Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
STELLA
The trip home goes too fast. I’ve been enjoying the solitude for a while.
Since moving to campus, there always seems to be someone with me or at least nearby.
The good part is that I can think about everything that has happened in the short time I’ve been at Northwestern.
The bad thing is I can think about everything that has happened in the short time I’ve been at Northwestern.
No matter, I need time to collect my thoughts and to prepare for the confrontation that I’m sure I’m about to face at home.
When I arrive at my parents’ house, I park the rental car, grab my bag, and text the car rental place to arrange a pickup time.
According to our agreement, they’ll stop over and get the car tonight.
Easy. Then, when I head back tomorrow, it’ll be in my old compact car, the one I’ve had since I was sixteen.
Boy, it’ll be great having my own car at school.
Sure, parking on campus is a hassle, just like it is parking in a city like Chicago, but it will give me some freedom that I don’t have right now.
Besides, I love my little Civic. It’s the perfect car for me because it’s small and economical.
When I walk into the house, I notice that it’s quiet. “Mom? Dad?”
“In here, pumpkin,” Dad yells in response.
His voice sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen.
My parents’ house is amazing. The kitchen probably belongs in one of those home design magazines.
Mom designed it herself, taking things she liked from all of her friends’ kitchens and from magazines and from some of those home improvement shows she loves.
Walking into the kitchen, I see Mom leaning over whispering into my dad’s ear.
“Oh, hi, Stella,” Mom says sweetly––too sweetly.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. All ready for the big barbecue?”
“Getting there,” Dad says.
“What can I do to help?”
Mom pipes up in a chipper voice, “Oh, we’re ready to go. Why don’t you go up and settle into your room and rest? You’re probably tired from your trip.”
“Uh, okay.” What the heck? Aliens must have abducted my mother and replaced her with a kinder, gentler version of Candice Matthews, because it’s bizarre that she doesn't immediately jump down my throat about Bradley nor does she tell me to get to work helping with the barbecue or to change my graphic T-shirt. I swallow the hard lump that’s now in my throat.
This is going to be worse that I suspected.
“Be sure to change before dinner, though. You know I hate those T-shirts of yours,” she says.
That’s my girl. I knew my judgmental mom was in there somewhere.
“Yeah, sure, Mom.” I turn, grabbing my overnight bag as I go, and walk up the grand staircase up to my old bedroom.
Honestly, it’s great to be home, but dread is seeping into my bones.
Once I’m in my old room, I decide to turn on the television see if Alex’s football game has started.
Kickoff is at three, and it’s now two forty-five.
Shoot. I forgot to ask him about his jersey number.
No worries, I’ll just google it. I’ve meant to google Alex Emerson all week but never got around to it.
I’d thought about it a number of times but, if I’m being honest, I was afraid what I’d find out.
Digging my phone out of my purse, I type his name into the search engine. I watch as page after page with Alex Emerson’s name begin to appear. I gasp at all of them. “It’s worse than I suspected,” I mumble to myself.
Reading through some of the information, I discover he’s number eighty-five.
Not only that, he’s an all-American tight end and an All-Big 10 Academic Honoree.
Not once or twice, but three times. Something I already knew was the Northwestern Wildcats have won the Big 10 championship three times in the last ten years and have gone to the Sugar Bowl once during that period.
I scroll down my phone in amazement. There are so many links to articles about Alex it makes me a little lightheaded.
Reading on, I see many experts are projecting Alex will go in the first round of the next NFL Draft, probably as a top fifteen selection overall because there are lots of teams looking for tight ends.
That’s good. That’s what Alex wants. They aren’t the only ones; I joke to myself.
Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I click on a few more links, and holy crap, they estimate his first contract could net him over eight million dollars, and that doesn’t include the signing bonus.
That’s amazing! I’m so happy for Alex. He’s so deserving of all of this.
A tear comes to my eye when I realize… I can’t get in his way.
I just can’t. I hope he really meant what he said, that I was helping him and not a distraction.
Just then I hear the television announcer say, “Number eighty-five, Alex Emerson, starting tight end.”
I look up to see him running onto the field.
Holy moly, he looks amazing in his outfit.
