14. Van

14

Van

I look at her, truly look at her. Josie is the prettiest girl I've ever seen, but right now my mind isn't zeroed in on the sprinkling of freckles across her nose or her full, pink lips. There's a somber set to her brow. She's serious, and I respect that. But does she really think we can act like nothing happened? I just need five minutes—that's all. Just a chance to explain, to say I'm fucking sorry. To clear the air somehow.

"Josie, we have to talk."

She shakes her head and busies herself with finding the right page in my Medieval History book. She won't meet my gaze, but I'm not surprised. Josie hates confrontation, so I'm not shocked that her next words are a little soft. "No, Van. We have to study."

"Ok," I agree, because she's right. I'm on the verge of failing two of my classes. If I don't make better grades this week, I can kiss the next few weeks of hockey goodbye. "But after?—"

"No," she repeats, still refusing to look at me. "Look, we have less than an hour left, and you have two tests coming up. We need to prioritize your academics."

"You're right," I agree, pulling out my notes. "But after this, if you have time?—"

"I'm sorry," she says. "I have schoolwork of my own to do tonight."

Bullshit, she does. I'd lay money down that Josie has her homework done for the next week. "You really won't talk about the past? Not even for five minutes?"

She stays silent, but shakes her head, her answer no different than the last ten times I asked.

"Fine, you're in charge. But I think we should get a few things straight. Neither of us should have our phones out, not for texting anyway. Everything is riding on this season for me and my team, Josie. I can't fail."

She looks me in the eye. "I have to have my phone out?—"

I start to interrupt her, but she keeps going.

"My brother Levi has to work some nights. When that happens, the little kids are with a sitter. But if something goes wrong, they call me. They know I'm working and that they can only call in an emergency, but I won't risk missing them if they need me."

"Fair enough," I say, because I'm not a total dick. If she's got her phone out for family reasons, I can deal with that.

"Thanks," she says. I think she's about to say more, but she stays quiet and focuses all her attention on the metal coil of her notebook, twisting the end of it around her finger. Josie's one of the only people who still uses a notebook, I think. And she's got all these different colored pens and tapes and stuff. She makes each page look pretty and organized. When I write on paper it just looks like scribbles.

"Don't do that," I say, making my voice as gentle as I can.

"What?" she asks, looking up at me.

"You have something to say, don't you? Something to ask for?" She doesn't answer, so I keep prodding. "When you get nervous, you play with your notebook. You tear at the edges or play with that wire."

"You run your hands through your hair," she says, then covers her mouth like she can't believe she just called me out.

"I do," I admit. "I have to pull it back if I have a test or a paper to do in class or else I tangle it all in knots."

She smiles, then lays her hands flat on the table. "I have some questions for you. You don't have to answer them, of course, but I think if we could talk about a few things, I could do a better job of helping you."

I can tell what she's getting at, and I can't blame her. She's got to be wondering if I'm just overwhelmed by work or if there's something more going on. By now, it's obvious that I'm not a great student, but the more she knows about my learning disability, the more help she can give me. This isn't a conversation I want to have, but maybe it's smart. I don't have to tell her everything. I just need to tell her enough so she can help me the most.

Josie takes my silence for hesitation. "It's just...I know you worked with Kevin Rodriguez and he's great. But I'm wondering if maybe you want to find out what exactly the barriers are, if that makes sense. Yes, Kevin's strategies work, but not always in the long term. I know you have a lot going on with hockey and all, but I also know that the Psych department is doing a study right now. I heard about it in one of my classes. If you enroll, you can be screened for different learning needs, if that's something you'd be interested in."

I stay quiet because I'm not quite sure where to start. Once again, though, Josie and I aren't on the same page.

She's shaking her head and fiddling with her notebook. "That's fine, you don't need to tell me anything. I wasn't trying to pry. I just want to help and?—"

"I know. And you are helping. More than I can say, but…" I look around. The library is packed tonight, even up here on the third floor. Every professor must be giving a test this week because there's not an empty chair to be found.

"Could we…" my voice trails off and I twist my hands in my hair. It's a nervous habit I've never kicked. "I know we need to work on this, and we will, I swear. And I know this is breaking all the Van and Josie rules, but?—"

"The Van and Josie Rules?" she asks.

"That's what I call them in my head. Just like…I don't know. Since all that shit went down, shit we're not going to talk about, I know," I add quickly, "we just sort of split the campus in half, I guess. That's what it felt like. You had your spaces and I had mine. I partied on Greek Row, and you got the library. I got Jock Block, and you got the better dining hall. Santos is still a little salty about that, by the way. Apparently, Westing has superior French toast sticks? He swears the ones they serve there are better than the ones we get at Fisher. Anyway…I know it breaks all the rules, but we can't really talk here, and I feel like, if you're really going to help me, you need to know what you're in for."

