I know I could put an end to all this right now and put her in a state-run facility, a place where they pack them in like sardines and forget all about them, but Nan’s disease requires special circumstances. I’ve put her in the town’s only memory care facility, and it’s run by a private company which means Medicare won’t cover it. Her Social Security pays for half, and I make up the other half. Usually. I had a stomach bug last month so I had to call off work for a few days, which is why I’m behind on payments.
Those basketball boys helped me out today though. They left Christine and me a huge tip, and I didn’t for one second feel bad about pocketing it. I’ll be able to pay this month’s bill from Nan’s nursing home and get some groceries tomorrow. As it is, I have to make do with what’s in the trailer for tonight. It’s the thought of dinner that finally rouses me from my hopeless fatigue. Cook made me food when I left Dale’s after my shift, but that was eight hours ago and I’m starving.
I slide out of the car and head into the trailer, letting the heavy door slam shut behind me. I kick off my shoes, and my bare feet ache with pain. I’ll give them a break as soon as I make myself something to eat. I inspect the tiny cupboard over the trailer’s broken stove. I’ve got two packets of ramen left and a can of green beans. I’ve been saving the green beans, unsure of when I was going to be able to get more. With a tiny jolt of excitement, I reach for them.
Beside the trailer’s broken stove—on the only good bit of counter space I have—I’ve set up a camping stove. That’s where I heat up my ramen and green beans in separate pots, letting them both go for a second while I strip out of my dirty clothes. Every day, I go from smelling like greasy food to chemical cleaners, and I can’t stand either. In a little while, I’ll rinse off inside the trailer’s itty-bitty shower and use some of the lavender soap Sheriff Corbin’s wife makes and leaves for me, but for now, it’s good enough just to be free of my work clothes.
I check my phone while I wait for my food to heat up. Usually there’s nothing all that interesting to see on it. Not many people have the number for it, and it’s just a cheap one I picked up at Walmart when I left Pine Hill two years ago so there are no games or apps. I don’t always keep it active either; sometimes I’d rather save the cash during lean months.
But lately, I’ve kept it on in case of emergencies for Nan, and so my boss at the cleaning company can give me information about where and when I’m expected to show up for jobs.
Tonight, I have a rare missed call and a voicemail, both of which are from Professor Olmsted. I almost don’t listen to it, but my trailer is dead quiet and I’m lonely tonight.
I can barely stand to hear her voice once I press the phone to my ear. She’s wondering how I’m doing and if I have plans of returning to campus in the fall. She’s also mailed more textbooks to the address I gave her, which is Sheriff Corbin’s house back toward the main road.
She finishes the voicemail by asking me to give her a call back, but I know I won’t. What would I tell her anyway? That I’m delivering pancakes and rolling silverware for a living now? That her emailing me her course slides for the semester won’t do a lick of good considering I have no computer and no internet to view them with?
Her reaching out is well-meaning and kind, and it also makes me feel like shit.
Instead of calling her back, I grab my ramen and green beans off the stove, slide into the bench seat at the small table, and leaf through to where I left off in my advanced electrical engineering textbook. Then I pick up my pen and grab my fork with my other hand, scooping up big bites of noodles while I read and take notes in the margins of the textbook.
Chapter Five
Ben
Sweat drips down the side of my face as I assess my options to get down to the top of the key. I dribble to the right and Trey’s there, grinning like a madman.
“You gonna make this easy on yourself?” I quip, casually bouncing the ball back and forth as I taunt him.
Trey laughs and I fake left, but he’s on me.
I double back and change course, giving my teammates enough time to read the court. Anthony’s my right hand. He knows what I’m planning and where I’m headed better than anyone.
Trey tries to steal the ball, and I reverse-pivot around him while dragging the basketball with me. Punk. He almost stole the ball from me.
“Stop playing around,” Coach yells from the sidelines. Anthony grins, and at that moment I raise my body and look up at the basket. It tricks Trey long enough that he hesitates for a split second, and then I explode past him, passing the ball down court to Anthony with ease and bracing for him to pass it back to me. I’m right in position at the top of the key when I get the ball back, and I make a clean distance shot, adding another three points to my team’s score.
Coach Dalton blows his whistle, announcing the end of the scrimmage and waving us over so we can gather in a semicircle around him. Anthony bumps his shoulder against mine and I pat his back. Trainers rush over, passing out Gatorade and towels. I wipe the sweat from my brow and eye Trey across from me. He’s pissed I got past him, and I only make it worse with a wink. He laughs and shoots some Gatorade into his mouth. He’s not one to hold a grudge off the court, but a few of the other guys are. They’re eyeing me like they wouldn’t mind another five minutes of play.
Coach Dalton and his staff walk through the scrimmage with us while we catch our breaths. I listen to him critique Carmelo’s ball handling and keep my mouth shut. He was playing like shit today, but he wasn’t on my team so I didn’t care. Next, Mallory gets it for his outside shot violation. That amateur shit won’t fly when we’re at the Games.
I get my own critique from Coach Dalton too, and it’s one I’ve heard a thousand times before.
“Trust your team. Pass the goddamn ball.”
Easier said than done. I’d rather work myself to the bone and ensure I’m getting points on the board than rely on other people who might try and fail. I don’t know most of these guys well, and I don’t dole out trust on a whim. They’ll have to earn it.
Still, I nod at Coach Dalton, letting him know I heard him loud and clear.
We break for the day and head back to the cabins.
It’s late and we’ve been at it since eight this morning. Everyone’s dragging. I’m walking back with Trey and Anthony, and Anthony’s reenacting how I slid past Trey at the end of the scrimmage.
“You should have seen your face,” Anthony says, losing it to a fit of laughter.
Trey bumps into him and Anthony stumbles to the left, but it only makes him laugh harder. I meet Trey’s gaze and shake my head. Trey’s much more my speed. He’s married and closer to my age, quiet and reserved where most of the other guys have personalities that are larger than life. Anthony keeps the two of us on our toes.
“Who wants to come to my cabin and play 2K21?” Anthony asks.
Trey rolls his eyes. “Why do you waste your time with that shit? Pick up a book.”
“Are you kidding me? You want me to look like this”—he waves his hand down his body—“and play like that”—he points back to the basketball complex—“and be smart? Bro, the world couldn’t handle it.”