The crowd goes wild when he runs up to his teammates.
I should really get a book about football so I understand some of this lingo or…
I could just go pick my dad’s brain. I trek back downstairs to the family room.
Sure enough, my dad’s in his usual spot, poised and ready to start yelling at the television.
“Can I watch the game with you, Dad?”
“Sure, pumpkin! I’d love that.” He gives me a broad smile like he actually likes my company.
“Do you mind if I ask you questions as they play? I’d like to know more about football.”
“Uh, sure, honey. I’ll do my best.”
So, that’s what I do. I watch Alex all while paying attention to things Dad is saying as the game goes along. Alex is doing amazing things on the field.
At least that’s what my dad keeps saying. I’ll have to take his word for it. Things like, “I think that Emerson kid is having the best game of his career.”
“Really?” I perk up.
“Yeah, really. He’s spectacular anyway, but something must really be making him push even harder today.”
“I wonder what that could be,” I say with a sly smirk. I know what that is.
It’s me.
“I don’t know, but the better he is, the better place he’ll end up in next year. Maybe Dallas or San Diego.”
Alarm bells ring in my head. “As in Dallas, Texas and San Diego, California?”
“Yep, that’s where those teams are based, sweetheart.” He nods as he turns his head and smiles at me.
“Oh.” I hadn’t given that any thought. He’s going to be gone soon. As in far away.
“What about the team in Chicago, Dad? The Cubs?”
“I think you mean the Bears, Stella. It’s a possibility, but I’m not sure they need a tight end, but anything’s possible.”
Okay, don’t panic, Stella. There’s a chance he’ll be nearby. I’ll just cross my fingers and hope it all works out for the best. It’s all I can do.
Oh, who am I kidding. By then, Alex will have moved on to someone new. I doubt he’s thinking about anything long-term with someone like me, especially now that I know he’s got a chance to go to some place like California.
“Why the sudden interest in football, honey?”
“Oh, you know, being at Northwestern made me want to root for my team. That’s all. I’m really only interested in Wildcat football.”
“I know the feeling, pumpkin.” My dad and mom are both Northwestern alums, so it’s natural he’d root for his alma mater.
We sit together in companionable silence as the game is played. I ask questions periodically and listen to him as he talks to the television. It’s funny to see my dad like this. He’s usually so collected and calm, like a seasoned lawyer should be, but he lets loose during these times. I like it.
The game is still on the television when Bradley and his mom, Vicky, arrive for dinner. Bradley steps into the family room to say hello. When he sees what we’re watching, a scowl appears on his face and he turns toward the kitchen.
“Brad, the game’s on,” my dad yells.
“Yeah, I know. I’m just going to see if they need any help in the kitchen. I’ll be in later.”
Bradley never makes an appearance in the family room, and in the end the Wildcats beat Penn State handily.
Not surprising. Alex had an amazing game.
Dad said he caught ten passes for over a hundred yards.
He also scored a touchdown. I’m proud of Alex, and I’ll be sure to tell him when I talk to him tonight.
It’s something to look forward to—unlike the family firing squad that I’m about to face.
Mom has outdone herself tonight with the dinner. It’s hard to believe she had time to cook dinner with all of her barbecue party planning she has going on, but she made lasagna with salad and breadsticks.
In front of everyone, Mom says, “Stella, I warmed you up a Lean Meal. Don’t worry, it’s lasagna too so you don’t feel like you’re eating something different than the rest of us. Plus, there’s fat-free dressing in the small dish next to your plate.”
“Great. Thanks, Mom,” I say in the most insincere, monotone voice I can muster.
“You’re welcome,” she says sweetly—way too sweetly. “You need to be careful of the freshman fifteen, Stella. But knowing you, it’ll be more like the freshman twenty-five.” She snorts.
And… there it is. My mom just can’t help herself when it comes to how I look.
And why does she have to do that in front of company?
Granted, it’s only Vicky and Bradley, but could it be any more embarrassing?
Seriously? Does everyone at the table need to know that I get special diet food or that she predicts I’m going to gain twenty-five pounds my first year of college?
Her passive-aggressive way of talking to me is getting old, but it’s not worth arguing about right now.