Laird
The little yellow octopus on my screen refused to swim higher, regardless of how many times I woodpeckered the button. He’d stop, go, turn right or left, and sink lower, but not swim up and follow the bubbles. For the fourteenth time, he got stuck in the coral and the timer ran out on the level.
Fucking hell. I almost threw my phone across the room. The code for the app I was developing as part of my Video Game Design class had been fighting me since last weekend. All the earlier design steps—the graphics, the sounds, the scoring algorithms—had gone smoothly, but somewhere there was an error in the programming that I just couldn’t find. Oh, and this next stage of the project was due Monday night, four days from now.
I should’ve spent more time on it earlier in the week when I first integrated the graphics, but I assumed it’d be an easy fix—like all the other stumbling blocks I’d hit with the project so far. A little tweak and it’d be handled. And despite staying up until after three this morning trying to rework the directional commands, the little fucker still refused to cooperate.
Swallowing back my frustration, I switched out of the app and checked my texts to see if Reese was going to make it to practice today. If she didn’t show up after already missing Tuesday’s practice, I’d have no choice but to give her spot in Friday’s game to an alternate. I hated to do it, but those were the rules.
Me: Feeling better?
Reese: No. Still puking. I already emailed the director and he told me I was benched from the Georgia game. This fucking sucks. My guts hate me.
She’d had a wicked stomach virus for the last three days. I’d spent the last two nights in her dorm room with her—because she refused to come to my townhouse—microwaving cups of broth and forcing her to drink plenty of water and Gatorade in between her trips to the bathroom.
Reese hadn’t wanted me to be there, hadn’t wanted me to see her like that. Pale, sweaty, damp hair clinging to her face—none of that mattered to me. She was still beautiful and there was no place I would’ve rather been than by her side. Her nausea didn’t make me squeamish, maybe because I’d seen Garrett like that so much when I was younger.
Eventually, she’d given in and let me fuss over her a bit. She’d laid in my lap on that little bed, cool washcloth over her hot forehead, making a sound that was halfway between a groan and a hum as I ran my fingers through her tangled hair. I’d murmured nonsense words to her until she fell into a restless sleep, shivering under the blankets and then kicking them off her sweaty body as the fever rose and broke. Ignoring her protests, I’d skipped two classes, only going to the ones with mandatory attendance, because I’d needed to feel like I was doing something to help her, even if it was just to sit by her side while she napped in between bouts of vomiting.
But I couldn’t help worrying it was something more.
I held her thin wrist and counted her pulse while she slept, watched the rise and fall of her chest for her respirations. Her long, tan limbs showed no unusual signs of bruising, and my fingers didn’t trip over any enlarged lymph nodes when I massaged the back of her tense neck. But was she paler than normal? I told myself it was dehydration, not anemia. I googled all the signs of leukemia reoccurrence and alternately reassured myself and fretted over the multitude of subtle symptoms.
Fatigue.
Loss of appetite.
Dizziness.
Fever.
Night sweats.
Weight loss.
All things that could’ve resulted from a normal, garden-variety stomach virus.
Not cancer.
Not like Garrett.
And so I pushed my worst fears to the darkest recesses of my mind and shoved them behind a steel door. I focused on making her laugh until her dimple appeared. Showed her stupid YouTube videos and rubbed her feet. Changed her sheets and washed her clothes. Helped her memorize the Krebs cycle for biology and reassured her that missing a football game if she wasn’t better wouldn’t be the end of the world.
Friday’s game pitted the Rodner Sharks against the Georgia Bulldogs, who we were expected to crush on the scoreboard. Those games were never as exciting as when the teams were more closely matched and the predicted winner was not only highly debated, but conference rankings hinged on the outcome. She’d still get to play in the stands and be part of the whole game day, she’d just miss marching in the actual show.
I hadn’t seen her yet today. Thursdays were my busiest days, with an anatomy lab and a computer lab session back to back.
Me: Do you want me to come over again tonight?
