Chapter 10 Beck
BECK
On Friday morning, the classroom buzzes with hushed chatter as the professor works his way down the rows, setting graded quizzes face-down on each desk, a few groans coming from students already sneaking a peek at their scores.
Still, I fold the paper in half and tuck it into my bag before anyone can notice. Grades matter to me. If I do decide to chase grad school, these classes can’t just be background noise. They’re the foundation.
Beside me, Sophie joins in on the groans. Her head drops onto her folded arms. “I knew it. Total disaster.”
I glance at the bold red 78% circled on her paper before she shoves it away.
“How’d you do?” she asks, her voice hushed but sharp with nerves.
“Same as you,” I lie easily, zipping my bag shut.
Her shoulders relax, tension bleeding out of her face. “Okay. That makes me feel better. At least we’re both suffering.”
I give a small nod, keeping my expression even.
The truth? I need these grades. They’re leverage if I ever walk away from football. But none of that’s her problem. She doesn’t need me to make her feel worse.
The professor’s voice cuts in at the front of the room, breaking down the most-missed questions and launching into a short lecture. I scribble notes, focused, while Sophie doodles absently in the margin of her notebook.
I’m good at both—reading offenses on the field and theories in the textbook. But the choice between them? That’s what keeps me up at night.
Professor Nelson paces across the front of the lecture hall, adjusting his glasses as he launches into a super motivational reminder.
“Today is the official deadline to drop this course. After today, you’re locked in. No excuses, no exceptions. If you don’t think you can handle the workload, now’s your chance to get out. This quiz was simple compared to what is coming your way in the coming weeks.”
The room shifts with low murmurs, a couple of students glancing at each other like they’re already planning their route to the admin building after class.
Beside me, Sophie mutters under her breath, “Too late to fake my own death, huh?”
It’s so quiet I’m sure no one else hears it. Except me.
The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it. I lower my head, pretending to be absorbed in my notes as a chuckle slips out under my breath.
Her eyes snap to me, wide, like she wasn’t expecting anyone to catch it, or maybe thought it was more of an inside thought that slipped out.
I clear my throat, schooling my face back into neutral. “Guess so,” I say quietly, pen moving across the page.
She huffs, sinking lower in her chair, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips now.
The professor moves on, rattling through the grading breakdown for the semester, how most of it will be based around a project, but my focus lingers a second too long on the sparkle I just saw in Sophie’s pretty blue eyes.
Focus, Harrison.
“All right, listen up. Next Friday, I’ll be assigning groups for your semester research project. Each group will be given a psychological disorder to analyze. You’ll be expected to research diagnostic criteria, case studies, treatment approaches and then present your findings to the class.”
A ripple of groans moves through the room, but he barrels on.
“This is a major component of your grade, so take it seriously. Presentations will begin in late November.” He flips open his folder, scanning a list. “Here are some of the potential diagnoses you may be assigned. Bipolar disorder, PTSD, OCD, schizophrenia, major depressive disorder, borderline personality disorder, and anxiety disorders.”
My pen stalls mid-scratch.
Schizophrenia.
The word slams into me, sharp and heavy, rattling something deep in my chest. My pulse kicks harder, thudding in my ears.
I shift in my chair, forcing my shoulders back, my jaw tight. It’s just a word. Just another diagnosis. That’s all.
Still, my knee bounces under the desk before I can stop it, muscles coiled tight. I drag my gaze down to the paper in front of me, writing the word out in neat block letters just to prove my hand doesn’t shake.
Beside me, Sophie’s still taking notes, completely unfazed, and I force myself to mirror her calm.
The professor is still droning on about presentation rubrics and participation grades, his voice a distant buzz over the thrum of my heartbeat.
I breathe in slow. Out slower.
No one here knows why that word sets me off. And if it’s up to me, no one ever will.
The professor’s voice keeps moving, but I’m not hearing it anymore.
All I can think about is getting out of here.
I was six the first time I realized something was wrong. My mom was standing at the kitchen window long after dark, whispering about people in the yard who weren’t there. Doors locked three times over. Curtains yanked shut.
