Page 29 of Play Fake
Still, my knee bounces under the desk before I can stop it, muscles coiled tight. I drag my gaze down to the paper in front of me, writing the word out in neat block letters just to prove my hand doesn’t shake.
Beside me, Sophie’s still taking notes, completely unfazed, and I force myself to mirror her calm.
The professor is still droning on about presentation rubrics and participation grades, his voice a distant buzz over the thrum of my heartbeat.
I breathe in slow. Out slower.
No one here knows why that word sets me off. And if it’s up to me, no one ever will.
The professor’s voice keeps moving, but I’m not hearing it anymore.
All I can think about is getting out of here.
I was six the first time I realized something was wrong. My mom was standing at the kitchen window long after dark, whispering about people in the yard who weren’t there. Doors locked three times over. Curtains yanked shut.
My dad yelling, my mom crying, and me caught in the middle, too young to understand why she was so scared of shadows that didn’t exist.
By the time they divorced, things had unraveled completely. No diagnosis yet, no medication, just chaos. Nights when she forgot to cook dinner, mornings when she couldn’t get out of bed.
And me, bouncing between her world and my dad’s like a ball in a game I never asked to play.
It wasn’t until nearly five years later that someone finally said the word out loud—schizophrenia—and suddenly everything made sense. Or at least explained the damage that had already been done.
I grip my pen tighter, forcing myself back into the present, into this classroom where no one knows that history and no one needs to.
To them, schizophrenia is just another line on the syllabus. To me, it’s the thing that carved out half my childhood.
I shift again, jaw still clenched, until my pulse starts to steady.
My grip tightens on the pen, knuckles pale.
Angela was the only one who ever knew.
We’d been sitting on the sidewalk after school one day in the fourth grade when she told me about her dad. About the way his depression hollowed him out until he was a ghost living under the same roof. Her words cracked something open in me, and before I could stop myself, I told her about my mom. About the whispers in the dark, the fear in her eyes, the way it stole pieces of my childhood.
She was the first person outside of my family I’d ever trusted with that truth. Theonlyone.
And when things went down between us, it reinforced the walls I put up around that piece of my history even more.
My dad did what he had to. He rebuilt after a heartbreak that most would crumble from. Found someone steady, someone who could anchor him when the storm with my mom finally broke. He found my stepmom, Caroline. Together, they built a new life—a house in the suburbs and two more kids who call me their big brother like it’s the best thing in the world, a title that brings me so much pride and joy.
I love them. All of them. My little brother Joey’s goofy grin when he shows me his latest LEGO build and asks to toss the football in the backyard every Sunday. Alyssa’s squeaky voice calling me on FaceTime to tell me about her school play and that she lost her first tooth the week before her sixth birthday.
They’re proof it’s possible to climb out of the wreckage and make something beautiful again.
But me? I’m still standing in both worlds—the one I came from and the one built after.
And no matter how many tackles I make or grades I ace, I can’t shake the feeling that eventually I’ll have to choose which version of myself to be.
“And that’s all for today,” the professor says, setting his notes aside. “Remember, next Friday I’ll assign your project groups. Come prepared, and don’t forget—the last day to drop is today. If you’re here on Monday, you’re committed.”
Chairs scrape, students shuffle their things together. Sophie sighs beside me, shoving her notebook into her bag.
“I swear, I’ve thought about dropping this class every single day since the semester started,” she mutters. “Still not sure if I made a mistake staying. Guess I have a few hours to decide for sure.”
Before I can stop myself, I say, “If you’re thinking about it that much, maybe we should study together. Keep each other on track.”
She stops mid-step, brows lifting. “Study? With you?”
