Page 73 of More Than Chemical
My insides lurched. Good thing my eyes had been closed tight for quite a bit of the show.
The credits sped by, and then the local news blared. Two anchors with perfectly ironed suits and teased hair started with a report on the ice cross competition. No photos of Dallas, but they showed aerial views of the crowds, and it was breathtaking.
They moved on to a more serious issue, a demonstration at the State Capitol. Then once more they changed gears.
And there, on all fifty inches of the flat-screen television, was my father’s mug shot from last year, with his thick, dark hair dusted with flecks of gray, his wide hazel eyes like mine, and his face devoid of expression.
My stomach clenched so hard, I almost doubled over. The room grew silent. This one bit of old news had captured everyone’s attention. Of course it would. He was the university’s ex-coach. Loved and cherished until he’d effed it all up.
I wanted to throw up. Retch right there. I swallowed saliva just to keep the bile down.
His photo zoomed out, and the camera focused again on the anchorwoman. I could barely digest any of her words. Something about his trial starting next week. The charges against him.
I was frozen to my chair, but Dallas wasn’t. I didn’t realize he’d gotten up until he was standing in front of the TV and changing the station. Instantly, the faces and voices on the screen disappeared, replaced with something else.
“Hey,” Priya shouted. “If you hadn’t noticed, some of us were watching that.”
My head started throbbing.
Dallas turned around, and he looked at me, his eyes soft. “I’m not sure who even watches the news. I don’t.”
“David Bianchini screwed over the whole university athletic department.” I could almost see steam coming out of Priya’s nostrils. “Did you hear how much they had to pay him to sever his contract? And now I’ve heard that the NCAA might hand down even more sanctions. It’s total bullshit.”
My heart thudded and seemed to skip a beat.
Everything that had happened to me last year was suddenly pouring into me like water through a leak in the hull of a boat. I needed to get away. Now.
So I walked out. In the hallway, I was disoriented. I didn’t know which way to go. Back to my room? Maybe, but I wouldn’t be alone for long. That was the trouble with the dorm. There was no place to hide. No place to tuck yourself away to have a good cry or scream. No place to rein in your feelings and put on a game face.
The door to the community bathroom beckoned, and I pushed through it. I went straight to the last stall, locked myself in, and sat on the toilet seat completely clothed, crisscross apple saucing my legs so no one would see me under the stall door.
I cradled my face in my hands and tried to breathe. But it was hard, especially with my throat closing around a volcano of emotion. I wouldn’t cry, not here. I’d already shed enough tears about my dad. I was past this.
The door creaked open.
“Ade,” Priya’s voice called out. “Are you in here?”
I wasn’t ready to face anyone yet.
“Dallas is looking for you.”
With the quietest of motions, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and flipped the switch to silent. In seconds, the phone lit up.
DALLAS
Where are you?
I held my breath.
Then a squeak and Priya said, “She’s not in there, Let’s?—”
The door slammed shut, and I missed the rest.
My heart was beating wildly. I needed more time to recover. That was all.
I went to the voicemail my dad had left for me, which I hadn’t listened to yet, and pressed play.
“Hi, Ade.” My dad’s baritone sounded authoritative and soothing all at the same time. It reminded me of the days when he’d talk me through lacing up my skates before hockey practice. “It’s me. Your mom gave me your phone number. Please don’t be mad. I just want to see you. This week would be best. I miss you. Call me.”
