We were just a little more responsible and a lot less self-destructive after the rebrand.
I finished my coffee and set the mug back on the table, then grabbed the plastic bags to collect the present Peanut had left for me. I tossed it into the trash can and played with Peanut for half an hour longer.
“That’s it, buddy,” I told him as he brought back the toy for another throw. “You love a good run, and so do I. But you don’t need to pass stupid Stats to get your fill, huh?”
Peanut looked at me curiously, head cocked in wonder. He never had to think of Stats, let alone click mindlessly through rows of numbers that somehow needed to be turned into a pie chart. I knew a lot aboutpies, not so much about charts, and it seemed that my knowledge of the former didn’t help at all with getting the hang of the latter.
The day went on. Lectures made me drowsy, but football practice made me feel alive. The team’s star receiver with a pride badge on the shoulder of my jersey and with a small and loyal following of football aficionados, I was really in my element here. This was what I was good at. I could run into the thick of the fight and carry the football through a bunch of beefed-up guys without losing my breath. I didn’t fear rough contact or an occasional face-plant. I didn’t worry about oral presentations because I could talk my way into Heaven if you gave me a few minutes. But my pants shook when I had to sit down and write a full-blown analysis.
Coach Roberts stopped me after practice, complimenting my performance on the field. When that was over, his bushy eyebrows settled over his eyes in concern. “But your grades took a hit from last year,” he said. “And they weren’t anything to write home about last year.”
I laughed it off. “I passed, didn’t I?”
“Barely,” Coach Roberts said. “Time for kidding around is over, Jason. You either get smart about it, or I’ll have to bench you.”
I shrugged. “My sister got all the smarts from the parents,” I said.
“I mean it, Jason. You’re leaving me with no choice.” He folded his trunk-like arms on his barrelchest, the tank of a man that he was. “You know what it is to be an athlete. You have to be exemplary.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be exemplary in Colby’s classes, Coach,” I said regretfully.
Coach Roberts muttered something under his breath.
“But I did great on the last test,” I said.
This didn’t seem to smooth out the lines of concern on his face, but he let me off the hook for today. I could have sworn I heard the words “We’ll see about that” as he walked away.
But my good cheer for the day wasn’t getting swept away so easily. I had done the best job I could, so I didn’t dwell on Coach Roberts’ lack of confidence in me, however justified it was based on past experience.
I showered, joking with the guys as usual, dried myself with a big towel, dressed, and packed my sweaty clothes into a duffel. Fridays were always fun at the Bel House. The house was open to all members of the fraternity all the time, but Fridays opened our doors to the outside world, so long as none of the KGBs tried to sneak in to plant a stink bomb or worse. I’d bring out my guitar and sing until my throat was raw, and then I’d take Peanut into my room to sleep while the party went on. I had big practice tomorrow morning, so I wasn’t risking boozing up. Besides, I didn’tneedto booze up for a good night at our place.
I got back before anyone had had a chance to stop by. Taylor was in the living room with his laptop openand resting in his lap, legs folded under his ass. “That’s bad posture, that is,” I said.
“No shit,” Taylor said.
“You look like crap. All good?” I asked.
Taylor sucked his teeth and turned the laptop around. “Colby posted the results. I’m screwed.”
Taylor had already known that his last test hadn’t gone well, but I still took a moment to console him, even though there were glowing coals inside my shoes. After cheering him up about getting an extra year in the Bel House if he had to repeat the semester, I hurried upstairs to check the results on my computer.
I logged in to the submission portal, clicked my way through the courses until I found the latest assignment from Professor Colby, clicked on it, and waited an eternity while it loaded. The progress bar froze at ninety-eight percent, and I called it a lying liar right to its incomplete face.
Taylor’s quick footsteps halted somewhere behind me. “Anything?”
“Waiting,” I said. The screen flashed, and the table appeared. Date of submission, title of the assignment, my name, attachment, notes, grade.
F.
A freaking F.
A goddamn, real-as-hell, state-of-the-art F.
“Fuck,” I groaned in a deep exhale.
I ran my fingers through the rough curls of my dark hair, holding fistfuls as the ringing in my earsquieted a little.
The note next to the glaring F said that I should report to Professor Colby on Monday at four in the afternoon. He must have known when my practice was because that was just in time for me to sit through his ribbing and make it to Coach Roberts for a hand-washing. Monday was going to be a day of lectures for me.