Page 19 of Spiral
Delete.
New voicemail.
“Hi, pooks, it’s Mom again. Just making sure you didn’t change your number, haha. Donald and I are thinking of coming down to TU, maybe paying you a quick visit. Let me know what you think… we both love you, honey. Give your mom a call!”
I slump my aching body onto the bed, throwing my phone onto the floor in the process.
Donald and I… Donald and I….
I grimace. Donald Perkins – my father’s best friend since childhood. Born and raised on the same street in Beaumont, Texas, Donald and my father were inseparable. They were both on the Texas University football team together, both co-captains, and both married to Texas University cheerleaders.
I had grown up around my “Uncle Donald” and his wife, Terry. They had no children, but that didn’t matter, because Donald himself always acted like a kid. He’d play basketball with me, teach me new football drills, and helped me learn to ride a bike. He came to all my childhood games, sitting side-by-side with my parents.
Until my dad got sick.
Dad was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma when I was 17. By all accounts, it was a completely curable cancer. He went through three rounds of chemotherapy and made it out the other side as healthy as ever – for a few months. He passed away within a few weeks of the cancer returning, when I was 18.
By Christmas, my mom was shacked up with the freshly divorced Donald, who’d left his own wife the second my mom expressed interest in him. I can still remember how my little sister, Sarah, begged me to take her with me to college to avoid moving in with Mom’s new husband.
“I’ll sleep in the closet of your dorm!” she’d always say, half-joking, half-serious.
I knew she didn’t want to live with Mom and Donald, that she was still grieving my dad’s death. But I was only 18, freshly signed onto the TU Titans football team, and I knew I couldn’t take care of her properly. She was only a kid.
My stomach turns, nausea overtaking me as a migraine builds at the base of my skull.
I’m not calling her back.
12 | Georgia
MY LIMBS ARE painfully sore from the cramped cushions of the living room couch, where I’ve been sleeping for days now. Patrick has asked me numerous times to share the bedroom, but I’ve refused. I haven’t spoken to him since Friday, when he lost his temper in the parking lot of Mason Field.
“Ugh,” I groan, bringing my arm to my forehead in a futile attempt to block the sunlight. I inhale sharply as the purple bruising on my wrist collides with my skin.
I can’t believe he grabbed me that hard.
With my eyes still closed, I start to flail my arm around aimlessly across the wooden coffee table, aiming to locate my phone through touch alone.
3 new text messages from HENRY ANDERSON.
1 new email from ELEANOR ADLER.
I sigh, rubbing the remaining sleep from my itching eyes, and glance quickly in the direction of the bedroom door which, at 8:32 a.m., still remains closed.
Great.
I dial her number, clearing my throat from the grogginess of the night before.
“Hello?” I hear the murmurs of other people around her – she must be on campus already.
“Hey, El, I got your email. Randie’s scrapping my piece?” I sit up gingerly, my back aching.
“Yeah, dude. She said most TU students are already football experts and you need to focus on individuals. She asked that you do a piece all about Henry Anderson. He made a deal with the Lone Star Mavericks to be drafted, you know. First round pick – I think. I don’t know, but I’ve heard that term on the news before.”
“What I’m hearing is you’ve been stalking him,” I respond, ignoring the throbbing headache gnawing at my temples.
She chuckles. “Like it’s my job. Listen, I’m heading over to your place right now to drop off some of Randie’s notes. See you in 5?”
“Sure,” I reply, hanging up the call and standing up, barely holding onto my balance. I adjust my oversized t-shirt, embossed across the chest with a faded Texas University Titans logo. I bought it from a local thrift store years ago, the cotton already effortlessly worn in for maximum comfort, and it quickly became my favorite sleep shirt.