Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Dad glanced up from his paperwork as the dizzy spell broke, and I started gathering the plates.
“Just a headache,” I replied, setting the dishes on the table.
“Up late last night?” Dad asked with a knowing gleam in his eye.
“Something like that.” It wasn’t true, but it was as if he was living vicariously through me, so I’d continue to play the part.
I didn’t want to tell them how many nights I lay awake, afraid that every little sniffle or stomachache was a sign that my cancer was returning. Even if it wasn’t logical after this long, it was still possible, and that was enough to keep me on my toes.
Once we sat down and began loading our plates with food, Dad said, “Tough loss yesterday.” He’d probably watched the game on the local channel.
“Yeah, that dropped pass in the end zone killed us in the fourth quarter.” Flash had beaten himself up about it too. But if I was being honest, my throw hadn’t been perfect, and I told him that after the game. We were a team, and I didn’t want anyone to be haunted by mistakes, not even me.
But right on cue, Dad brought it up. “Your throw was a bit high.”
“It was,” I admitted.
“Maybe more practice and less distractions.”
I set my fork down. Hadn’t he teased me just a moment ago about dorm-room partying? “What are you referring to?”
“Nothing. It’s just…you’ve seemed preoccupied lately.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Dad and Mom exchanged a look. “Not at all.”
I pushed my plate away, feeling sick to my stomach.
“What is it?” Mom asked.
“I just don’t understand why I have to hide it anymore.”
“Your medical history? The fact that you nearly succumbed to cancer?” Dad asked. “Is that Lark character putting pressure on you?”
“Of course not. But I see how free he is to share himself whenever he wants.”
“He’s a scholarship kid. He has nothing to lose.”
“Sure he does.” I clenched my jaw. “He works his ass off to keep that scholarship. Not everyone was born as lucky as us.”
He pointed his fork at me. “I worked hard for my wealth. Don’t you forget that.”
“And you didn’t have any help from your parents?”
The pulse pounded at his throat. “What does that have to do with this?”
“My point is that not everyone gets a leg up. You sit on charities, even one for childhood cancer, but you can’t admit that your son had it. That’s messed up.”
“Of course we admit it,” Mom said. “It was a scary time for us too. Your father only means in public.”
“I told you my reasons. I’m only trying to save you heartache. When I was a child—”
“But I’m not you!”
“No, you’re not, but people might pass judgment instead of trying to understand—”
“Like you do with Lark and his family?” I countered.
“Watch your tone,” Dad said.
Mom patted my hand. “It’s just not something we need to talk about.”
“But maybe I do.”
Dad scoffed. “That kid is getting inside your head.”
“You don’t get it. It’s nice to be able to relate to someone, to talk about what we went through back then.”
“It was a couple of years of your life, and now you’re better,” Dad said as if the threat was gone. “The connections you should be making are with those who can help you later in life.”
“For favors you mean.”
He shrugged.
“Cancer had a lasting effect on my life. I see the world differently because of it.”
Obviously so did my dad because of his illness, but his worldview was more negative than mine.
Dad said, “No matter how you slice it, the world is still divided into the have and have-nots. That’s the brutal truth, and you need to do all you can to secure your future, for when we’re no longer around.”
I got what he was saying, but it wasn’t that black and white.
Mom leaned closer. “Your dad just doesn’t want you to struggle. You already had plenty of that. He wants to see you succeed.”
“What does success mean to you?” I asked Dad. “Your name on something permanent at Roosevelt?”
“It wouldn’t hurt. Coach said you keep playing the way you are, and maybe he’d suggest the clubhouse be named after us.”
“How much of a donation would you have to give?” I asked bitterly.
“It’s more than money. It’s about tradition. The Albrecht family has gone to that college for three generations.”
“And if I wasn’t that great of a player or student?” I countered. “Would they still give it to you?”
“Likely not.” He cleared his throat. “So make me proud.”
Mom shifted uncomfortably. “He already makes us proud.”
“Yes, of course. He knows what I mean.”
The table grew silent as we continued eating our dinner, the air between us thick and awkward. When we finally finished, I helped Mom clear the table while Dad got on a work call.
“Honey, I’m here if you need anyone to talk to,” she said as she donned rubber gloves for the dishes. “And you have Spencer too. He’s such a nice boy.”