Time Bomb(16)
“But you play football,” was his mother’s first comment. Like that had anything to do with anything.
His brother might have known. There was resignation, not surprise, on his face as he said, “It’s your life, and you have to be who you are.” But Tad, as their mother started gushing about loving him no matter what and wanting him to give everyone time to adjust to it and to really be sure how he feels before saying anything to anyone about it, heard his brother quietly ask, “Do you really want to single yourself out even more?”
No. He didn’t. But he didn’t have a choice. Just as he didn’t have a choice that their father was white and their mother was black and that because he was both, he often felt he wasn’t allowed to be either one.
Too dark for anyone to ever consider him white, and how many times did he say something to his black friends, only to hear someone quip, “Yeah, but it’s different for you.”
Yeah, it was, but not like any of his friends meant. Nothing was made easier in his life because his dad wasn’t black. It was just . . . different.
He was tired of feeling different, and he got that his mother was worried and probably was hoping that one day he’d look at Jasmine or some other girl and suddenly yell, What the hell was I thinking? But her pretending to accept his choices wasn’t making this any easier. He was tired of pretending to be what everyone else needed him to be. He was tired of having everyone else’s needs come before his.
He was done, and if someone else got hurt—too damn bad.
He spotted a guy walking past the door and stepped back so he wouldn’t be seen. The last thing he wanted was someone besides Frankie coming in here.
Tad pulled his phone out of his pocket. Where the hell was Frankie? He was through with feeling as if he was never going to be good enough. He was going to make sure people finally noticed how he felt. Frankie, his mother, Sam, and everyone else—all of them were going to see that things didn’t vanish just because you ignored them.
Although it looked as if Frankie hadn’t gotten that message quite yet. It was long past the deadline Tad had given, and still Frankie hadn’t shown up or sent a message.
Tad walked to one of the narrow windows and studied the parking lot below, looking for Frankie’s white Mustang. It was parked in the teachers’ lot closest to the school—exactly where no student was allowed to park.
Figures.
But that meant he was still here, and Tad wasn’t about to let him get out of this. It was time for Frankie to face him.
Tad pulled out his phone. A message from Jimmy had arrived, telling him to hurry up. They were all waiting around for him—captain’s orders.
Sorry, Jimmy. You’re going to be waiting a long time, because today, Frankie isn’t the one giving orders.
EITHER YOU TALK TO ME NOW OR I START SENDING MESSAGES ABOUT US TO EVERYONE ON THE TEAM, he typed to Frankie, then paused.
He could just turn his back on all of this and go back to pretending that everything was fine.
No change. No worries.
He could go home and wait until Frankie was ready to talk. Jasmine and all his mother’s friends would be gone. His brother would be done playing his music, and everything could just be normal.
Only normal sucked, and he didn’t think he could live like this—not anymore.
He was tired of who he was and what he wanted being pushed aside because it was too much trouble for other people to think about.
Tad swallowed hard and walked to the hallway. Frankie had blown him off again and expected him to take it and be grateful.
Put up or shut up. That’s what Coach always said. Put up or shut up.
Screw that.
It was time to blow up the status quo, and to hell with what happened next. People were going to start realizing that he could no longer be ignored, and Frankie was going to get a front-row seat for the show. Whether he wanted to or not.
Tad looked back down at his phone and hit SEND.
11:47 a.m.
Z
— Chapter 11 —
Z STOPPED PACING and walked back to the window to look down at the ground three stories below.
Watching.
Waiting.
He’d come in through the field-house entrance. No teachers were around. He’d passed only a couple of freshman football players who acted like they were too cool to notice him stroll by.
God, he hated this building. He hated the way it smelled of fresh paint and Lysol. Like it was new.
Only nothing about this place was new. They could paint and clean all they wanted, but as long as it was standing, the same old crap would be underneath it all.
Maybe he was playing with fire, being here now—watching the kids who walked through the front door thinking that everything would be okay if they just tried their hardest. He shouldn’t blame them for buying the idea that everyone would get a fair shake. But all they had to do was look around and they’d see what was really what. They’d get that there were no fair shakes. No second chances. You were judged as having potential or being worthless before you ever came through the front doors.
Blond Homecoming Queen who had come up the steps earlier with her pink shirt and her perfectly brushed hair didn’t want to think about that. Because life was working just fine for her.
Z spotted Mr. Casey walking from the faculty parking lot toward the school, and he gripped the edge of the window frame. How many times had he replayed Mr. Casey’s words in his head? Hundreds.