Chapter 4 #2
“I can pull it up.” That was a lie. I’d screwed around too much over the last year, put myself on a course of self-destruction in order to emotionally survive my dad dying and Jade…
There was no way I was pulling that grade up outside of a miracle.
I knew it, and by the way Coach’s bushy, gray brow lifted, he knew it, too.
“I looked at your GPA, boy. You either pull that grade up to a damn A, or pull that and two of your other classes up to Bs. If you don’t, your ass is going to be on academic suspension. And academic suspension means team suspension, which means your ass won’t be around here when they go to draft.”
Which would mean I was royally screwed. I stared at the turf, hating myself for letting it get to this point.
School had never been my strong point. Football had been my only hope of getting out of the cycle of poverty Dayton churned out, but it was like that damn town had seeped into my skin, tainting any hope that existed.
The worst part about it, though, was that Dad would have been so disappointed in me.
That upset me more than losing out on the draft.
I ran my cleat over the grass. “I’ll fix it.”
“You damn well better, son. Go get a tutor. Hell, figure out a way to cheat on exams. I don’t give a shit.
Just get those grades up.” He clasped a hand to my shoulder.
“You’re the best damn player this university’s ever had.
Be a shame to watch you sink a career down the shitter over some stupid math you ain’t ever gonna use. ”
After practice, I swung to the outskirts of town to pick up Dog, the stray I’d found last year. He was wandering around the dump, bone-thin and half-eaten by fleas. Scared as shit.
Rogue had a rich-boy fit when I brought him into the house, but after a few days, he’d decided he liked him for the simple fact that the dog was a stubborn asshole.
He’d sit, roll over, play dead for a treat, but try to get the dickhead to do anything without the promise of a reward, and he’d all but take a shit in the corner out of spite.
Needless to say, I didn’t want him at the house when we had parties.
He’d either get out while no one was paying attention and eat a chicken bone from the trash, or some asshole would probably try to spray paint him, which was why I had left him with Mrs. Seaton.
My truck rattled along the dirt path winding between the trailers of Sunny Times Trailer Park, and a sense of nostalgia settled over me. I’d grown up in a place not too different from this. Dirt roads. Single-wides parked in messy rows, most with about five clunkers scattered around the lot.
I parked in front of the white trailer with pots of plastic tulips decorating the rickety porch. The first time I’d come to drop off Dog, she’d told me she got them from the trash cans at the cemetery. It was morbid as hell, but I had to appreciate the thriftiness of it.
The wooden goose with “welcome” painted across its chest rattled when I knocked on the front door. Footsteps shuffled toward the entrance moments before the door creaked open to Mrs. Seaton. Curlers twisted her stark-white hair, and Dog’s orange fur covered her navy-blue sweatsuit.
“Come on in, Wolf.” She opened the door all the way, and Dog leaped from the recliner in the corner, his curled tail wagging as he ran toward me on a high-pitched screech.
“I swear to Lord Almighty, that ain’t no dog.” Her slippers shuffled over the carpet toward the kitchen. “Sounds and looks like a fox.”
Dog’s pointed ears lay flat, wiggling while he squinted up at me. She was right. He looked more like a cracked-out fox than a dog.
“He’s a strange one, that’s for sure.”
“What is it your friend said he is? A Shih Tzu?”
I kneeled to scrub behind his ears. “Shiba Inu.” Evidently, some designer dog for rich housewives. How he’d ended up in Pikestown was beyond me.
She pfft at that. “Shih Tzu. Shinu. All the same.”
The little egg timer on her kitchen counter dinged.
“See. Timed it just right.” She opened the oven, and the heavenly scent of freshly baked cookies filled the tiny trailer. “Made you some snickerdoodles.” Grinning, she shoved her hands into oven mitts and pulled out a tray of cookies fit for a bakery.
“Ah, Mrs. Seaton, you shouldn’t have.”
“I sure as mess shoulda. You got that big ole’ game coming up.” She slid the baking tray onto the counter. “Need your strength.”
Because cookies were going to give me strength…
I gave Dog one final pat on the head, then straightened and went to grab plates from the cabinet before she tried to get out her step stool.
The last time she’d tried to climb up on it—at my disapproval—she threatened to swat me with her fly swatter, then nearly tumbled off the damn thing. It was best if I beat her to it.
While I put cookies on the plates, she poured two glasses of milk. Then she tossed half of a cookie onto the floor for Dog. I opened my mouth, and she held up a knotted finger.
