by Alexis Bass
“You could count sheep. Or count backward from one hundred.”
“I was thinking of cutting out caffeine.”
“That should help, too.”
“My mom uses meditation apps.” He sighs. “I’m sure eventually something will work.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Thanks.”
I’m halfway down the hill when my phone buzzes.
A text from Jasper. “See you tomorrow.”
I confirm this with a smiley face. Much to my surprise, he sends one back.
Twenty-two
Next week, after taking a test in number theory and knowing every single answer for once, I fly through field hockey practice with such confidence that Coach Steger asks me where this enthusiasm was for the semifinal game last weekend.
I’m still riding so high from my first totally successful Rutherford test experience, I decide that I deserve to spend the entirety of dinner eating. I truly relish in this opportunity. Anastasia, Theo, and Ariel make me laugh so hard I almost have basil-infused water coming out my nose. It’s the first time I have calmed enough to really let loose since those first weeks I was here, before the Rutherford schedule got to me and I fell behind.
I send Jasper a text letting him know I won’t be able to make it today. I’m not sure he’ll check his phone between now and when he wonders where I am in the library, but I watch him across the cafeteria as he fishes his phone out of his pocket and glances at me. Wow, he looks awful. The past few days, his trouble sleeping has gotten worse. He didn’t even have to tell me; I could see it on his face. This heavy exhaustion. The life draining right from his eyes.
Jasper walks toward the exit, slumped over like he’s not even strong enough to lug around his bag. He stares at the ground as if the cascade lighting is too bright for him, and he stumbles into a trash can trying to weave past a group of second years. I shouldn’t be worried about him. He certainly wouldn’t be worried about me.
“Hmm,” Ariel says.
Anastasia and Ariel sit across from me, their heads all slightly tilted to the left—the tilt of judgment, I call it—they’re watching me watch Jasper. Theo is making the rounds, greeting his subjects.
“Still find him mysterious, do you?” Anastasia says.
They know I’ve been studying with Jasper. But I don’t think they realize how often we meet.
“He looks awful, right?” I say.
“Maybe a little more sunken in than usual,” Anastasia says, touching her cheeks as she studies him.
“It’s like Theo’s always saying. He’s obsessed with school. Kinda like you are, but usually he doesn’t seem as desperate.”
“Thanks for that.” Except—wait. It is kinda like me, the difference being I’m forced to be obsessed with schoolwork. It’s true that I’m desperate. I’m scared. I’m a mess. But I think back to that day when I was so behind, I had to study on the bus after the field hockey game. Jasper was there, too. On the soccer bus, studying also.
“I have to go,” I say, gathering up my food, my bag, rushing as quickly as I can while they stare back at me, confused.
Maybe it’s really not as much of a coincidence as I think. Maybe I’ve missed the signs. Maybe all along Jasper has been having a hard time at Rutherford, too. Maybe he, too, is constantly worried about failing, not living up to his past successes. Maybe all the times he warned me I would have to get used to it or go home were actually warnings to himself. It’s a revelation.
When I burst into the private study room, he hardly even glances away from his laptop screen.
“I think I know what will help,” I say.
I wait for something from him, anything really. An eye roll or a scowl. A “What are you talking about, Collins?” or a “What’s that, Collins?” But he doesn’t even register that I’ve spoken to him. He’s wilted to one side, his forehead pressed into his fist, which seems to be holding his head upright. The bags around his eyes are dark, and his lids are heavy. His face seems sharper and paler than when I studied with him two days ago. Even his curls look flat.
“Hey. When’s the last time you slept?” I sit down next to him, and that at least makes him look away from the screen. He shrugs and rubs his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he says, his voice strained.
“This isn’t good, Jasper. Come on, get your stuff, I know what will help—”
“I’m not finished yet.” He runs his hands over his face and props up his head in front of his computer.
On the screen, I see several tabs open on his browser. Each one contains information about state laws—trials, subpoenas, witness testimonies.
“What class is this for?”
He quickly shuts the laptop. “It’s not—it’s nothing.”
“You want to be a lawyer?” Maybe this is how he daydreams about the future. He looks up state laws and fantasizes of the day he can prosecute a trial of his very own.
“Absolutely not.”
“Then what—”
He slides his laptop into his backpack and stands up. “Fine. What did you want to show me? How long will this take?”
“Not long,” I say, suddenly very unsure about bringing him to the edge of the courtyard and telling him to take it all in, the way Sebastian helped me.
He follows me outside, and when we reach the spot, my regret is all-consuming. I was desperate when Sebastian brought me out here, frazzled and overwhelmed, and it really did help. But what makes me think this will calm Jasper the way it calmed me?
