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She tucked a lock of gray hair behind her ear. “If his care is ever too much, too hard, the sacrifices you and your mother make may not be in his best service.”
My heart hardened in my chest, froze to a block of ice, the chill spreading. “Where else would he go?”
She reached into her desk and pulled out a brochure.
Rhodora Acres
supported living for adults with TBI, Alzheimer’s, and other cognitive challenges
My eyes grew hot, and the feeling of failure, of desperation and fear blended with the ice in my veins. “Why are you showing this to me? Shouldn’t my mom be involved?”
“She has been informed of this option as well, but I think it’s important for all caregivers to know. Because even though you are a child, both your parents have told me what a help you’ve been.”
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I wiped it away. How must it feel for my dad, a war veteran, a grown man, to know his daughter is partially responsible for him?
“You and your mom make a great team—we can all tell how loved your dad is. But you’re a senior in high school, April. You and your mother both deserve to have all the information before you decide to spread your wings.” She smiled slightly, then stood. “Let’s go get your father.”
Eighteen
Diego
Coach Ripley pacedin front of the players in the locker room, giving us a pep talk for our first game of the season. His khaki pants bunched at the waist, his headphones hung around his neck, and his Emerson Drafters polo strained at his stomach.
But that man could incite a team.
By the end of his talk, I could feel my heart beating faster. The nerves mingling with excitement at a chance to play.
“Bring it in!” Coach said.
The guys around me yelled, whooped, cheered, as we brought our hands in a pile. My helmet hung at my fingertips by my side.
“Drafters on three,” Coach yelled.
Greyson, the team captain, yelled, “One, two, three!”
The rest of us followed. “DRAFTERS!”
We jogged out of the locker room into the dimming night sky toward the football field. Stadium lights shined against the dark blue sky. People milled about the stands, the parking lot, filling as we ran out to the field. The cheerleaders held up a DRAFTERS sign that the team ripped through to the crowd’s cheers.
Greyson led us through stretches and then the first catching drill. While I waited for my turn, I scanned the audience. I easily spotted my family in the front row. Adelita and Marisol held up a sign that said die while Mateo held a sign that said GO. Mom and Dad sat next to them, sipping from cups of cocoa.
Then movement and a flash of turquoise caught my eye a few rows up. Sadie slid down the bleachers to an empty seat, and behind her, April’s curvy frame did the same. She had on a pair of leggings clinging to her hips and an oversized dark blue shirt on top. I found myself wishing the shirt was as tight as her leggings.
“Diego!” Greyson yelled, and I cursed myself for getting distracted by a girl who couldn’t stand me.
I ran the pattern, catching his spiral and then tossing it back to Isaac, the second-string quarterback. He threw the ball to Greyson, and I jogged to the back of the line, determined to focus on the warmup. On the game. On anything but the girl in the stands, despite the distinct feeling of her eyes on my back.
Time ticked down on the scoreboard until the game started. As we lined up for the first kick of the game, my veins pulsated with adrenaline. Blood flowed to my muscles, prepping me to move. Everything faded out of my mind except for the plays I was supposed to run, the openings on the field.
The ref signaled kickoff, and for a few moments, the football flew through the air—the calm before the hurricane. Cheers blended with the plastic crash of pads and helmets. The thud of bodies pummeled to the ground. The smell of sweat and Gatorade. The feel of cold water sprayed through my helmet opening during a time out.
Then the clock counted down to halftime, the score even on both sides of the board. Before the guys went inside, I jogged to the cheerleaders at centerfield where they were beginning their part of the halftime routine.
Kenzie flounced up to me, a feather quill painted on her right cheek and my number on her left. “Go time,” she said with a grin.
I cradled my hands just like we’d practiced, and she stepped in. Two other girls on the squad stood behind us and one in front as I flung her into the air. She spiraled and flipped before falling into my arms.
The crowd went wild, and I couldn’t help but grin as she went back to the routine and I jogged to join the rest of my team.
