Chapter 18 Mickey
Mickey
I’m overdressed. That’s my first thought as I walk through the doors of the Academic Affairs office and take a seat over by the window.
I smooth my sweaty palms over my khakis and straighten my tie.
Jesus. I’m only a sports coat away from being ready for game day.
I’m even more dressed up than the people who work here. I probably look like a try hard.
Or like I’m here for an interview.
“Mr. Mikalski,” a voice calls out from behind me and I nearly jump out of my chair.
When I turn around, I realize the voice belongs to a woman half my size and at least three times my age.
This lady could be my grandmother, but the look on her face tells me she means business, so when starts to walk down a hallway, I follow.
Two minutes later, I’m sitting in front of Ms. Barb Arnold trying to get my leg to stop shaking. She peers over her little reading glasses and stares me down.
Ok, she’s really just looking at me, but my anxiety level is off the fucking charts right now.
“Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately, even though I have no idea what she asked. “I mean, no, not at all. I’m sorry, what was the question?” I ask, my voice cracking on the last word.
She smiles at me and I can’t decide if it’s kind or maniacal. “I was just confirming that you received the letter my office sent?”
“Oh, yes. Yeah, that’s why I’m here. But I didn’t bring the letter. Is that okay? Like, I figure you have a copy of it? Or, I can go get—”
“I have a the letter right here, Mr. Mikalski, as well as a copy of your transcript,” she says.
“As you know, you currently have an abundance of elective credits and a deficit of major credits. That will essentially require you to complete next year as a senior and then take an additional year to earn the rest of your required credits. Have you decided whether to continue with your degree in Communications or to officially switch over to Exercise Science?”
“Uh…” I stammer out a non-answer because even though I should know this, I don’t. I’m not sure what the hell I want to do. Or maybe I just know that neither option sounds great.
“It is a big decision,” she says diplomatically, “but it is one you’ll need to make before this semester ends, in case we need to make any changes to your schedule next year. Have you spoken with your adviser, Dr. Newcome?”
“Uh, not yet, no,” I say, feeling like a dumbass.
Contacting my adviser is probably the first thing I should have done.
But then a thought occurs to me. “Wait just a freaking minute. Shouldn’t Dr. Newcome have caught this?
Like, no offense, but where was she when I was signing up for all these courses I didn’t really need? ”
“She did contact you. You received multiple emails each semester, Mr. Mikalski. When you didn’t respond, my office had to become involved. And allow me to take this opportunity to explain that it is your responsibility to follow the course selection guide outlined in your program of studies.”
“Oh,” I say, swallowing audibly because Ms. Arnold clearly means business. And she obviously knows a hell of a lot more about this shit than I do. “Uh, sorry,” I say, because I don’t know if I necessarily did anything wrong, but I am definitely the asshole here.
The phone on her desk buzzes and a disembodied voice starts talking. “Your next appointment is here, Barb.”
Ms. Arnold presses a button and turns toward me. “Is there anything else you need?”
I shake my head because I don’t know what I need, but I’m pretty damn sure I can’t find it here.
“Then please make sure you schedule a meeting with Dr. Newcome and let my office know if you plan to make any changes with your major.”
I nod again before thanking her and walking out of her office. I’ve got more questions now than when our meeting started, but they’re not the kind of questions Barb Arnold can help me with.
I don’t even know if my coaches could help me now. I want a future that probably doesn’t exist. I could throw my hat in the ring as an undrafted free agent, but that seems like a long shot.
But what other choice do I have? I could stay at school for another year and pretend everything is fine. I could keep lying to my friends and my parents. And honestly, to myself.
Then again, what’s another lie? I’m already acting like Viv and I are just hooking up, when the truth is that it’s so much more for me, and it always has been.
After I leave the Academic Affairs office, or, as I like to call it, the Office of Doom, I wander around campus for a bit. I end up at Drip and I order myself the largest, sweetest thing on the menu because when your future takes a nosedive, the logical remedies are caffeine and sugar.
Since Viv’s teaching a yoga class right now, and JT’s got a stats test, I text my sister.
