Page 28 of Play Fake
On Friday morning, the classroom buzzes with hushed chatter as the professor works his way down the rows, setting graded quizzes face-down on each desk, a few groans coming from students already sneaking a peek at their scores.
The quiz slides onto my desk, face-down. I flip it over just long enough to see the red ink at the top—100%.Not a surprise. I put the work in, same way I do for film study, same way I do in the weight room.
Still, I fold the paper in half and tuck it into my bag before anyone can notice. Grades matter to me. If I do decide to chase grad school, these classes can’t just be background noise. They’re the foundation.
Beside me, Sophie joins in on the groans. Her head drops onto her folded arms. “I knew it. Total disaster.”
I glance at the bold red78%circled on her paper before she shoves it away.
“How’d you do?” she asks, her voice hushed but sharp with nerves.
“Same as you,” I lie easily, zipping my bag shut.
Her shoulders relax, tension bleeding out of her face. “Okay. That makes me feel better. At least we’re both suffering.”
I give a small nod, keeping my expression even.
The truth? I need these grades. They’re leverage if I ever walk away from football. But none of that’s her problem. She doesn’t need me to make her feel worse.
The professor’s voice cuts in at the front of the room, breaking down the most-missed questions and launching into a short lecture. I scribble notes, focused, while Sophie doodles absently in the margin of her notebook.
I’m good at both—reading offenses on the field and theories in the textbook. But the choice between them? That’s what keeps me up at night.
Professor Nelson paces across the front of the lecture hall, adjusting his glasses as he launches into a super motivational reminder.
“Today is the official deadline to drop this course. After today, you’re locked in. No excuses, no exceptions. If you don’t think you can handle the workload, now’s your chance to get out. This quiz was simple compared to what is coming your way in the coming weeks.”
The room shifts with low murmurs, a couple of students glancing at each other like they’re already planning their route to the admin building after class.
Beside me, Sophie mutters under her breath, “Too late to fake my own death, huh?”
It’s so quiet I’m sure no one else hears it. Except me.
The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it. I lower my head, pretending to be absorbed in my notes as a chuckle slips out under my breath.
Her eyes snap to me, wide, like she wasn’t expecting anyone to catch it, or maybe thought it was more of an inside thought that slipped out.
I clear my throat, schooling my face back into neutral. “Guess so,” I say quietly, pen moving across the page.
She huffs, sinking lower in her chair, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips now.
The professor moves on, rattling through the grading breakdown for the semester, how most of it will be based around a project, but my focus lingers a second too long on the sparkle I just saw in Sophie’s pretty blue eyes.
Focus, Harrison.
“All right, listen up. Next Friday, I’ll be assigning groups for your semester research project. Each group will be given a psychological disorder to analyze. You’ll be expected to research diagnostic criteria, case studies, treatment approaches and then present your findings to the class.”
A ripple of groans moves through the room, but he barrels on.
“This is a major component of your grade, so take it seriously. Presentations will begin in late November.” He flips open his folder, scanning a list. “Here are some of the potential diagnoses you may be assigned. Bipolar disorder, PTSD, OCD, schizophrenia, major depressive disorder, borderline personality disorder, and anxiety disorders.”
My pen stalls mid-scratch.
Schizophrenia.
The word slams into me, sharp and heavy, rattling something deep in my chest. My pulse kicks harder, thudding in my ears.
I shift in my chair, forcing my shoulders back, my jaw tight. It’s just a word. Just another diagnosis. That’s all.
