Chapter 4
MASON
Friday comes along and the clock is ticking down to Saturday.
All of his physics classes he spends tapping his pencil on his notebook, annoying his desk neighbors.
He then goes on to chewing the ends of his pens, quickly realizing that he’ll have to constantly buy new pens if he keeps going how he did.
He doesn’t know how to quiet his mind unless he’s hunched over a desk with his headphones on and doing physics problems.
The worst is his Intro to Journalism class, where he’s surrounded with reminders of what he had to do on Saturday. Even in the hallways, the football player posters loom over him like a dark cloud, their eyes seemingly following him as he moved past them.
Mason downs the last drop of his extra-large coffee on his way to the library, hoping that he can somehow squeeze out a few more problem sets before he inevitably crashes.
He knows there are much better things to be doing than calculating limits. He could be mingling on the quad, going to parties, or whatever other events college has to help people meet each other, but here he is in the library with his nose in a textbook, like he used to do in high school.
He has to get his mind off of Callum, the game, and his parents somehow, and math or physics is one of the few things that can do that. Plus, he wants to see the library for himself. He’s seen pictures of it online, but it’s much more majestic than the pictures portray.
The ceilings are high, with towering mahogany bookshelves that loom over the tables and desks. Books that could be hundreds of years old line the shelves, and some day, Mason will try to read some. Maybe over winter break.
The lighting is dim, with small lamps placed on each desk emanating a warm glow on the sleek desks.
It’s quiet for the most part. Normal people would be in class or going out to meet other people, but he has problems to solve. Imaginary ones maybe, but problems, nonetheless.
He slings his backpack down and slumps into a chair at an empty table.
He takes out his textbook but gets interrupted by his phone buzzing.
He sighs, takes it out of his pocket, and sees that his mom is calling him.
He grunts and answers it.
“Hey, Mom, I’m in the library so I have to whisper.”
“Hi, honey. How are you?”
“I’m doing great,” Mason answers, in his usual chipper and “everything’s all good” tone he uses for his mom.
“Did you get into the paper?” she asks almost immediately.
“I’ll find out next week, but I’m writing a piece on the football game tomorrow.”
“Huh,” his mom answers.
Mason clenches his phone. He knows that kind of response. She’s not happy with him.
“I—uh wanted to try for sports to flex my writing muscles better. I figured since I hate sports, that if I can write about something I’m not interested in, then I can be a better writer,” he says, clamoring for some kind of excuse he can use, instead of saying his procrastination landed him on Sports—if he got in.
“That’s great, honey.”
Mason winces. He knows by her tone she’s not happy, but she’s trying to cover it up. If he was standing in front of her now, she would be frowning at him, with that familiar wrinkle between her knitted eyebrows.
“Look, Mason, I was hoping that you would go for something better than Sports… especially since Callum Brown is the quarterback, last I heard.”
“I’m fine writing about him if I have to, Mom,” he mumbles, lying through his teeth.
“I don’t want to give that boy, and especially his family the satisfaction of praise, so keep it to a minimum if you have to.”
Mason says nothing. He wants to slam his head against the desk for waiting to gun for a spot on the paper. If he hadn’t waited, he might not have thrown himself into the crossfire of his parents’ hatred for Callum and his family.
“Or better yet, just try for something else, Mason. I really think you should reconsider—”
He panics. He knows she’s about to lecture him and pretty much force him to change, even though he can’t.
“The librarian’s coming over. I have to go, Mom. We’ll talk later, sorry—”
“Mason—”
He hangs up on her and puts his phone on silent.
Not the most ideal way to deal with his problem, but he can deal with her later when he comes up with a better lie.
He puffs out a breath, puts his headphones on, and gets sucked into a limit problem, his pencil flying wildly over the paper, not writing as fast as his mind is going. He has momentum, and he’s going to finally escape his mind after letting it go crazy all week.
His dreams sour as a loud “whoop” comes from behind him, somehow breaching his noise canceling headphones with its sheer power.
He jolts in his chair, his whirring mind screeching to a halt as the numbers and letters in his mind melt away and his concentration wanes.