My dad yelling, my mom crying, and me caught in the middle, too young to understand why she was so scared of shadows that didn’t exist.
By the time they divorced, things had unraveled completely. No diagnosis yet, no medication, just chaos. Nights when she forgot to cook dinner, mornings when she couldn’t get out of bed.
And me, bouncing between her world and my dad’s like a ball in a game I never asked to play.
It wasn’t until nearly five years later that someone finally said the word out loud—schizophrenia—and suddenly everything made sense. Or at least explained the damage that had already been done.
I grip my pen tighter, forcing myself back into the present, into this classroom where no one knows that history and no one needs to.
To them, schizophrenia is just another line on the syllabus. To me, it’s the thing that carved out half my childhood.
I shift again, jaw still clenched, until my pulse starts to steady.
My grip tightens on the pen, knuckles pale.
Angela was the only one who ever knew.
We’d been sitting on the sidewalk after school one day in the fourth grade when she told me about her dad.
About the way his depression hollowed him out until he was a ghost living under the same roof.
Her words cracked something open in me, and before I could stop myself, I told her about my mom.
About the whispers in the dark, the fear in her eyes, the way it stole pieces of my childhood.
She was the first person outside of my family I’d ever trusted with that truth. The only one.
And when things went down between us, it reinforced the walls I put up around that piece of my history even more.
My dad did what he had to. He rebuilt after a heartbreak that most would crumble from.
Found someone steady, someone who could anchor him when the storm with my mom finally broke.
He found my stepmom, Caroline. Together, they built a new life—a house in the suburbs and two more kids who call me their big brother like it’s the best thing in the world, a title that brings me so much pride and joy.
I love them. All of them. My little brother Joey’s goofy grin when he shows me his latest LEGO build and asks to toss the football in the backyard every Sunday.
Alyssa’s squeaky voice calling me on FaceTime to tell me about her school play and that she lost her first tooth the week before her sixth birthday.
They’re proof it’s possible to climb out of the wreckage and make something beautiful again.
But me? I’m still standing in both worlds—the one I came from and the one built after.
And no matter how many tackles I make or grades I ace, I can’t shake the feeling that eventually I’ll have to choose which version of myself to be.
“And that’s all for today,” the professor says, setting his notes aside. “Remember, next Friday I’ll assign your project groups. Come prepared, and don’t forget—the last day to drop is today. If you’re here on Monday, you’re committed.”
Chairs scrape, students shuffle their things together. Sophie sighs beside me, shoving her notebook into her bag.
“I swear, I’ve thought about dropping this class every single day since the semester started,” she mutters. “Still not sure if I made a mistake staying. Guess I have a few hours to decide for sure.”
Before I can stop myself, I say, “If you’re thinking about it that much, maybe we should study together. Keep each other on track.”
She stops mid-step, brows lifting. “Study? With you?”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though it feels like one. “Yeah. Why not?”
Her laugh is soft, disbelieving. “Because your schedule’s insane? Practice, weights, film…Beck, you barely have time to breathe.”
She’s not wrong. And yet, something in me tightens at the thought of her sitting up late, stressing herself sick over quizzes when I could make it easier.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say.
Her smile flickers, hesitant but real. “Okay. Well, outside of classes, not Tuesday or Thursday mornings. I volunteer then.”
I nod. “And I’m booked on Wednesday afternoons. Sundays too. Film and prep.”
She huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “See? Impossible.”
I wince, because she’s probably right. Still, I hear myself say, “Monday. We’ll start Monday and go from there.”
She studies me for a second, like she’s trying to puzzle out why I’d offer when I’m already stretched thin. Truth is, I don’t have an answer for that myself.
“Good luck at the game tomorrow,” she says finally, voice lighter as she turns toward her next class.
“Thanks.”
I watch her go for a moment before heading toward the athletic complex, my bag heavy on my shoulder.
I’ve got enough on my plate—football, school, my future hanging in the balance. Offering to help her wasn’t part of the plan.
And yet, I did.