Cora Carmack - All Lined Up

“Are you all right, Dallas?”

Maybe she’s not as oblivious as I thought.

“Yeah, just distracted, I guess.”

“You know you can come talk to me about anything. Dance related or otherwise. My office is on the second floor.”

God, I must look a wreck if she’s this concerned.

“Thanks, Annaiss. I’ll keep that in mind.” I still feel a little weird calling a professor by her first name, but she insists.

She lets me go after that, and in a daze I change out of my dance attire into jeans and street shoes.

When I get to the athletic complex, the parking lot is filled with cars, but the halls are oddly silent. I step into the weight room, and it’s completely empty, weights left out, clearly strewn about from an interrupted workout.

I step through the door that leads to the film room and Dad’s office. It also apparently leads to the locker room, because the door is propped open, and I see the team sitting at their cubbies. Still. Somber. Silent. A smattering of coaches are walking around the room, carrying papers and looking busy.

I look for Carson, but I don’t see him.

I don’t see Levi either, but I didn’t expect to.

The office door is closed, and I knock.

A different coach opens the door. One I don’t know.

I haven’t exactly gone out of my way to stay in touch with my dad since school started. I’m a little ashamed to admit that I have no idea how he’s settling in here.

“I, um, I’m Coach Cole’s daughter. Do you think I could talk to him?”

“He’s in his office, but he said you might be coming by. Come on in.”

The coach is young, maybe thirty, with sandy blond hair. He holds out a hand and says, “I’m Coach Oscar. Most everyone calls me Oz.”

I shake it, feeling strangely . . . adult.

“Dallas,” I reply. “Like the Cowboys. Unfortunately.”

He laughs. So do the two other coaches sitting around the office, which is more like a conference room now that I look at it.

He points to a door on the far side of the room that I didn’t notice last time I was here. “There’s your dad’s office.”

I cross the room, nodding to the other coaches, and knock on the door. Dad takes a while to answer, and I stand there awkwardly, not sure if I should ignore the coaches behind me or talk to them or what. Luckily, I’m saved by the turning of the doorknob. Dad opens the door an inch, and then when he sees it’s me, he opens it wide.

“Come in, Dallas. We were just about finished.”

I freeze as Carson looks over his shoulder at me. He’s sitting in one of the chairs in front of Dad’s desk, and when he sees me his blank expression cracks just enough to reveal the worry and stress lurking beneath.

I almost reach for him.

“Hey,” I say before I can stop myself. Quickly, I redirect my gaze to Dad, hoping he’ll think that was for him.

I shouldn’t have worried. Dad doesn’t notice.

“Carson, why don’t you stop by and talk to Oz on your way out. He’ll make sure you get set up with a solid tutor and anything else you need.”

The faintest blush runs across his cheeks, and he ducks his head.

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes meet mine briefly on the way out, and I can tell . . . things just got significantly more complicated.

The door clicks closed, and Dad slumps into his seat. He looks . . . sad.

With his eyes closed, he leans his elbows on his desk and runs a hand through his hair. It’s going gray at the temples. When did that happen? He looks older, too. There are lines on his face and hands that I can’t recall ever seeing before.

Has this job or this thing with Levi taken that much out of him or have I just not really looked at him for that long?

I stay silent, knowing instinctively that he needs it. This is probably the first quiet moment he’s had since Levi was arrested.

Again, I’m struck not just by how much older he feels, but how much older I feel, too.

“What have you heard?” he asks finally.

I clear my throat. “Nothing concrete. I saw the pictures. People are talking, but no one knows for sure what happened.”

Dad straightens up, sliding his chair closer to the desk, and suddenly he looks all business again. When he starts talking, I get the feeling that he’s said this speech several times today. “Earlier today, Levi was arrested when he attempted to sell marijuana and other pharmaceutical drugs to an undercover police officer.”

“He what ?”

That . . . that didn’t sound anything like Levi. The old one or the new one. Sure, he partied, but what reason could he possibly have to sell drugs?

“I know.” Dad sighs. “It gets worse. When the police executed a search warrant on his apartment, they found more drugs, including anabolic steroids and HGH.”

“HGH?” It sounded familiar, and as soon as Dad opened his mouth to answer, I remembered. “Human growth hormone?”

Dad nods.

“Was he taking it?”

“We’re not certain yet. It appears likely. Along with the vials, they found syringes, both used and new. We think that might have been why he was selling the other drugs in the first place. HGH is an expensive habit.”

“That’s crazy. Why would he do something so stupid?”

I’ve heard of athletes, dancers included, taking the stuff to get over injuries quickly. But supposedly there are all kinds of possible side effects. Serious ones.

“When people are desperate, it distorts their view of the world, of what’s right and what’s smart. If you’re desperate enough, it will distort who you are in addition to what you see.”

“I can’t . . . ” I shake my head, not knowing where I am even going with the sentence. I don’t know a lot of things in that moment.

“Dallas, I don’t want to ask this, but I know that you and Levi are close. I need you to tell me that you didn’t know about this, that you weren’t around him or drugs or anything else he was involved in.”

“No! Dad . . . no.” I want to be angry that he could even think that of me, but mostly I’m too shocked. “Levi and I are not close, Dad. We haven’t been since before he graduated high school.”

“I know you guys had a rough breakup, but when I started this year, he led me to believe that you two were past that. That you were friends.”

I scoff, and I feel so sick that I have to stand up and walk around and just breathe.

“We are not friends. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve spoken in the last few years. Dad . . . I hate him. I don’t know any other way to put it . . . ” Angry tears swim in my eyes, and panic paints Dad’s face. “There are things you don’t know . . . that I never want you to know. But suffice it to say, I hate him.”

I can tell Dad wants to ask despite my assurances. His knuckles turn white as he grips the desk, and I can see the confusion and frustration battling in his eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What? That your favorite player turned out to be an awful human being? That the guy you called son the entire time we were dating is an asshole, and I wish we’d never met?”

“Dallas,” Dad’s voice is sharp.

“I’ve earned the right to call him that, Dad. Trust me. God, even now you’re defending him.”

“I’m not defending him.” There’s the stern, angry Dad I know. He’s the one I know how to talk to. “Clearly, there are many aspects to his character that I didn’t see, but that doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell me that he hurt you.”

“Gee, Dad. I thought you would have picked up on that by yourself. What with all the crying and general misery.”

“That’s not fair. You kept to yourself. You never talk to me. And I was—”