Josie gives me half a smile. "That sounds ominous…what do you have in mind?"

A noise erupts from the staircase, and a group of people come piling through. They take a look around, see how crowded it is, and toss their backpacks on the floor before sitting down right in the entryway. I hope they're just going to read quietly, but when one of them starts calling out phrases and the others shout out answers like they're on a game show, I realize there's no hope. It's chaotic here tonight—loud and then quiet and then loud again— and there's no way we're having the conversation we need to. Just my luck, I'd blurt out my best-kept secret right as the room got totally silent.

"Follow me?" I ask, rising from my chair and grabbing my bag.

Josie bites her lip, and I can tell she's torn.

"You're right, Jos. I'm not just another student who needs help studying. I want to explain the rest to you, but I'd rather not do that here if you don't mind. I swear to you, I won't bring up the past, not ours at least. But there's something about me that you should probably know."

Josie doesn't say anything, but she picks up her bag and follows me, and that's more than enough.

If Josie's surprised that I brought her to the busiest bar on campus, she doesn't show it. We snag the back booth at Wolfie's and order drinks and snacks. I'm sticking with water even though I feel like a shot of tequila would make this conversation a little easier. There's enough noise in here that I don't have to worry about anyone overhearing us, which is a good thing. I'm not ashamed of my learning disability, not really. It's part of who I am. I'd sure as hell never judge anybody else for something like this. But part of me is still that nine-year-old kid who overheard a conversation between his parents. My mom was pissed because once again, my dad had flaked on a visit. But Steph Donohue is no meek flower, so she called my dad out on his shitty behavior. I shouldn't have been listening. Hell, I wish I hadn't been, but my dad could be a prick sometimes, so in my little kid way, I was making sure he wasn't a jerk to my mom. I sat on the steps, just out of sight.

My mom cut right to it and asked if he was done visiting, done being a parent. Beckett Vandaele Jr. isn't the kind of guy who takes criticism well, so he did what insecure guys do: he turned it back on her. He asked if she thought she was doing a good job as a parent. He said maybe he should get more involved, since she was screwing up. I remember my mom got silent, and my mom's never quiet. Finally, she said, "What the hell are you getting at, Beckett?" and then my dad answered with the words that still echo in my head. "He can't fucking read, Stephanie. He's repeating the third grade. Explain that to me. If you're such a good parent, why can't he fucking read?"

My relationship—if you can even call it that—with my dad is complicated. My dad looks at the world in terms of what it can give to him, and he does the same thing with people. When he met my mom way back when, he saw a beautiful woman who happened to be living in his city for the summer. Their fling had an end date. That all went to shit when the stick turned blue. My dad isn't one of those assholes who doesn't want to be tied down with a wife and a kid. He's one of those snobby pricks who doesn't want to marry a girl who lacks the right pedigree or social status. Not only did Mom fail to meet his expectations, I was a disappointment from the start. The fact is, I look exactly like my dad, and that made it pretty hard for him to ignore my existence. He sure as hell tried, though, especially when it became obvious that I didn't learn the same way, or at the same rate, as my peers. His visits went from infrequent to nonexistent.

Not Mom, though. She's had my back since day one. She's my biggest cheerleader and I don't know what I'd do without her. She believes I can do anything, and I'd hate to prove her wrong.

I know I'm not the only person on this campus who struggles sometimes or needs a tutor. But there's a difference between needing a little help and being helpless. I hate that feeling.

Our order arrives and I smile as Josie takes a sip of her Shirley Temple. "You sure you don't want a vodka shooter in that?" I tease.

"God, no. I'm a lightweight. Besides, we are here on official business, right?"

"Yeah," I joke. "Wolfie's is definitely the place for important meetings."

Josie dunks a mozzarella stick in a little plastic cup of marinara. "Clearly. They serve snacks. So…what is it that you have to explain that can't be done in a crowded library but must be done in a crowded bar?"

I catch myself as I run my fingers through my hair. Time's up, and I need to be honest with Josie if she's going to give me the kind of help I really need. "I don't need some Psych major to tell me what my problem is. That's one question I do know the answer to. Back in the fourth grade I was diagnosed with a Specific Learning Disability. Basically, I'm dyslexic. And yeah, a lot of people with that diagnosis go on to be super successful. I know that. I'm just not one of them. Part of it is that when my teachers would give me extra time for stuff, I could never stay after or anything because I always had hockey. And okay, missing a couple tests in middle school isn't the end of the world. But it kept going into high school. In order to keep me eligible, my schedule was total cake. I was put in the easiest classes. I was given all the extensions and free passes. Why? Because my school finally had a winning team, and nobody wanted to be the reason I couldn't play. Look, I don't blame my teachers. I'm not a kid who fell through the cracks. I'm a kid who found the cracks and walked right through them."