“Don’t you be telling me he don’t need none of that food. He needs it. Still scrawny as a rat’s tail, if you ask me.”
I stared down at the borderline obese dog. Not a damn thing about him was scrawny. He lived in a frat house where everyone fed him pizza and fried chicken. “He’s definitely looking on the…healthy side.”
“That’s right, ‘cause I make sure he gets some good food when he’s here.
” She dropped another piece to the floor, and he scarfed it down so fast he choked.
“That’s some good eatin’s, ain’t it, Mr. Dog?
” She took the milk and hobbled to the living room, placing the glasses on the coffee table before she collapsed on her recliner with a groan.
“Come on over here and sit down, Wolf.” She patted the worn arm of the brown-velour sofa, most likely circa 1974.
The cushion nearly swallowed me when I sank onto the couch.
“Now, I was a’reading something on that interweb thing. Seems there’s this place you can go to and find yourself a nice lady.” Both her drawn-on eyebrows lifted. “A good Christian lady.”
The woman was more concerned about me finding a girl and settling down than she was about saving my soul—which she was also worried about.
Every Sunday, without fail, she tried to get me to go to church with her, and every Sunday, I politely declined.
“Mrs. Seaton.” I took a bite of the gooey cookie.
“You know I’m not looking for a girlfriend.
” Mainly because the only real one I’d had all but ruined me.
Deep lines settled around her mouth when she gave a disapproving frown.
“You better go on and get you one before you end up on those NFL channels.” She pointed at the blank TV.
“Won’t be able to trust their intentions once you’re famous.
They call ‘em gold diggers, you know. There’s even a song ‘bout it. Something ‘bout a boy winning the Super Bowl and driving off in some poor man’s car because he has to pay all his big bucks to some jezebel.” She shook her head, then took a cookie from her plate.
“Can’t be having none of that. No, siree. ”
What I didn’t have the heart to tell her was that unless I pulled up my grades, I wouldn’t have to worry about that at all.
I spent the better half of the morning with Mrs. Seaton, playing Rummikub and eating my weight in baked goods.
The sun was high in the sky by the time I pulled out of Sunny Times Trailer Park.
Not one cloud in the blue sky. It was the kind of day I’d lived for as a kid, and while I should have found a sense of peace in that drive, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had really fucked up.
“I’ve never been smart, but once Dad died, I just lost all motivation.” I glanced at Dog sitting in the passenger seat, nose in the air like some sort of royalty. “The least you could do is look at me.”
He turned his head toward the window.
“I’m throwing away your treats when—” That one word was all it took for him to look at me, tongue out, that slight-Shiba smile on his face. “You better be glad you’re cute.”
As soon as I opened the driver’s side door, he leaped over me, pissed on Rogue’s tire—again, I appreciated how much of an asshole that dog was—then he took off toward the front door.
Bell was sprawled out on the couch, staring at the TV. “How’s your hangover?” He grunted when Dog jumped straight on his crotch.
“Had worse.” I collapsed onto the chair in the corner of the room, then kicked off my sneakers.
A few minutes into an episode of Clarkson’s Farm , a loud bang came from upstairs, followed by Rogue screaming, “Fuck!”
Bellamy’s confused gaze met mine.
I thumbed toward the entranceway. “Ten bucks that has something to do with Cassie.”
“It always has something to do with Cassie.”
Another string of curses echoed through the house, followed by heavy footfalls thudding down the stairs. “Guess what I just heard?” Rogue stormed into the living room, scowling like someone had shit on his designer sheets.
“Cassie fucked the soccer team?” Bell snorted before changing the channel.
Rogue’s hardened gaze narrowed on him. “No. That Tommy-fucking-Mitchell was selling E last night.” He opened the coat closet and grabbed one of the baseball bats. “Double what we charge.”
Tommy trying to buy pills off us was one thing. His getting them from someone else, and then selling them, on our turf…that was pretty much him putting in his last supper request on Death Row. “Where the hell did he get E from?” No one else sold the crap but us.
“Some cunt stole my stash.” Rogue grabbed another bat and tossed it to me.
Anger bled through me. Someone had the audacity to come into our house and steal our shit— for Tommy. I gripped the wood in my hand and shoved out of the chair. “You know damn well that asshole had someone do that for him.”
“No shit.” Rogue headed toward the front of the house. “And after we handle Tommy. We’ll handle that piece of shit, too.”