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It’s like the air is kicked from my lungs. I’m struggling to breathe, to work my suddenly barren voice up to an audible octave. I force the words past the hard knot in my throat. “Jake.”
“Damn, don’t sound happy to hear from your big brother, or anything.” He laughs.
I can’t tell if he’s been locked up for days or weeks. Or maybe even months. He always sounds the same; as if it’s all some kind of joke. Like it’s all the fault of the “system” and he’s the victim it keeps picking on.
“How long you been in the pen? They transfer you today?” I ask this, because whenever he was first picked up, he didn’t bother calling then. He knew that he was in for a while. Or maybe he called Mom first. That thought has me tightening my grip on the phone, my knuckles aching from the pressure.
“Nah,” he says. I hear him moving around on the other end, probably trying to get privacy from the other inmates. “I’ve been here a little while. I transferred from shit holding a couple weeks ago. I just—” He breaks off. “I didn’t want to bother you with it until I had my first hearing. Thought I might make bond or OR.”
I press the tip of my tongue against the roof of my mouth, biting back my words. I’m about to tell him that I doubt he’ll get out on OR—own recognizance—or even make bond. He most likely used up those wild cards a while ago.
“You didn’t call Mom, did you.” There’s a hint of threat in my voice, and I know he hears it clearly, even though I’ve phrased it carefully.
“No,” he says. “I didn’t call Mom. Shit, Ryder, what the hell?”
“Then you need me to bail you out?” I want this conversation over with quickly. Needing him to get to the point of his call. Because I know he wants something, and I’m fucking sick of the phony calls, like we’re just two brothers shooting the shit.
“Time’s ticking,” I say.
I hear his deep breath over the receiver. “I just fucking said that I didn’t make bond, hell. I was actually just calling to check in.” He never calls just to check in when he’s not in jail. “Make sure you were good.”
“I’m good, Jake. When are they planning to release you?” I’m sure he’ll end this conversation with a request for a ride. Which I’ll agree to. Only because I don’t want our mother bothered. She’s got enough problems; she doesn’t need to deal with this shit anymore.
“Not sure.” The line is silent for a minute, and I refrain from asking the obvious: what he did to get put in there this time. I don’t really want to know. And it’s old hat, anyway. “You still playing ball?”
I nod, like he can see me. “Yeah. Going to the championship this year.”
“Damn.” Another long, silent beat. “You don’t sound too stoked about it. Shit, that could’ve been me.” He chuckles. “You know that you could’ve quit a long time ago. Hell, you never even had to start playing, Ryder.”
My back teeth clamp down hard. I forcefully relax my jaw to speak my next words. “Didn’t I? Look, let’s not go there. Just tell me when I need to be there to pick you up. I have to get back to practice.”
“Right.” I hear the sarcasm. “Well, then. You’re welcome. Glad I could be of service to your dreams, bro. To think, I thought I was bailing you out back then. Helping you so that you didn’t have to play that fucking sport. That was the whole point, remember? And now—” He huffs, and I can envision his gritted teeth. The scowl pulling at his features that are similar to mine. I know just what he looks like right now. I’ve been seeing that guy too often in the mirror lately, and that insight makes me ill. “You don’t owe that man anything,” he says. “You can do whatever you want to do. Dad’s dead.”
And the anger bursts forth, unhinged. “Yeah, I know,” I say. “We killed him.”
17
Arian
Vee is ridiculously happy about this secret party thing the team is planning for the boosters. I’m trying hard not to let on that I know anything about it—which isn’t hard, since I technically don’t. Ryder’s being more than vague, and that makes me wonder if they’ve even planned anything past the actual get-together.
I guess that’s not important, but I was hoping that it would be something classy. I know, a classy college football team party for their devoted fans and groupies. I’m delusional. But after the bonfire, where I was subjected to crudeness, a girl can hope. There’s still a big part of me that enjoys caviar and quiche over chips and dip. Wine and champagne over beer and heavily liquored-up drinks.
Rolling my eyes, I tap the button to slow the treadmill, and pull out one ear bud. Beethoven is doing nothing to soothe my nerves. I’ve been on an anxiety binge since I woke up, zoning out during every class, mentally coaching myself not to run off and find a bathroom stall.
I haven’t had to purge since…I think, since the day Ryder first asked me to the event. I’ve been sticking to my meal plans, exercise routines, and I’ve even gained some muscle mass. This is not fat, I remind myself. I’m going to weigh more as I become toned, but it’s that anxiously blaring voice inside my head that heightens the panic.
I have to keep control over my body—it’s the only thing I have control over.
I’ve been avoiding calls from Becca. The one I did answer, she was attempting to set me up on a date with Lucas. She had a reservation at a restaurant already in place, my outfit picked out, and kept coaching me on his current interests.
After that, I texted her with excuses about upcoming exams and needing to study. And really, since I rarely suffer the morning calls anymore, I feel less stressed. Even with the knowledge that this is temporary. But I’ve made a note on my calendar that I do better when I don’t hear from Becca.
“Oh, my God,” Vee whines next to me. “Jesus, Ari. How do you do this shit for so long.”
A reluctant smile pulls at my lips. I give her a halfhearted shrug. “Hang in there. The endorphins will kick in soon and then you’ll be thanking me.” And I totally get that Vee is messing around, but I’m still so invested in the idea that I’m always in the wrong, not doing things exactly right, that her scolding—even as a joke—makes me feel guilty for overdoing it. Again.
B
