Heartache and Hope: Heartache Duet Book One

by Jay McLean

  “What? You ain’t worried about ruining your street cred by being seen in this?” I joke.

  “Boy,” he mocks, pulling open the passenger door. “Being seen with you ruined my street cred a long time ago.”

  Chapter 2

  Ava

  The corridors of school are deserted, first period already in progress. Through thin walls and solid doors, teachers speak loudly, authoritative tones used to impart their knowledge and wisdom on the students in front of them.

  St. Luke’s Academy is the most prestigious school within a fifty-mile radius, and I’m lucky to be here—just ask the faculty.

  I descend the main staircase, past the words etched into the mahogany above the doorway: Vincit qui se vincit. Translation: He conquers who conquers himself.

  Basically: master yourself, and then master the world around you. What’s written between the lines, though, is this: St. Luke’s will mold you to perfection, then throw you out into the real world and hope you know what the hell you’re doing.

  On the ground floor, I look left, look right. It’s the same down here as it was above: deserted. The air conditioner above me whirs to life, blowing chills across my skin. Posters and flyers flap at the edges. The largest one spans across an entire wall, from one classroom door to another. Wildcats! Wildcats! Wildcats! There’s a significant divide in this school, with only two segments: jocks and academics.

  My stepbrother fell into the jock category.

  Two years ago, so did I.

  Kind of.

  Now, I don’t fit in either. I’m a loner, floating on the outskirts, discarded and unseen.

  Invisible… until I’m not.

  The long, narrow, empty hall stretches in front of me. Even with the air conditioning creating goosebumps on my flesh, making the hairs on my arms rise, sweat builds on my neck, at my hairline. I hold my psychology book to my chest and keep my head lowered. One step. Two. The walls seem to close in, but there’s no exit in sight. I stop just outside the classroom door and freeze. I pray for an escape while I will myself not to press my ear against the heavy timber and listen in. A short breath in, out. I ball the note in my hand: a message from the school’s psychologist excusing me from my tardiness with words so articulate, I struggle to understand them even though they’re written about me. It’s as if she tries to hide the truth that everyone already knows. It should just say: Be nice. Y’all know what she’s been through.

  I take one more deep, calming breath before I press my shoulder to the door and start to push, but the door gives way, and I’m falling forward, my shoes squeaking against the marble floor as I try to brace myself.

  “Miss Diaz,” Mr. McCallister booms, his hand on my arm to help keep me upright. Heat forms in my cheeks as I quickly hand him the note. Around me: silence. Not a single word, not even a whisper. Mr. McCallister doesn’t bother reading the note; he simply places it on his desk and motions to the classroom. “Please swiftly find a seat so we can continue.”

  My phone vibrates in the hidden pocket of my school skirt.

  Ignore it.

  But I can’t. I start to reach for it at the same time Mr. McCallister clears his throat. “Now, Miss Diaz.”

  I swallow my nerves and glance up through my lashes. I can feel every set of eyes on me, but I refuse to meet them.

  It’s a miracle my feet move at all, and they lead me to the only empty seat left in the room.

  I drop my bag by the desk and climb into the chair, the lump in my throat the size of the random basketball by my feet.

  Mr. McCallister turns his back, his focus already on writing down the semester’s syllabus on the whiteboard. It takes a second for the class to follow, fingers busy tap, tap, tapping on their keyboards.

  “Hey,” a male voice whispers from next to me. I have no idea who he is, and I don’t look up when he says, “I’m Connor.”

  I open my textbook to the first page, ignoring the dampness on the side of the pages from where I’d been gripping it.

  “I’m new here…” my desk-mate says, his voice trailing as if waiting for a response.

  In my mind, I say, “Hi, I’m Ava. Welcome to my personal hell. The only reason I’m here is because guilt forces me to be.”

  Out loud, I say nothing.

  Soon enough, he’ll know everything there is to know about me.

  Chapter 3

  Connor

  The car didn’t stall once.

  A miracle, really.

  I got to school early this morning, about a half hour before I was supposed to be here. I thought it might help with the whole car situation. Not that I’m embarrassed by it, because I’m not. But you know what they say about first impressions. I didn’t want to go into the year being “that kid.”

  It was pointless, though. One car in the parking lot, one kid on campus. Put two and two together, and you get my dumb ass.

  I spent some time on the court alone, getting used to the hardwood that would become my playground for the next year. About twenty minutes in, my new teammates started to show.

  Rhys, the team captain, was the first to greet me. His lackey, Mitch, was next, and then the rest of the guys. Everyone but Rhys seemed more interested in my car than in me, and when Rhys told them to quit raggin’ on me, they didn’t listen.

  The first official practice of the season sucked. I’d spent so many hours during the summer learning the plays and memorizing my positions. I thought I had it down. I was wrong, so fucking wrong. I lagged. Hard. Balls flew past my head faster than I could catch them, names were called, threats were made. And that was just from Coach Sykes. Besides Rhys, no one said a word to me in the locker room afterward. This was all before the first bell, and my introduction to the shitty elite side of St. Luke’s Academy.

  And then first period started, psychology, and things just went downhill from there. No one sat next to me, and other than a few girls with coy smiles, I was ignored.