"We're going to agree to disagree on that one," she says, tapping her bottom lip. "And since you were officially diagnosed, there's a bright side. Any accommodations you had in high school could carry over to college. Sure, there might be some adjustments, but a lot of the supports could remain in place, like extra time and a quiet place to test. Even someone to read your assessment to you. You don't happen to have a copy of it on record with the university, do you?"

"I don't have a copy anywhere," I tell her.

"That's okay. I'm sure we can get one from your high school. They might even have a form to fill out online to request a records transfer."

Josie's typing away on her phone, but it won't do any good. I reach my hand out and still hers. "I don't have an IEP. Not anymore." Confusion blankets her face at my words. Even with her nose scrunched up and her eyes narrowed, Josie is beautiful. Adorable. I'm not supposed to think about that anymore, but that doesn't make it any less true.

"But—"

"I signed out. Early on in high school, I had some college scouts coming to look at me. I'm not the biggest guy on the team here, that's Santos, no doubt, but even at sixteen, I had a couple inches on most of the guys at my school—and our opponents. I was getting looks from schools I didn't have a prayer of getting into. And I wasn't taking the college-prep level courses I needed to even be knocking on the door. So, just before sophomore year, my coach was convinced that I needed to be signed out of special ed. He floated the idea to my mom, but dressed it up nice, you know. Basically, he said that since I didn't need it anymore, and it could affect what schools offered me spots, it would probably be best if I signed out. My mom was thrilled—like I'd accomplished something, like I'd overcome the fucking fog and jumble of letters that takes over my brain any time I try to read more than a goddamn paragraph. But that wasn't it at all. I wasn't ‘cured.' I hadn't developed any real coping mechanisms or strategies besides smiling and being as polite and nice as possible. You wouldn't believe the shit people let you get away with when you're a nice kid who doesn't cause any problems."

"Actually, I know a thing or two about that," Josie tells me, and when I think about it, it makes sense. Another piece of the puzzle that is Josie Reynolds falls into place in my mind. Sure, we might be different as hell, but it seems like we have at least one thing in common: we know how to go along to get along.

As if this moment is a little too revealing, as though she senses she might have let her guard down a centimeter or two, Josie clears her throat. She's back to business once again. "Would you mind if I read a little into your diagnosis? See if there are any strategies we might apply?"

"Knock yourself out, Jos. But it's not gonna matter anyway. I just need to get through this semester and next, and then I'm never sitting in a classroom again."

Josie tips her head at me, like she's got a question but she's not sure how to say it. She never gets the chance, though, because my teammates choose this exact minute to join us.

Jesus . Of course, they do. Of course, they're here on a motherfucking Monday and of course, they just have to come say hello.

Ollie spots us first, but Mikalski and Will aren't far behind. "Holy shit!" Ollie crows. "Mickey, will you look at these two lovebirds? I fucking called it. I knew you two would get back together. I knew it! God, I'm a fucking genius. I should start a matchmaking business."

Before I can tell him to shut his mouth or explain that we're still tutoring, sort of…Josie leaps out of the booth like the Olympics are about to start and she's a sprinter.

"You are such an asshole," I mutter as I walk past him and follow Josie outside.

"My bad," Ollie calls as he slides into our booth and starts eating our food.

I can't worry about that right now, though. I spot Josie in the parking lot. Her legs aren't long, so I catch up with her in a few seconds.

"Sorry about that. Ollie just runs his mouth."

"I know," she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "It's just…I'm getting credit for this, and your season is riding on this and I just—we are obviously not together," she says, over-pronouncing each word. "But I still think it's best if we keep all our interactions at the library. We don't need any rumors to start."

"Yeah, that makes sense," I agree, even though it doesn't. Is the college really going to give a shit if we date? I mean, we're obviously not going to, as Josie loves to remind me, but I'm not so sure they'd care. They want me on the ice and winning games. I doubt the dean spends any time thinking about who I share a booth with at Wolfie's.

But we made some progress tonight. And all that talking has me a little worn out. So, I'm going to walk Josie home because she seems to be letting me and then I'm going to go back to the hockey house and hide Ollie's favorite cereal. Serves him right.