Heroine(17)

“You sign with anyone yet?”

“Not yet,” I tell him. “Couple Division Three coaches have talked to me, but you know how that is.”

Ed nods. “Can’t give athletic scholarships.”

“Nope. So I’ve got to keep my grades up, hope for an academic one that comes with an invite to play D3. So . . . we’ll see.”

“Carolina still headed to Ohio State?”

“You bet,” I tell him, pride swelling, even if it’s not for myself. “Division One athletic scholarship. All the way. Free ride.”

“I didn’t know if . . .” He trails off, letting me put together the rest.

“If getting hurt ruined things?” I shake my head. “She’s on track, doing fine. She’ll be throwing opening day.”

Ed doesn’t ask about me. I don’t offer, and the bubble of happiness I felt for my friend deflates a little.

“Westwood lost a wrestler,” Ed goes on.

“He pregnant too?” I ask, mouth full of doughnut.

“Nope, he’s dead.”

“Shit,” I say, wiping my mouth. “Sorry.”

“Overdosed.” Ed shakes his head. “I’ll tell you what the problem is, it’s that truck stop out at the interstate. Kids can go out there, get anything they want. Get stuff they don’t have any business with.”

“What was it?” I ask. “Pills?”

“Yep,” Ed says. “You believe that? When I was your age, you know what we did? We drank. These days . . .” He shakes his head again. “I don’t know, kiddo. It’s not good, understand me?”

“Yep,” I agree.

“And you know what else?”

“No, Ed,” I say. “What else?”

“Daisy—the lady cop?”

“You know you can just say cop, Ed.”

“Yeah, well, she told me they got a call from a mom the other day, all upset. Her kid was hanging out at the park after school and found a bunch of needles behind the dugout at the diamond.”

Okay, now that actually does upset me.

“People are shooting up at the park?”

I haven’t played on that field since youth summer league, but I still don’t like the idea of dirty hypodermics lying where Lydia and I used to have spitting contests with sunflower seeds. The thought makes me shiver.

“Terrible,” Ed says. “Why would anyone ever stick a needle in their arm?”

“I don’t know, Ed,” I say, glancing at the clock as I throw back the rest of my coffee. “I’ve got to get to school.”

“All right. You be careful out there.”

Ed’s said this to me every Monday since I started coming in here, but today feels different. Maybe I’m being paranoid, taking it the wrong way since I’m on crutches and I don’t want him thinking about me as a hurt thing. Maybe it’s because there’s a couple white pills in my jacket pocket that are going to be in my stomach before lunch. Or maybe it’s because, as I’m leaving, I hear Ed mutter to himself, “I just don’t understand.”

And maybe it’s because I’m starting to.





Chapter Thirteen


graduate: to mark with degrees; to divide into regular steps, grades, or intervals—or—to admit or elevate to a certain grade or degree

School has never been easy for me.

It’s never been my goal to be the prettiest girl, or the funniest girl, and definitely not the nicest girl in the room. But right now it sure would be great to be the smartest one.

My conversation with Big Ed only served to remind me that while colleges have shown interest in me, nobody is going to give me a degree to play ball. It’ll be a mix of athletic ability and good grades that get me anywhere I’m going, and I’ve been set pretty far back on both of those things by the accident.

As Carolina likes to remind me, it sucks to suck.

What sucks right now is that I’ve got to write out definitions for twenty different words I don’t know the meaning of, plus finish Lord of the Flies, and I’ve got one study hall period to do it in. Time is against me, and I’m not at my sharpest thanks to the double shot of Oxy I just did in the bathroom.

I let out a long sigh and shake my head, hoping to clear it. If I’m not careful I’ll slide back down into sleep and be late to English, which isn’t going to get me any closer to a better GPA. I’m thinking about the fact that I can’t fall asleep when my head hits my chest and I jump, knocking over my crutches and attracting the attention of everyone in the room.

A freshman named Nikki comes running over to help, propping them against my desk. I know she plays basketball and made varsity, something that Lydia and the Bellas weren’t quite sure what to think of, until they saw her box out. Apparently she knocked the overbearing assistant coach on her ass, and immediately became everyone’s best friend. Rumor is she plays softball, too.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Fine,” I say, stifling a yawn. “Just tired and . . .” I gesture toward the pile of books in front of me.

“No time for naps?” she finishes for me.

“Nope.”

She pulls a chair over and sits across from me, sifting through my pile to pull out Lord of the Flies.