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And me.
I’m fairly certain that when I come home tonight, Stefan will have officially freaked out about last night, packed all his things back up, and the truck will be gone. I’ll never hear from him again.
That would be a terrible way to end whatever this is that was just beginning again between us.
Two soft knocks disturb my thoughts. I look up at my cracked open door. “Yes?” I call out.
A young male appears in the doorway. His hands are jammed into the pockets of his denim skinny jeans. “I’m supposed to come see you.”
I pick up my planner, face wrinkled, then slap it down and look at my memos on the computer. I didn’t have any students scheduled to come speak to me.
“Or not,” the teen mumbles with a shrug. “I can just go.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” I wave him in. “Come sit down. I must’ve forgotten to write down our appointment, that’s all.”
“I don’t think I had one.”
“Oh?” I lift an eyebrow. “Your teacher sent you, then?”
“Yeah.”
He lets out a little sigh, then sits in one of the chairs in front of my desk. His hands stay buried in his pockets as he slouches in the chair, staring down at the mess on my desk.
“I’ve clearly had a day,” I mutter to him. “I hope you can excuse the clutter.”
“It’s fine.”
I brush a folder off my keyboard. “So what’s your name?”
“Rudy Baker.”
“Rudy. It’s nice to meet you,” I say automatically.
Then I freeze halfway through typing his name into the system. My eyes float back to face the teen. His blue eyes are still downcast, staring at my desk with his lips in a little pout and his eyebrows pulled forward, pensive, like his brain privately fumes about something, despite the oddly polite tone of his voice.
I haven’t seen him since he was six years old. Other than maybe his blue eyes and the shape of his nose—which is the same as Stefan’s—he looks like a completely different person.
I’m scrolling through my email. Did I accidentally delete the one telling me about this appointment? With the day I’m having, I wouldn’t doubt it at all. “Want to tell me why you’re here, Rudy?”
His voice is soft and completely devoid of attitude when he answers. “I know why I’m here.”
“Why?”
“I failed a test because I’m not focused enough. My teacher is concerned because he’s also my coach. And if I don’t pass, I don’t get to play ball. He thinks something’s going on at home.”
This may seem like a joke, but it’s rare that a student actually sits calmly in front of me and, in a frank voice without a trace of irony, states why they think they’re here.
Still, having this conversation with Stefan’s younger brother somehow feels wrong. Especially when I get the itching feeling that Rudy doesn’t realize who I am. He was only six, and it’s been eight long years.
“So is there something going on at home?” I finally ask.
“I guess. Yeah.”
This is about him; not me. Focus on him and do your job, just like you would with any other student in need. “Do you feel comfortable telling me a bit about it?”
“Sure.” I’m surprised (and refreshed) by how cooperative he’s being. He meets my eyes before he speaks. It’s eerie how much like Stefan’s they are. “My older brother just moved out. He played baseball in the minor leagues, but got injured. Now my dad is all different, and …” He sighs and folds his arms. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be as good as my brother was. I hate being compared to him all the time. You know who my brother is, right? Stefan Baker?”
Is it weird if I pretend not to know his semi-famous brother, or weirder to admit that I do? Of course you’d know him; everyone here knows him. Don’t be an idiot. “Of course,” I answer, though I won’t indicate exactly how much I know him, or that Rudy would realize he knows me too if he digs deeply enough into his memory. “You feel … shadowed by his success, then?”
“I’m a disappointment every day I go home.”
“Is that how your father makes you feel?”
He shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’m a disappointment or not. He doesn’t fucking care.” Rudy’s eyes flick up to me suddenly, flashing. “Sorry. For the cuss word, I mean.”
I hardly even noticed. “It’s alright, Rudy. I … I want you to feel comfortable to share your thoughts with me. I’m here for you.”
“Alright.” He picks at his fingers. “I … appreciate that.”
I should probably find it odd that he’s so weirdly polite and took little to no pushing to open up to me with his problems. Knowing how Stefan can be, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. Rudy just needs someone to hear him out. Even as a six-year-old, he sort of kept to himself and never made a fuss.
