Page 3 of All the Right Moves

“It means you have three weeks to make other arrangements to pay for classes and your dorm, or you’ll have to move out of your dorm and have to stop your classes.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I blurt.

“I’m afraid not,” she says with a scowl.

“There isn’t any other financial aid I could qualify for?” I ask.

“Well, you wouldn’t qualify for any type ofacademicscholarship,” she says with a hefty dose of judgment. “And any grants you could get would have to wait until next year to apply for.”

Realizing we aren’t even halfway through this semester, I see that I’m totally fucked. The woman goes on for a while about how it might be a better option to leave school and reapply again next year. Honestly, who knows if they’d even want me back at that point. The woman herself said I’m not a great student. The only reason the school wanted me, to begin with, is my volleyball skills.

After a while, I don’t hear a word she’s saying anymore. She may as well be the teacher from Charlie Brown.

When she finally gets done talking, I say, “Well, okay. I’d better be going. I need to get home and rest.”

Good grief, I barely believe the bullshit that I’m spewing.

Although I would rather be alone, Coach Smith follows me out the door.

“Hey, Jen,” she begins. “I’m really sorry about all of this. I fought for you to stay. You’ve got to know that. It’s just out of my hands at this point.”

“I know, Coach. Really, I’ll be fine.”

We walk out the door of the building, and I see Justin’s car parked along the curb a little way down.

Anxious to be done with this conversation, I try to give a simple goodbye, but Coach Smith feels the need to add, “Keep your head up. I’ll check in on you in a few days.”

I’m tempted to tell her not to bother, but I don’t. I just nod and hobble my way to Justin’s car.

It isn’t until I’m safe inside that I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

“How’d it go?” Justin asks.

Only at that moment do I let my tears freely fall.

Chapter Two

Jenna

Three weeks later.

“What the hell is this?” I ask Justin, throwing an empty condom wrapper at him.

A condom wrapper that I found in his jeans.

A condom wrapper that is one hundred percent not fromushaving sex.

He picks up the tiny piece of black foil and looks at it.

Without looking up at me, he asks, “Where’d you find this?”

“What do you meanwhere did I find it?I found it exactly where you left it,” I spit.

He sighs and tosses the wrapper on the coffee table before leaning back on the couch. “What do you want me to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Justin. How about the truth? Why don’t we start there?”

Still avoiding eye contact, he says, “I was with someone else.”