Reese
“I don’t understand what’s gotten into you.” My mother fiddled with the hem of her sensible white shirt while she stood in the doorway of my bedroom, watching me scour the internet for a flight back to Alabama that afternoon while simultaneously flinging clothes and toiletries haphazardly into my suitcase. “Your behavior has been so erratic this week. First, you showed up unannounced on Friday, after skipping your classes”—she said it in the same horrified tone one would use when describing a terrorist attack—“and now you up and decide to go back early. Thanksgiving is tomorrow, Reese. Do you know how many people will be at the airport today? Do you know how many germs and viruses will be there?”
Ahhh, now we were getting to the root of her fears. My health.
“I know, Mom. The germs, the viruses, the diseases, oh my!” My dry sarcasm went right over her head.
“Exactly! And we still need to go over all your scholarship paperwork for next semester too. Who is this guy you’re so worried about? You’ve never mentioned a guy to me in your calls before.” Her practical shoes tapped over the hardwood floors—carpet wasn’t sanitary—as she approached.
“He’s…” I wasn’t sure what label to stick on my current situation with Laird. “It’s complicated.”
But my gut screamed that Laird needed me. That whatever else had transpired between us, he was hurting and needed someone—needed me—by his side. And I knew he’d never ask outright. It wasn’t in his nature.
Laird was the guy in charge, the one who handled things, who shouldered the heavy lifting. He’d try to bury the grief, pretend it wasn’t there, that it didn’t matter.
He needed permission to grieve. To let it out so the pain didn’t fester.
My heart broke at the image of him in his townhouse alone, facing the loss of someone I knew he’d looked at as another younger brother.
Regret, sharp-edged and swift, flooded me when I realized that the Starbucks double date Eli had wanted so badly never happened.
I’d failed him too.
I blinked back tears.
She touched my bruised wrist softly. “Is this part of the complication? I know you don’t want to talk about it, but your dad knows a lawyer he could call if—”
“No!” I cut her off harshly. “He had nothing to do with this. I told you, I fell.”
And that was all she’d ever know about the whole Marco situation. If she knew about the other hazing, she’d probably have flown down to Alabama months ago and insisted on accompanying me to practice, or whatever else she could come up with in my worst helicopter-parenting nightmare.
“But this guy you’re rushing back to, he took you to the hospital?”
She’d lit up like a Christmas tree when she found out real doctors had laid their hands on me and pronounced me only mildly injured. Nothing excited her more than a good report on my overall health from a licensed medical professional.
“No.” I shook my head as I clicked through the website to purchase the plane ticket. My flight left in three hours. “That was a different guy.”
“But a kid died? I don’t understand all this. This other guy who needs you so badly—was it his child? His sibling?”
“No, Eli was—” I broke off again. She didn’t know I volunteered. As much as she loved for me to go to the doctor, she didn’t like me being near hospitals. Too many sick people. Too many germs. “He was special. He had leukemia.”
“Oh, honey.” She turned away, her hand to her mouth. Mom preferred to live in a world where cancer never won, where kids didn’t die from things beyond their control. Her voice wavered. “How did you meet him?”
“Make-a-Wish.” The lie came easily. “He wanted to be in a football halftime show. He liked drums.”
Mom sniffed, nodding. “But, you have to leave now?”
I double-checked the clock. “In an hour.” That would still leave me enough time to get through security.
She sighed, her forehead creased with permanent worry lines. “Let me at least go over the paperwork with you then.”
By the time she returned with a stack of papers punctuated with colored sticky notes, my bag was packed and by the door, ready to go.
I’d won a total of nine scholarships during my junior and senior years of high school. There were a lot of people willing to throw money at cancer survivors pursuing higher education. Lucky me.
“Most of these are straight forward.” She pointed at the first one, where precise yellow highlighter marked the pertinent information and the Post-It that summarized in flawless script the actions I needed to take. “The merit-based ones just need a copy of your transcript, but some need additional documentation.”
I glanced over the first few neatly stapled packets. My mom had even included stamped, addressed envelopes for me to mail the forms back with.
A pang of guilt for leaving early spread through my chest.
Mom might show it in weird, overprotective ways, but she loved me.
I sat on the edge of the bed and patted the spot next to me. “Walk me through them, please.”
Her face brightened as she settled next to me, the dead cancer kid forgotten.
I listened attentively as she went through the first five sets of papers. Three of the scholarships didn’t require any action mid-year. The only one left to discuss looked to be the most complicated, based on the thick stack of print outs.
“And then there’s this one.” She tapped the page, and the bold font at the top caught my attention.
I’d filled out so many forms and written so many essays back in high school that the different awards had all blurred together in my head. I’d known escaping my parents’ clinging reach depended on creating distance, so I’d applied for dozens and dozens of prizes, the specifics of each long since forgotten.
But the name of this particular award sounded familiar, now that I was seeing it in black and white.
The Garrett Bronson Memorial Scholarship.
My mind tripped and stuttered over the name.
“For this one, you need to submit not only your transcript showing you maintained a 3.0 GPA, but you need one of your professors to…”
I tuned out the rest of her words.
Garrett Bronson.
G stands for Garrett, my brother.
Laird’s family was literally paying for my education.
Did he know?
Dear sweet heavenly Father who forgave those who profited from other’s misfortunes.
If Garrett hadn’t died, I wouldn’t be at Rodner.
I wouldn’t have met Laird.
I wouldn’t have fallen in love for the first time.
How messed up was it that I owed all the good things in the last few months to Laird’s biggest loss?
Guilt simmered low and hot in my gut.
And I felt a renewed urgency to get to his side, to tell him I understood why he didn’t bring up Garrett’s passing, to let him know he wasn’t alone.
I snatched the papers from my mom and stuffed them haphazardly in my bookbag, ignoring her gasp of dismay when the edges crinkled and bent. “Thanks. I’ll take care of it,” I said distractedly.
Despair at the broken situation between Laird and myself squeezed my chest, making each beat of my heart feel dull and heavy.
I needed to get back to Alabama immediately.
There was a green-eyed drummer who needed me.