Page 158 of Play Fake
When she nods toward me, I pick up right where we rehearsed. “Diagnosis is typically made through clinical evaluation, psychiatric interviews, ruling out other causes, and longitudinal observation of symptoms. There’s no single blood test or scan that gives a definitive answer. It can take months, sometimes years, before a patient receives an accurate diagnosis. And that delay can impact not just the patient, but their entire support network.”
The words come easier than I expect. We alternate seamlessly, Sophie walking them through case studies while I break down diagnostic criteria, treatment protocols, and challenges in access to care. By the time we reach the final slide,it doesn’t feel like a performance anymore. It feels like telling the truth.
When we finish, the room is quiet for a moment before the professor smiles. “Very thorough, both of you. Thank you. We have a few questions.”
One of the faculty members leans forward. “You mentioned the realities of growing up around mental illness and how diagnostic delays affect families. That was a particularly compelling section. How were you able to present that so authentically?”
I can feel Sophie’s eyes on me. We talked about this possibility. She told me it was my call.
I clear my throat and shift my weight slightly, but I meet the question head-on. “I grew up with it,” I say simply. “My mom was diagnosed with schizophrenia when I was young. It wasn’t straightforward. For a long time, people thought it was something else, stress, depression, bad luck. It took years before anyone really understood what was going on. And by then, a lot of damage had already been done.”
The room goes still, not uncomfortably, but with the kind of quiet that means people are trulylistening.
“I watched my family navigate misdiagnoses, hospitalizations, the stigma,” I continue. “I saw firsthand how my mom struggled to hold on to pieces of herself while the system tried to figure out how to help her. So, when we talk about delays, or lack of resources, or how critical early intervention is…it’s not hypothetical for me.”
The faculty member nods slowly, their expression softening. “Thank you for sharing that.”
Sophie steps in smoothly, building on what I said, tying it back to our research and recommendations for early intervention programs. She’s brilliant at this, taking something raw and anchoring it in data without losing the heart behind it.
When it’s all over, the panel thanks us, compliments our structure and delivery, and dismisses us with smiles.
As we step out into the hallway, I exhale slowly, like I’d been holding my breath without realizing it. Sophie’s hand slips into mine, warm and grounding.
“You were incredible,” she says softly.
I glance down at her, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “We were.”
And for the first time in a long time, talking about my mom doesn’t feel like ripping open an old wound. It feels likeclaimingmy story.
50
BECK
It’s game day. And not just any game day. Our biggest rivalry.
And the first one since Logan’s injury.
We’re already lined up for warmups, helmets tucked under our arms, as the announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker to hype the crowd. I glance downfield, my mind already slipping into the defensive reads I’ve studied all week, when a sudden ripple moves through the sideline.
Then I see it.
Logan’s best friend’s little sister, Sloane, is pushing a wheelchair out of the tunnel, Logan sitting in it with his brace locked tight, and his hoodie pulled over his head like he’s trying to play it cool. He’s clearly annoyed about being wheeled out—but he’s here.
The crowderupts.
Right as I reach them, Logan squints up at Sloane, who is smirking uncontrollably, wearing the jersey of one of the rival players. “You’re enjoying this way too much. And while wearing the worst fucking colors.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re welcome for bringing your grumpy ass, by the way. You were about five seconds from face-planting trying to get down that ramp alone.”
He mutters something under his breath that I can’t catch, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
Coach spots them and signals for the team to bring it in closer. The entire roster turns toward the end zone where they’re coming down the sideline. One by one, guys jog over, offense, defense, special teams, and tap Logan on the shoulder, fist bump him, ruffle his hair up which is pretty much breaking his one golden rule.
“Miss us yet, Brooks?” one of the linemen jokes.
Logan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You wish. I’m only here because someone’s gotta keep you idiots in check and make sure you don’t lose to these guys.”
When I reach him, I crouch down slightly, grinning. “Good to see you, man.”
