Wrecked(2)

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Coach remarked. “They would have let you stay overnight at the hospital.”

“I’ll be fine,” Haley replied. “You get used to dorm noise.”

“Well, sleep is your most important medicine right now. Rest, water, and lots of sleep.”

Haley began to nod, then thought better of it. Her head felt like it rested atop a pike. She was about to get out, but Coach kept speaking.

“You know, since I was sitting with you when the nurse did the intake, I couldn’t help but overhear you tell them that this is your third concussion.”

Haley stilled. Here it comes.

Coach sighed. “I wish I’d known. Not only today, when I played you so aggressively, but last year, when I was recruiting at Hastings.” She didn’t sound mad as much as she sounded . . . sorry.

Haley didn’t speak. The soccer--powerhouse Hastings School, where she’d repeated junior year and ultimately graduated, seemed like a lifetime ago.

“You’ve made a great contribution this season, Haley, especially considering that you’re only a freshman,” Coach said. “But for now you need to focus on your health, so you’ll be contributing from the bench.”

The bench. Followed by the door. As in, Don’t let it hit you on the way out, girl.

“The health center is closed on Sundays, but I’m going to see if the doc will come in to check on you. I’ll let you know.”

She was dismissed. That much was clear. Haley swung the door open to the night air, the sounds of the party under way. She turned to face Coach.

“Thanks for helping me out this afternoon. I really appreciate it. I . . . I’m sorry I’ve let you down.”

Coach didn’t look at her. She glanced in her rearview mirror. Flipped the directional, signaling left. She was done.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Coach said. “Try to get some sleep.”

Some part of Haley—the angry part, the why--me?--head--throbbing part—wants to tell her mother right now that no impact test on the planet can help her. She’s cooked. Stick a fork in the girl—she’s done. Benched for the rest of this season, and next year? Probably won’t even make the roster.

Some part of her resents carrying this alone. Some part of her wants her mother to feel bad, too. Another part feels sick that she screwed up. What was she thinking, talking about a third concussion in front of Coach?

Before she can say another word to her mother, the door to the room swings open. It’s Jenny. Weighed down, as usual, by a massively overstuffed backpack. She glances at Haley lying in bed with the phone to her ear and flashes her an apologetic look. As if she’s interrupting. She always acts like she’s interrupting. Like it isn’t her room, too.

“I need to go,” Haley says into the phone. “I promise, I will deal with the forms today.” She ends the call before her mother can speak again. She turns off the ringer, closes her eyes, and lays the phone on her chest. It takes too much energy to reach up and replace it on the desk.

She hears the hushed sounds of Jenny moving around.

“She’s like a mouse,” her teammate Madison had once commented. “I mean, you turn around and she’s there. Like, when did she slip in? It’s almost creepy.” Madison, who does everything at full speed and full volume. “She even looks like a mouse. Kind of little and brown--haired.”

“You just don’t get the charms of ‘petite.’ She’s actually really pretty,” Haley countered. It was a kick--your--own--dog reaction: she gets annoyed with her roommate, but no one else can. She understands Madison’s impatience with Jenny. Jenny is überstudious and soft--spoken, while Madison is . . . not. Which, in Haley’s case, is a good thing. She loves being Madison’s teammate; appreciates being Jenny’s roommate. Randomly paired in a sprawling freshman dorm, their paths rarely cross. Haley is either at practice or hanging with her teammates or cramming in the library. Jenny, premed, practically lives in the lab. They navigate their separate lives efficiently and politely.

They are perfect living companions.

Nevertheless, Madison’s observation stuck, and before long the whole team referred to her as Jenny--Mouse. Not to her face, luckily. Haley lived in dread that Jenny would overhear one of them.

“Hey,” Haley says from the bed, eyes still closed.

“I’m sorry; you didn’t have to hang up,” Jenny says.

“Actually, you did me a solid.”

“Your mom?”

“Yup.”

Jenny doesn’t reply. Six weeks of overheard conversations is all Jenny needs to completely get Haley’s mom thing. She doesn’t comment. But she doesn’t judge, either.

“How are you?” Jenny asks. “I heard you got hurt at yester-day’s game.”

“Bashed heads with a Jeffersonian,” Haley says. “Concussion.”

“Ouch.”

“Serious ouch. Third--time serious ouch.” Haley hears a creak. Jenny sits on the opposite bed. “Which is why I’ve been so out of it,” she continues. “You’ve probably been wondering why I’ve been lying here in the dark.”

“No, your friend Madison told me. Listen, I’m really sorry about last night.” The bed creaks again. And again. Little jouncy squeaks.