I winced as I typed it. I wanted to be there. I wanted it almost more than I wanted to breathe. But I also needed to focus on my damn video game project, and it wouldn’t be easy to do that from her dorm.
Reese: I keep telling you, you don’t have to take care of me. You’re a computer science major, not a nursing one.
Me: I’ll bring you dinner at least. Think you could nibble on one of your favorite subs?
That way I could check on her, I rationalized. I wouldn’t stay, I’d just drop off some food and make sure she was set for the night. Reassure myself that she was on the mend and didn’t need to be hauled down to the Student Health Center.
Reese: That actually sounds really good. First time food has sounded tempting in days. But you don’t have to, Laird. It’s out of your way. I can call and have it delivered.
She could, but I’d rather bring it to her.
Reese had tried to get me to leave every time I’d shown up, protesting she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself—but that wasn’t the point. Reese didn’t have to take care of herself.
She had me.
And if there was one thing I’d promised myself after watching my mom disappear and my dad fade into an emotionless shell of a human after Garrett’s death, it was that you didn’t just abandon the ones you loved when it wasn’t pretty. When it wasn’t fucking convenient.
That’s when you loved more. You loved harder.
And since I hadn’t said the words to her yet, all I had were my actions.
All I had was myself.
And I wanted it to be enough.
I wanted to be enough for her.
And, project be damned, the least I could do was pick her up a fucking sub.
Me: I’ll be there. As soon as practice is over.
Content that I’d gotten in the final word, I tucked my phone away and slogged through what felt like the longest two hours of the day.
I gave Reese’s spot on the field to Heath, and the choreography only seemed to confuse him. Instead of rising to the occasion, he wandered aimlessly from point to point, always a little too fast or a little too slow, sticking out instead of blending in.
Keeping my frustration in check exhausted the last of my patience, so when practice ended, and Marco called my name as I headed toward the exit after stowing my gear, my tone was clipped and to the point. “What?”
“I was thinking we should make a new snare duel for Saturday. It’s been the same for the last few shows; it’s about time to switch it up, don’t you think?”
Why? Why, why, why? What we had worked great and, most importantly, we already had it mastered.
I leveled a barely concealed glare his direction. “And you want to change it now? For the show we play in two fucking days?”
“Hey, man. You’re the best player on the line, right?” His sarcasm came through loud and clear. “I didn’t think it’d be that hard for you. I know I can handle it.”
He threw the challenge down like a grenade.
The muscle in my jaw ticked as I searched for any last shred of self-control lurking in my sleep-deprived body. Anything to help me deal with his habit of talking out his ass.
“Next week. You want to rework it, we do it next week. You know the drill. We have to pass off any changes with the director before it makes the show. And he’s out of town until the game Saturday.”
The assistant director had run practice today.
I shifted my bookbag on my shoulders and fished my car keys out of my pocket.
Marco scowled. “What? You don’t think we can get it ready in a few hours and get it checked off before game day starts? Where do you have to run off to so fast?”
I retreated a step from the thread of aggression in his tone. Not because I was scared. But because I wasn’t entirely sure how we’d gotten to this point. We’d played side by side for years, and while our close friendship had faded over time, we’d always still maintained a certain camaraderie. But these days, if felt more like we weren’t even on the same team.
“I’ve got a project due. It’s called homework, Marco. And I don’t have some cymbal girl under my spell doing all my assignments for me.”
His face turned a blotchy, ruddy color. “What are you implying? Go on and say it outright.”
I tipped my head back and focused on the thin white contrail from a jet passing overhead. I sighed. We only had five games left in the regular season. Five games left before my career as a snare drummer was over.
And I was starting to look forward to it, just to escape this asshole.
“I’m saying, your whim to redo the snare duel all of the sudden is not my main priority. It’s just not. Maybe next week, man. I’m out of here.”
I didn’t wait for him to respond.
I didn’t have to.
I was the fucking captain of the best damn snare line in the whole Southeast.
And I had a turkey and cranberry sub to deliver.