathing in God knows what, and now his lungs are paying the price.
“Sorry about that,” he says, voice rougher now. “Change in weather, you know.”
We both know it's not the weather.
“Studying markets, eh? You're still thinking business major, right? Smart choice. Practical. Good money in that.”
“Yeah.” I don't mention that I'm actually better at science and math. That my chemistry professor pulled me aside last week to ask why I wasn't planning on a STEM major.
Business means faster money, safer money. Clean offices.
“Your mom's at work—picked up another double shift at the hospital. But she wanted me to tell you she loves you.”
Another double. Of course.
“How's Meg?” I ask, deflecting.
“Oh, you know your sister. Stubborn as hell. She's insisting she doesn't need new cleats, but...” He trails off, and I can hear what he's not saying. They're falling apart, but they can't afford new ones. Not with the medical bills piling up. He’s still working but struggling. I’m surprised they still let him go in.
“I could maybe send?—”
“No.” His voice is firm, then another coughing fit triggers. Longer this time. I count the seconds—fifteen before he can speak again. “Absolutely not. You focus on your studies. We're handling it.”
We both know they're not handling it. They're drowning, slowly, and pretending everything's fine. Like always.
I have scholarship money; I got the grants for coming from a low-income household. Not that I'd ever admit that to anyone here.
