Page 11 of Even in the Rain

My folks have been looming like hawks, tag-teaming me with lectures and one-on-ones and ultimatums since I showed up late last night, a few hours after bailing on Graham following the doomsday meeting with him and Mrs. T. I took off for a long drive, somehow messed up a hook-up with Britney McLaren, and eventually ended up hanging out at Xave’s place with a few other friends.

“Oh, whatever. You got to sleep in, at least,” Scarr scoffs.

“Not even.” I tug playfully on her scarf, twirling one of the tassels around my index finger. “Graham worked from home. Woke my ass up at seven-fifteen.”

And I’m pretty sure he plans on staying home tomorrow, too. Possibly all week. One day in and I’m already going stir-crazy.

“Oh wow. That totally blows.” Scarr pulls the scarf from my fingers, and we settle on a flat rock along the far end of the beach, the sloped forest sheltering our backs from the breeze.

“Yeah. He’s pissed.” I sigh. “They’re both pissed. They’re making me get a tutor.” I meet her gaze. “Mrs. T’s idea.”

Scarr studies me for a second, like she’s waiting for me to say more.

I don’t.

“So? Maybe a tutor will help bring your grades up.”

I shrug. “Yeah. I guess.”

She scrutinizes me again. “You’re worried the tutor will figure out the memory glitches and stuff.”

Scarr knows me well. She’s also the only person, by the way, who is aware of the bullshit going on with me ever since that concussion in June, and she’s sworn not to tell anyone. She thinks I’m being stupid, but she agreed to keep my secret just like I agreed to keep hers. Scarr knows what it means to want something to stay quiet because you’re not ready to deal with the noise it’ll set off once you turn the volume up on it.

And here’s the thing: I do need to pull up my grades, because losing my place on the team is not an option. But Scarr’sright; I’m nervous about the whole tutoring thing. Because a tutor might figure out, after just a few sessions, that this latest dip in my academic performance is due to more than the usual stupid teenage distractions or even my ADHD. And if they pass that on to my folks, it’ll mean a formal diagnosis—which equals a guaranteed ban from playing ball, at least for a while. Probably a long while. And that scares me more than anything,because football is who I am.I’m not good at a lot of stuff. Sure as hell not good at school. But I am good at football. It’s the reason people put up with the rest of my bullshit. Without it, I’d just be the guy with a nice face and a quarter-size brain. One step above the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.

I tell Scarlett she’s right, about my fears with the tutor clueing in that something’s off. She leans back, hands flattened against the rock on either side of her waist as she tilts her head. A glossy curtain of hair falls across one side of her face and she brushes it over her shoulder. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe it’s a sign.” Her eyes soften in a way that’s unfamiliar on her. “It’s been a while, Seb. And it’s not getting better.”

“It’s not getting worse.”

“But it’s not getting better,” she repeats, with a little more emphasis this time.

“I’m not gonna put it off forever.” My voice sounds defensive. Iamdefensive. The last thing I need is Scarr getting on my case about this right now. I trusted her with this because we don’t judge. That’s our thing: we tell each other stuff knowing the other person might not agree or get it or whatever, but there’s always an understanding there will be no judgment. No pressure. No meddling in each other’s shit. I mean, Justin Tanner. Come on. There’s so much I could have said about that shitshow waiting to happen. But I left it alone.

Still, I get this isn’t the same thing. And it’s not like there isn’t a part of me that wants to figure out what the hell is going on with this messed up stuff since that concussion.

“It’s just until the state championship,” I tell her. “That’s only a couple months away. I can deal for that long.” I can push through the memory glitches and fatigue and stuff, if that’s what it takes to bring home a trophy Sandy Haven hasn’t won in seventeen years. “If things are still messed up after the season, I’ll tell my folks and we’ll deal with it then.”

“What if it gets worse before the championships?”

God, she’s like a dog with a bone right now.

“It won’t get worse.”

“If it does, you need to tell them.”

“It’s not gonna get worse.”

“But if it does.”

I roll my eyes. “Fucking fine. If it gets worse, I’ll tell them.” I grab either end of her scarf and pull lightly, pretending to choke her. She laughs when I release the ends then stretch the middle part right up over her face.

“There. So much better,” I grin. And she’s still smiling too when she pulls the soft wool back around her neck. Two smiles from Scarlett Thiels in one day… Almost as rare as a safety in an NFL defense.

In all honesty, I’m not as worried now about the tutoring thing as I was when my parents first told me about it. Because it turns out they hired a student. Some girl I’ve never heard of that Mrs. T. recommended. Not the eagle-eyed retired schoolteacher I was envisioning at first, scrutinizing me and weeding out a couple of sessions in that my memory is messed up and that my attention span is off more than any level of ADHD would account for. But another student—even a straight-A student—isn’t going to notice that kind of thing. And even if she does, she doesn’t know me enough to care or pursue it any further.

Anyway, it’s all set. This girl apparently signed on the dotted line for the job right on the spot. They’ve set up dates, times… the whole thing settled and planned. No doubt my parents were willing to pay a steep fee for anyone willing to take on my legendary rock-bottom academic prowess.

So, I get help bringing my grades up. Fly under the radar. Bring home the championship. Win-win.

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