  Then she walked in, like a baby bird leaving its nest for the first time—a discombobulation of limbs flapping around. Thing is—after the morning I had—I thought people would laugh at her, but no one did. Maybe because things were taken more seriously off the court, or maybe it was because the girl was crazy hot; all naturally tanned skin and legs upon legs beneath her school-issued skirt, and I never thought I’d have a kink for the whole school-girl uniform thing, but hey…

  She made an entrance, that’s for sure, or maybe it was just me that was paying attention. Maybe a little too much attention. She sat next to me, the only available seat… and said and did nothing. Even when I calmed my thoughts enough to introduce myself… nothing. While the entire class was busy taking notes, she stared ahead, picking at the desktop with her fingernail.

  It’s not until the bell rings forty odd minutes later that she finally moves. We face each other as we gather our things. Our eyes meet. Hold. Her irises catch the sunlight streaming through the windows, a light brown—so similar to the maple I spend my days shredding. Her lips part and my gaze glues to the motion. I try again, this time extending a hand. “I’m Connor. It’s my first…” I trail off because she’s already making her way to the door.

  I turn at the hand landing on my shoulder. Rhys is behind me, his gaze following mine. “She’s unavailable.”

  With a shrug, I tell him, “I wasn’t interested.”

  He shakes his head. “No. I don’t mean she’s unavailable because she’s seeing someone. I mean, she’s unavailable”—he taps at his temple—”because she’s checked out.”

  “No longer part of this world,” Mitch adds, stepping up behind him. He rotates a finger around his ear—the universal sign for crazy—and whispers, “Certifiable.” He eyes me up and down, stopping at my worn-out sneakers. “Actually, you’d do just fine together. Ghetto with ghetto. A perfect match.”

  I should punch him. Once for me. Then two more for the girl-with-no-name. Instead, I walk away, convince myself that people, in general, can be dicks, but people in hig
h school? They fucking thrive on it.

  Besides, I’m not here to make friends.

  I’m here to make plays.

  Chapter 4

  Ava

  Healthy Ways of Coping with PTSD and Anxiety.

  I read the title of the pamphlet for the umpteenth time, shaking my head in disbelief. I’m not the one with PTSD, and maybe if the school psychologist had given me reading material about how to cope with people suffering from PTSD, I’d have a different reaction. I didn’t feel like I needed to see her, but Trevor had spoken to the principal about how to “make sure my final year runs as smoothly as possible” and this was one of the many, many things on the list. So, every Monday and Wednesday I had to sit in an uncomfortable chair for a half hour and spill my guts about everything that was going on, all the emotions I was experiencing, and what I was doing to cope with it all.

  I had nothing to say regarding any of those things, so I spent the entirety of our appointment trying to convince Miss Turner—a woman not much older than myself—that I was fine. Perfect, even. That my home life did not affect my school life, my grades, my future.

  Vincit qui se vincit: He conquers who conquers himself.

  I am a conqueror.

  I am.

  I am.

  I flick the ring around my thumb.

  I am.

  I am.

  I wish it to be true because those are the last words my stepdad, William, said to me before he walked out the door. “You’re a conqueror, Ava. You got this.” I didn’t respond to him. I simply held the front door open and watched his truck pull out of the driveway and disappear down the road. I didn’t ask where he was going. I didn’t care. And I didn’t ask why he was leaving me, leaving us. I already knew. He didn’t love us, so he left. Love should make people stay. Love should make you want to keep the people who hold that love near.

  Until one day when you open the bathroom door, and the scream that erupts from your throat forces you to understand. At that moment, I fell to my knees, soaking in crimson while clinging to hope—and I knew why William left. Because sometimes, love isn’t enough. And neither is a school motto that teaches you from the day you enroll to the day you graduate that you must conquer all. Always. And when the tears blur your vision and your hands shake uncontrollably, and your throat aches with the cries that have consumed you, and you pick up the phone and question who to call, who to save you… you fail.

  You don’t dial 911 as you should.

  Guilt seeps into my veins and through my airways, making breathing a task.

  I flick the ring again.

  I am not a conqueror.

  I am a fucking failure.

  I am.

  I am.

  At around five thirty a car door slams, and I pack up my homework scattered on the kitchen table and get started on dinner. Heavy footsteps enter the house, his head lowered, tools in one hand, work hat in the other. I watch from the kitchen doorway as he slumps down on the couch by the front door of our tiny two-bedroom house and starts unlacing his boots. Shoulders slouched, messy hair and tired eyes, the man is a picture of exhaustion and responsibility, and I hate that he’s here. Hate that he’s taken us on when he should be living his dream: playing football and finishing his degree at Texas A&M.

  I don’t ask him how his day was; I already know.

  “How was your first day?” he asks, never once looking up.

  “Good,” I lie.

  He nods, not asking anything more. He looks across the living room at a bedroom door—behind it: our reason and his responsibility. He murmurs words I can’t decipher. When he looks up at me, he offers a smile that shatters my heart and adds layers to the constant knot in my throat. Heat burns behind my eyes, and I choke back my weaknesses. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”

  He sighs, “Thank you, Ava.”