I know chances are high that she’s either in the middle of cutting someone’s hair or about to start, but I could use some good advice right now, or at least a good listener.
Bridgette’s the best sounding board there is.
I definitely don’t want to tell her every detail of what’s going on, but we know each other so well that she’ll probably figure it out halfway through the conversation.
Mickey: You got a sec to talk to your favorite brother?
Bridgette: I wish. I’ve got thirty-eight seconds left on my timer, and then I’ve got to check my client’s color. What’s up?
Mickey: Nothing. I just miss you. Lmk know if you’re free for coffee this week.
Bridgette: Sounds perfect.
Pocketing my phone, I take a sip of my too- sweet drink and try not to think about the meeting I just had, but all it does is bring me down.
I know it should light a fire under my ass.
I know I need to be a man of action. But even though I’m the guy in constant motion, right now I feel stagnant.
Barb Arnold’s words—and the reality of the situation I put myself in—are weighing me down.
I should do something, tell someone. Logically, I know that.
But I also know exactly what’s going to happen when I do because it’s the same thing that’s happened every other time I’ve gotten in a jam.
Someone— JT, Coach, my sister—is going to step in and fix my fuckup.
And everybody is going to find out about it, either on purpose or by accident.
This will go down in history as just another one of my many fuckups.
I might get a lecture or two, but I’ll definitely get at least a dozen pitying looks, and that’s gotta be worse.
I hate being the guy who always screws up, the one nobody can’t count on. I hate that life is always so damn complicated, and that I can’t always trust my brain to just do its fucking job.
I take another drink, but the syrupy beverage is thick and heavy in my mouth. When my phone buzzes with an incoming call, I answer it immediately, which is stupid. It could be fucking spam. Or it could be Academic Affairs with more bad news.
“Hey,” I say, hoping it’s JT or Bridgette. I just might be ready to spill my guts. Maybe I’d feel relief.
“Brannon, honey, I can’t believe you picked up!” My mom’s voice carries through the line so clearly it’s like she’s in the coffee shop with me instead of a few hours away in Jersey.
“Hi, Mom, how’s it going?” I say, bracing myself for the onslaught of family drama she’s definitely about to dump my way.
My guess is that she called Bridgette first, and when she got no answer, she decided to give me a call.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my mom, and I know she loves me and my siblings.
But she can be…a lot. I know, I know, that’s ironic coming from me, but it’s true.
My mom cares more about social standing thanI care about hockey.
She cares about what the neighbors are doing, and if we’re all measuring up.
Status is so important to her that you’d think she was a state senator instead of a loan officer at a bank.
She’s been driving Bridgette crazy with her expectations since we were kids.
Because I’m a guy—and because I was a skinny kid—I never had to deal with any of that first hand, but I did my best to shield Bridgette from it.
When I wasn’t threatening to kick the ass of anyone who dared to say shit about my sister’s weight, I was bouncing off the walls and generally causing mischief.
That didn’t stress Mom out as much as Bridgette’s dress size did, but it did get me relegated to the backyard or the hockey rink to burn off my excess energy.
“You know, I never thought they should have gotten married in the first place. I said that from the beginning, but did anyone listen? Of course not.”
I make a noncommittal sound to let my mom know I’m still here, even though I have no clue what—or who— she’s talking about.
It could be my cousin who just got married last fall, or it could be an aunt or uncle or coworker who’s been married for decades.
I’ve learned from experience not to ask. It’s easier this way.
“So, of course,” she continues, “because things are up in the air, I have no idea how many people are coming for Christmas, or what this will do to the Secret Santa, but whatever it is, I’ll deal with it. That’s all I can do.”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I really want to point out that it’s March, so this probably isn’t the emergency my mom thinks it is, but there’s no way that conversation will end well.
And really, what else can I say? I mean, I could explain how my day is going, and tell her that I’ve basically derailed my future and my college education and I’ll more than likely end up living in her basement in the next few years, but…
nah. Since Christmas is clearly already ruined, I’ll save my terrible news for the holidays that are nine months away.