He sighs angrily, taking off his headphones and turning his head behind him to look at what made the stupid noise. His shoulders sag as he sees multiple maroon and gold jackets levitating down the rows of desks.
He should have known that football jocks would be the only people that could be that raucous in a library.
He scoffs and turns his head back to his paper. Why were they of all people in the library on a Friday? Did they have football textbooks to read or something?
“Why did Coach make our game film in the library?” Mason hears one of them ask.
“Beats me,” a familiar voice responds. Mason immediately knows it to be Callum Brown’s.
The thundering footsteps get closer to him and his skin prickles.
One thing football players do is let you know about their presence. They will not be ignored; they are built to be seen and heard.
He tenses up as the heavy footsteps pass him, hoping that he will go unnoticed. He hears a snicker from one of them.
“Damn bro, you didn’t have anything else to do on a Friday?” one of the jocks says, which probably is a whisper that Mason isn’t meant to hear, but he hears it.
Mason tightens his lip, and tears immediately threaten to fall out of his eyes, but he keeps his eyes on his paper as he swallows the sting building in his throat.
He doesn’t want to get upset over an offhand comment like that, but it stings. They don’t know it’s one of the only ways he can get his mind off what’s bothering him.
The gym is probably what got their minds off whatever stresses they are having, and Mason never makes fun of them for going all the time, so why should they make fun of him for studying?
He hears the sound of a thud, like someone getting pushed.
Mason quickly looks up to see none other than Callum Brown shoving one of the players.
One of the groups of football players, an insanely large and tall one was batting his hands off of Callum, who appeared to have just slapped his shoulder.
“Lay off him, Trav. He’s practicing, just like we do,” Callum says before skirting his eyes over to meet Mason’s gaze.
Mason’s heart stutters and he immediately lowers his gaze back to his paper, hoping that neither Callum nor anyone could see his glistening eyes. He didn’t want to give Callum the satisfaction.
Clearly, Callum has unknowingly defended Mason, and Mason isn’t going to wait with bated breath for Callum’s face to scrunch up with disdain and replace his defense with something offensive instead.
Instead, Callum says nothing and walks off with the rest of the group. Mason blows out a long breath, thankful that Callum decided not to say anything.
He quickly looks up again to see Joel Whitlock, one of Callum’s friends, studying him curiously, his gaze bouncing between Callum and him as they round a corner to another part of the library.
Mason scrunches his nose in disdain, remembering how much of a jackass Joel had been when they were in high school. Just another person to add to the list that was keeping Mason in Northwood still.
The rumbling of the football players fades, and Mason relaxes.
There used to be a time when Callum would defend Mason from bullies on the playground. They’d steal his glasses off his face, they’d rip his books out of his hands, and they’d scribble all over his homework.
Callum would always steal everything back. Callum would always try to make things right.
Now, he doesn’t really care very much about what happens to Mason or who says what to him.
Callum is still a protector, just not Mason’s.
Mason wishes he knew how they ended up this way. They used to be so close. They are similar in some ways.
They’re both led by their passions and their drive.
They don’t fold when things get to be too much; they fight back.
Mason always had a sharp tongue. He got that from his mom. Homing in on the perfect one-liner that could sink someone was something he reserved only for Callum. Only for when Callum decided to be an asshole to him.
He sags in his chair and balances his pencil on his index finger, watching as is teeters slightly from one end to the other.
He doesn’t have it in him to do anymore imaginary problems; they were taking on a life of their own in his reality.
He has to write an article on all of those players, and now he’s on their radar, exactly what he doesn’t want.
His phone buzzes. He desperately hopes it’s not from his mom.
Jenna
Dinner date?
He sighs in relief and lets Jenna know he’s coming.
He packs his things in his bag and walks to the dining hall. He isn’t going to finish any more problems with his mind getting distracted by the football players.
He doesn’t have to walk far; the dining hall is only one building over from the library.
He passes by groups of people his age sitting on blankets outside, their hands pressed behind them on the ground, laughing and talking to each other like normal, socially adjusted people.
Try as he might, Mason can’t be like them. All he knows is studying, reading, and homework.