  I want to yell at him. I want to tell him that he shouldn’t be thanking me for anything. That I’m the one who’s thankful, that I’m forever in his debt. I want to tell him that I love him.

  But if my stepdad leaving has taught me anything—it’s this:

  Love is not a noun.

  Love is something you do.

  Something you prove.

  Something you work hard to create.

  Love is not something that simply exists because you say it.

  Love is not a noun.

  Love is a verb.

  Chapter 5

  Connor

  It’s only been a week since school started, and I’m already counting down the days until it’s over. I’m sure things will get better. They have to. Once the season starts, I’ll be able to focus all my energy on ball. But right now, I’m feeling… stuck. Somewhere between my old life and my new one. I’m struggling to navigate the hallways, not just geographically but socially, too. The kids are different, the classes are harder, the teachers are stricter, and the girls… the girls are on another level. I’ve been approached more in the past week than I have in my entire life. They know what they want, and I’m sure they’re used to getting it. I could lie—tell them that I have a girl back home. Truth is, I’m out of my damn element, and every morning when I wake up, I feel like I’m drowning.

  I tell Dad all this while lifting weights in our garage.

  “It could be worse,” Dad offers.

  “Yeah? How?”

  He helps me settle the bar onto the rack before handing me a water bottle. Then he raises his eyebrows at me as if to ask do you really want to know?

  I down half the bottle and shake my head. No, I don’t want to know. I’ve heard it too many times before. Dad’s a paramedic, so he’s seen it all. He was lucky enough to get a job here doing the same. The downside? He works nights.

  I admire him for what he does. Honestly, I do. But sometimes I wish I could just complain about things and not have it thrown in my face. Sometimes I want to vent without feeling guilty for having those thoughts.

  And sometimes I want to go back to my old school and play ball as if our future wasn’t riding on it. To be fair, he’s never made me feel as though that responsibility was mine.

  But that doesn’t mean I don’t think it.

  Going pro isn’t just the end game. It’s our ticket out. Our saving grace. Being a single parent is tough enough but raising a kid whose goal in life is to be a paid athlete—that’s a whole other level. Training camps, uniforms, gear, gas to and from practices and games—games that up until a couple years ago he never missed, the time off work, the food. Goddamn, I eat a lot. I’m surprised he still somehow affords the roof over our heads.

  “It’s just a year, Connor. Do the work. Stay focused. No distractions—”

  “Like girls?” I cut in, smirking.

  “It only takes one,” he mumbles, removing a weight off the bar.

  His words hit me hard and fast. I lower my gaze and say, repeating his words from earlier, “It could be worse.”

  He crosses his arms. “Yeah? How?”

  I shrug. “I could be nothing more than a stain on your bedsheets.”

  He says, his tone filled with regret, “That’s not what I meant, son.”

  “Yeah? Because that’s not what I heard, Dad.”

  Chapter 6

  Connor

  I was an awkward kid, a loner, anxious, with barely any social skills. On the advice of my teachers, Dad had me trying a bunch of things to help build my confidence and make me feel like I was part of something. Anything. Looking back, I know he went above and beyond to help me find my place in this world, to make me feel as comfortable as I could in my own skin. For most of my life, he’d played the part of both parents, which I’m sure comes with a level of difficulty I can’t even imagine. He’d always been there for me. Always. Which I guess is why when he says things like he did last night—things in passing that aren’t meant to offend—it cuts deep.

  Deeper than I’ll ever let show.

  Anyways, the point is I spent a good year of my life trying everything
: baseball, football, soccer, karate, Scouts, sewing. You name it, I was there. But I didn’t love any of them, and nothing stuck. Not until I touched a basketball for the first time when I was ten years old, and something just… clicked.

  My coaches said I was a natural-born athlete, which makes sense, I guess, given my genetics.

  A lot changed in the years that followed.

  The harder I worked on the court; the easier things became off of it. Throw in a growth spurt that didn’t seem to end, and I started to get attention from all over. Girls included. Luckily for me, Dad was always there to remind me of my never-ending list of priorities, and dating… it wasn’t even in the footnotes.

  So, with that said, it’s no real surprise that my experience with those of the opposite sex is limited to a few make-out sessions at post-win celebrations. I’d never been in a relationship. Never even dated. And so the aggressiveness of the attention I was suddenly getting was intimidating, to say the least, and uncomfortable as hell. Especially when it’s constant. Like this girl, Karen, who’s somehow managed to find me at my locker every single morning. There’s no doubt she’s cute, in the kind of way that money can buy attractiveness. Perfect make-up to go with her perfect skin and perfect hair and perfect attitude. And I’m sure she’s perfect for a guy who’s just as perfect for her. But for me? I’m not interested in her, at least not in that way, and I sure as hell don’t have the time to try to match that level of perfection. Or the time at all… just ask my dad.

  Monday morning. First period. Psychology. And guess who’s in my class?

  Karen.

  Karen… who’s currently staring at me from across the room. Or maybe she’s looking at the girl next to me; Ava—whose name I worked out through other people because she still won’t talk to me even though she sits next to me every psych class.