Cora Carmack - All Lined Up

His head jerks up from where he was slumped over some paperwork, and the look he fixes me with is damn near stone. He doesn’t say anything, just stands up, walks around his desk, and closes the door connecting his private office to the coaches’ lounge.

He gestures for me to take a seat, but I shake my head, too keyed up to do anything but stand here. He crosses in front of me and leans back against the edge of his desk, pinning me with his stare.

“Why would you go and do a thing like that?”

“To save you the trouble of having to find a reason to cut me, sir.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and asks, “Did you hurt my daughter, McClain?”

I jerk back, but manage to keep my feet planted and my chin up. “No, sir. Never.”

“Did you sleep with my daughter as part of some bet?”

That time I do lose my footing. Is that what she thinks? That I’m part of whatever twisted thing Abrams and Moore had going at the beginning of the year?

“No, sir,” I say as firmly as I can.

“Did you sleep with my daughter, period?”

I’m still too caught up in unraveling his last question, wondering how Dallas could ever think that, but I answer him, “No, sir.”

“Then I think this is all just a misunderstanding, and we can move past it.”

“Move past it?”

“Yes, McClain. That’s what I said. Think you can do that?”

No. No, I can’t. I have never let anything in my life slow me down. Not failure, not money, not missed opportunities. But this? It has me flat on my back, and I’m not sure how I’ll ever get back up.

He lets me sit in silence for a while, but when I still haven’t answered, he shoves off his desk and pulls open the door.

“Blake!” he calls.

A few moments later, Ryan’s head pops into the entryway of the coaches’ lounge.

“Yes, sir?”

“McClain is going to need a little help getting focused this morning. Think you can help him out?”

He steps fully into the coaches’ lounge and answers, “Yes, sir.”

He turns back to me. “It’s done, son. Put it to bed. We’ve got homecoming this week, and I need you thinking clearly.”

I might say, “Yes, sir.” I’m not actually sure. But a few minutes later I’m out of the office and staring at my usual treadmill with Ryan by my side.

“You okay, man?”

I take a deep breath, pump up the incline and the speed on the treadmill, and mutter, “No,” before I take off.

SHE FINDS ME in the library on Tuesday right after my meeting with the private tutor the team set up for me. I’m packing up my stuff when I recognize the familiar odd positioning of her feet next to mine.

I look up at her, and then around at the library.

Everyone is watching. Even the librarian.

She touches my forearm, and I slide back out of her reach.

“Can we talk?”

“Are you sure you wanna do that?” I ask.

A couple of smaller sports blogs have already picked up the story, and even though everyone involved refused to talk to them, it didn’t stop them from speculating.

It wasn’t exactly smart for us to be seen together.

“Please, Carson. Just for a sec?”

I nod, and follow her back to the same obscure stacks containing books about copyright law that we spoke in a few weeks ago.

As soon as we’re away from prying eyes, she drops her bag and throws her arms around me. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I was so stupid.”

By the time I slough off the stiffness in my shoulders enough to hug her back, she’s already stepping away from me.

“You okay?” I ask. That’s all that really matters to me. Everything else I can deal with.

“Humiliated, mostly. And very, very sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

She widens her eyes and nods. “Yes, I do. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t freaked out in Silas’s room.”

“You’re okay?” I ask again, hoping she knows that I’m referring to that night in particular because I don’t really have the words to voice it.

“Yeah, I am. I just heard this rumor, and—”

“The bet,” I say.

She jolts back a step. “Yeah, how did you know?”

“Coach asked me about it.”

“Oh God. I swear I didn’t tell him that. I just told him that I heard a rumor. He must have gotten it from someone else on the team.”

“But that’s what you thought? That that’s what I was doing?”

“No!” Her voice is too loud, and a couple heads peek around the corner to look at us. She lowers her volume and starts again. “No. I didn’t think that. I questioned it for a few moments when I saw you being all buddy-buddy with Silas, but decided you wouldn’t do something like that. What followed wasn’t about the bet so much as it was about some other issues that I’ve been dealing with for years now. That was me trying to hit my self-destruct button, and using you to do it. And I’m sorry.”

“What other issues?” I ask, wondering what could possibly be so bad that she would have crumbled so completely.

“Issues we can talk about when there’s not someone eavesdropping the next aisle over.” She glares at someone through the gap between the top of a row of books and the shelf above it, and they scamper away.

“You moved back home?”

“Temporarily. Dad got a little worked up about everything, and I decided it was easier for everyone involved if I let him feel like he was in control for a little while.”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

She looks shocked that I agree with her, like she expected me to put up a fight.

“You think so?”

“I do. I think we both took things a little faster than we should have, and we let it all spin a little out of control.”

She pauses for a few seconds, and then nods slowly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess we did.”

I step a fraction of an inch closer, and then stop myself. “I’m glad you’re okay, Dallas. I was worried.”

Then, for both of us, I turn and walk away.

They say misery loves company, and I’m fairly certain I occupy all of her time the next few days. I’m so pathetic, even she is probably sick of me. I go to class, while people whisper behind my back. I eat lunch with Stella, while people whisper behind my back. I gradually descend into madness, while people whisper behind my back.

I go to work, and I complete my homework, and I crawl home, where I spend most of my time alone . . . continuing to be miserable. Because even despite all that, things must keep moving. I have a plan, after all. Work. Save up money. Audition to transfer to a real dance program. And do what I have to do . . . no matter what Dad says. And now . . . that plan is kind of all I have left.

I take Annaiss up on her offer to talk. She asks me about the picture, and I tell her the same thing that I tell everyone who asks.

It’s not what it looks like. Carson would never hurt me.

At least not intentionally . . . not like that.

But I don’t want to talk about any of that. It’s still too raw and close to the surface. So, instead, we talk about dance. I tell her about Dad and my frustrations with his inability to see dance as a career. We talk about school and programs and summer intensives, and I concentrate on the things I can control.

Thursday morning, Dad asks if I’ll go with him to some dinner that a board member is hosting for a few faculty members and important alumni who are in town for homecoming.

I tell him no.

I am maxed out on pretending, and I just don’t have the energy or inclination to perform for a group like that.

So instead, I spend my Thursday curled up with the most depressing book I can find, one that will give me an excuse to feel sad without feeling pitiful also. I feel plenty sad when it’s over, but plenty pitiful, too.