RYAN
Deep, throaty laughter fills the school’s weight room when Chris rips off the Kick Me sign Logan planted on his back. The laughter grows when Chris wads the paper up, throws it at Logan, and flips him off.
“All right, girls.” Coach bangs his hand against one of the lockers to gain our attention. “I’ve got this week’s study hall list.”
The laughter switches to groaning. Coach is serious about our grades. Each week he pesters our teachers for a progress report and if he sees our grades slightly teeter, we end up in after-school tutoring. I wipe my hands on a towel and prepare to lie back to finish my reps. I’m no Logan, but I keep my grades at a decent level.
“Allen, Niles, and Jones.”
Chris tilts his head back and moans. “Damn science.”
I snap the towel at him. “Have fun.” Nothing can lower this mood. I finally got the better of Beth. And it’s about damn time. No one has bested me this long.
“Screw you, Ryan.” Without another glance, Chris leaves the room.
“Stone!” calls Coach.
“Yeah?”
Coach stares at me oddly and hitches a thumb in the direction Chris just went. “Study hall.”
“For what?” My grades are fine.
He shrugs. “Your English teacher requested you.”
Back talk will get me push-ups or laps, so I suck up any commentary and head out of the room and down the empty hallways. When I finally reach study hall, I’m immediately greeted by Chris’s chuckles. He leans back in his chair, ignoring the science book in front of him. “My life just got better.”
If it weren’t for the tutors and teachers in the room, I’d tell him where to shove it.
“Over here, Ryan.” Mrs. Rowe waves at me as if I’m across a stadium. Her hair has a green tint today. I acknowledge her with a movement of my chin and walk over to her desk.
I slide into the chair next to her. “I passed the quiz and I’ve turned in my papers.”
Her hand flutters in the air. “Oh, you’re not here because of your grades.”
My eyes narrow as my muscles tighten. “Then why am I here?”
She shuffles through a stack of papers, searching for something. Possibly her mind. “Your coach said we could request you for any academic reason. It doesn’t have to be a bad reason. Stop being so pessimistic.”
Pessimistic? “I’m missing weight training.”
“So you are,” she says as she pulls my George the zombie tale out of the stack. “You haven’t turned in your paperwork for the writing competition. What you should be worried about is missing your opportunity at a college scholarship. If you win this competition, you’ll receive money toward any Kentucky school of your choice. It’s not a full scholarship, but it’s something.”
“I’m not going to college,” I say plainly.
She freezes and stares at me as if I’d announced her impending death. “Why not?”
I gesture at my shirt. Is this lady for real? “I’m a ballplayer. I’m going to play ball.”
“You can play ball at college. Ryan….” She falters, then places my story in front of me. “This is the most magnificent piece of writing I’ve seen from a high school student. Ever. Have you considered that you’re more than a ballplayer?”
My mouth opens to respond, but absolutely nothing comes out and that shocks me into closing it. My mind’s blank. I’m a ballplayer. A damn good one. Isn’t that enough?
“Did you even read the information I gave you about the state competition? For three years I’ve watched you obsess over winning. Aren’t you interested in winning this too?”
I say nothing as my face reddens. Mrs. Rowe just called me out and she has a right to. I didn’t read the paperwork. I haven’t even considered the competition since the other night when she first told me I finaled.
“I have a feeling you enjoyed writing this. It’s too good for you not to have.”
She’s right again. I did enjoy it. Finding those words, being in George’s head…I stare down at the printed-out pages…it felt freeing. Just like when I step on the pitcher’s mound before the game and the pressure begins. The moment when it’s just me, a ball, and a mitt to throw into.
And he wondered what happened to the world around him. Did it also collapse into chaos? Had everything ceased to exist as it was, just like how his life spiraled into nothingness? Or had the rest of the world continued on like normal, because in the end his position within it never really mattered?
The words I wrote glare at me in accusation. A nagging ache pulls at my insides. I’m proud of those words and denying the competition is like denying part of me. In front of my computer, there were no secrets, no complications—just a world that I could control.
“In order to be considered for the award,” Mrs. Rowe continues, “you need to complete a short story and turn it in a week prior to the event. Your attendance is still required that day, however, as that’s when you’ll get critiques of your work and meet with faculty members from universities across the state. It’s one day. Just one Saturday.”
I hear my dad in my head. “I have games Saturdays.” And I glance over at Chris, who’s eyeing me warily. How much of this conversation can he hear? “My team’s depending on me.”
She pats the pages resting in front of me. “Let’s start off small, okay? Turn this four-page beginning into a true short story. I can yank you out of every weight training, or you can promise me that you’ll write it in your free time at home. The choice is yours.”
And it’s a no-brainer. “I’ll do it in my free time.”
“Good.” Her eyes light up. “But I’m still keeping you for the next hour. I want you to get started now.”