The phone beeps again.

“I could have stopped.”

“You did,” he points up. “You stood up to me. Now it’s time to stand up to her.”

He hangs up.

My right knee aches around the scar. I rub it, but the pain doesn’t go away. I don’t think it ever will. The agony I felt when that kid—whose face I can’t even conjure—slammed into my knee is nothing like what I’m feeling now. There’s a chill in my blood and a pain in my bones that I’ll have to live with each day.

During the last week, I still held on to some hope that I’d be able to go to Knox and apologize and convince him to take me back after this semester ended. Foolishly I kept this stupid little dream that Jack would successfully pass all his classes by himself, and next semester, after they’d won, I’d go to Knox and apologize. But I know after the loss, there’s no hope left.

I’ve lost him.

33 Ellie

My mom’s ring tone starts up again. On the scale of one to negative one thousand, the desire to answer the phone lies somewhere below hell. I brace myself. “Hey, Mom.”

“Eliot, is it such an onerous task for you to answer your phone when I call you?”

Actually, yes, your calls are some of the least desirable experiences in my life.

“Sorry, I was in the bathroom.”

“I’m your mother,” she continues, “and I pay for this phone. And your apartment. And your tuition. And likely the clothes you’re wearing and the food you eat, so perhaps you can muster a tad more enthusiasm when my identification appears on your phone.

 I pull out a pad and paper. Under “find a job,” I write, “get disposable cell phone.”

Chastened, I mumble, “I’m sorry.”

“Well, I didn’t call to argue with you.” Her impatience is evident. She’s probably sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea, and drafting comments on all the websites about how the commenters are ignoramuses for blaming the loss on Jack. “I’m very concerned about Jack. We watched the game today, and as you can imagine your father is beside himself that Jack wasn’t playing.”

That’s code for he spent the entire game shouting curses at the team, Jack specifically. I bet Jack could hear those screams and rants inside his helmet. Dad is in Jack’s head.

“Jack’s not feeling good about that either.” The one good thing about talking on the phone is that I can make all the faces I can’t when we’re in the same room. Right now I’m making a screw you face.

Doesn’t matter because Mom continues as if I didn’t even say a word. I’m not sure why she hates voicemail messages so much, because our entire conversation consists of her talking at me. No response but agreement required. “Your father and I wonder why Jack isn’t on the field. I called Coach Lowe and he instructed me to talk to my son. Since Jack isn’t answering his phone, you will tell me.”

A direct command. I might as well tell her.

“Jack’s on probation until it can be determined that he needs special accommodations for his classes.”

“Special?” She says that word as if it contains a disease, and by passing by her lips, she’s exposed herself to a terminal illness.

“I told him what I’ve been doing and he wanted to stop. Immediately.”

On the other end of the line, there’s a swift intake of breath. “You what?”

I could have said I killed children and animals, and she would have responded with less horror. I drop my head into my hand. “Jack has a learning disability. You and I both know it. He needs real help, not me fixing his answers and writing his papers. He needs to learn how to do this on his own, and Western has great programs designed to help students with learning disabilities.”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with Jack.” Her tone comes sharp and angry.

I take a page out of her playbook and power forward as if I’m the one in charge. “Of course not. He’s very smart, but he struggles with reading and writing, and that will adversely affect him for the rest of his life unless at some point we stop enabling him. I won’t continue to hurt him.”

“Are you an education major now? I thought I paid for an English literature degree.” Disdain drips from her words.

I try again. “If Jack is tested, the school would have to make certain accommodations for him. Instead of writing papers, he could do an oral exam. He would be allowed more time to finish a final or he might be allowed to take it home.”

“Eliot, my dear, if you’re tired of helping your brother, I can certainly see if there’s someone else interested in taking your place.” Her voice is anything but loving. The term of endearment sounds like arsenic on her tongue. “But of course, that means I will no longer provide for you in the way that we currently have. Since you’re no longer doing your job.”

I grip the phone tighter in my hand hoping that the clamminess will prevent me from dropping it. “He needs our help.”

My words are met with stony silence. When she speaks, her tone is ice cold. “You should be glad that tuition is nonrefundable. If I could, I would cancel the check and you would forfeit this semester. Don’t expect another cent from your father or myself. Your father never wanted to pay for your college anyway. I had to do it out of my own funds. I sacrificed for you.”

My eyes sting. When I rub my cheek, I’m almost surprised there’s moisture there. I would’ve thought by now I had grown immune to this. After all, I knew it would come. Knowing, though, doesn’t seem to prevent pain.

I’ll get over this pain. It’s the loss of Knox—someone who genuinely cared about me and thought I was special—that I won’t ever get past. The words flung about by Mom? Those are surface arrows. They hurt, but they heal over.

Knox is a soul deep wound. A self-inflicted ruination of my heart. I pushed my heart through a cheese grater and now I have to deal with the fact that all I have left are tiny fragments.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper but those words aren’t for my mother. They’re for Knox.

“You are an ungrateful child. You have always been ungrateful. Spoiled and rebellious.”

I laugh at that charge. I’ve always toed the line for her. After all it had been her who told a twelve-year-old to cheat for her brother. But there’s no point. I don’t need her acceptance anymore. I’m done.

“Did you hear me?” she demands. “You’ll not get another cent from me. In fact, when I get off the phone, I’m cancelling your cell phone and removing your name from the charge account.”

“You do that, Mom. You do that.” I hang up the phone then. There’s nothing more to be said between the two of us.

At my desk, I reach inside the second drawer and push aside the tape dispenser, brightly colored paper note flags, and pull out the Sports Illustrated magazine. Knox’s brother—wearing Knox’s blue and gold uniform—stands at the forefront flanked by two college players on either side. Knox is one of those players. He’s wearing a silly grin and the red and white of his brother’s team.

I trace my finger around his large frame. Out of all the girls he could have chosen, he waited for me. He’d said I was special. He treated me like I mattered. He cared about me. He…loved me. And I threw that back in his face.

I did it to protect him. I believed at the time, and still do, that staying as far away from him as possible until Jack completes this semester successfully—without my help—is the best course of action. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like the motherfucking devil.

I hug my arms to my sides. My skin feels clammy and goose pimples dot every exposed surface. Idly, I wonder if I’m in shock. I could use that Xanax cocktail right now.