I attempt to take his backpack the way Sebastian took mine, but he squints and pulls it back.
“Set it down.” I motion to the bench. “For a minute.”
He eyes me as he reluctantly places his bag on the bench. I do the same. I stand next to him. I look out at the ocean in the distance, the sun splintering over the gray waves; the forest lit up by the last of the light. The air smells fresh right now, and there is only a slight breeze carrying the scent of pine and jasmine through the already chilled air. The lawn and shrubs before us are a lush green. This kind of peace is contagious. I can already feel it catching.
“So what are we doing?” Jasper says.
“You don’t feel…?” Of course he doesn’t feel refreshed and peaceful; why did I think this was a good idea? “We’re taking a moment. Having a recharge.”
“A what?”
A recharge is what Sebastian called it, and yes, I’d laughed at first and thought it sounded like a huge waste of time. But it’d worked; I’d felt better—almost serene—more settled afterward.
“I’m trying to help you!”
“This is really patronizing, Collins.”
“Well, you’re not sleeping, and you look terrible.” He sighs—irritation bubbling up—but I keep going. “You’re studying yourself sick the way I did, and when I felt like I was drowning, this is what helped me remember why I was here, what I liked about being here. It reminded me how lucky I am to be at Rutherford and that I wanted to keep fighting to stay.”
He looks me over carefully with his bloodshot eyes. “You and I are very different people.” He takes a deep breath and looks to the ground, and I know what this means—this is a move he often makes, the look-down. It means he has more to share. He’s only getting started. “I’m not studying myself sick. I’m not drowning. I don’t need a reminder of how much I like it here or how lucky I am. I get it. I already know I love it. I already know that my graduating from here solidifies my Dartmouth acceptance. This isn’t even the best view at Rutherford.”
“Okay, well, you spend as much time as I do studying and you look like you’re struggling, and this is the only idea I had to help you.” If I’m laying out my weaknesses, I’m laying out his, too.
“My only issue is that I can’t fucking sleep. I don’t need a recharge. I need a shutdown.”
“Then I guess I should’ve gotten you warm milk instead. My mistake!”
Jasper sighs and takes the few steps toward the bench. He
sits down beside our bags. Then he starts laughing. It doesn’t sound hysterical, like he’s losing it. It sounds like a release. I haven’t seen him laugh like this since that night at the inn, around the firepit.
“I did try warm milk,” he says.
“And?”
“Not good.” He looks up at me and smiles. I walk over to him, and he moves our bags to the ground so there’s room for me to sit next to him. The bench is cold against my tights. “Nothing works, really. I’ll have to get a sleeping pill from the infirmary eventually, I guess.”
“That’s hopeful.”
“It’ll be the last resort. I hate not having control over when I sleep or when I wake up.”
“Controlling is one of your top five traits. I’ve noticed.”
“That doesn’t sound good. But it does sound like me, unfortunately.”
“Self-awareness is important.” I watch him smile as he looks ahead, out at the view. I think it’s catching in him, too. If only a little.
“You’re nice,” he says. “That’s one of your…” He pauses to make sure he’s saying it right. “Top five traits?” I nod. “You’re kind, I mean. It was thoughtful of you to bring me up here even if it’s pointless. Very nice of you.”
“I’m not always nice.”
“Good.” He nods again once. “I should be more like you.”
“You definitely should.” We’re both half smiling, the way we’re only half joking with these things we’re saying to each other. These are his weaknesses, unspooling. He’s exhausted enough to reveal them.
“So why can’t you sleep? Do you know?”
It’s quiet for a bit; I wait for him to answer.
“There was this thing Theo used to have me do sometimes when I was stressed out. It helped until—it helped for a while.”
“Well, what is it?”
He turns to me, and he seems a little more alert than before—less irritated for sure. “I think it might help you, too,” he says. “Do you want me to show you?”
Twenty-three
We meet Theo at the gate leading to the athletic complex. It’s dark when we arrive except for the path lights and the tennis courts, lit up for a group that’s either practicing or has signed up to play for fun. We follow Theo through the side doors of the gym and down the hallway to the boys’ and girls’ locker rooms. Theo’s already in workout clothes and waits while Jasper and I change. He leads us farther down the hall, past the weight rooms and yoga and dance studios, until we reach the last door on the right. It opens, and the water polo coach, Mr. Simon, is standing there, twirling his keys. He nods at Theo and eyes the three of us.
“Okay,” he finally says, sighing. “You’ve got forty-five minutes. Put the gloves and bags back when you’re done.” He leaves, and the door clicks shut behind him.
Theo walks to the far side and pulls out hand wraps from a bin. Jasper grabs three sets of red boxing gloves.
“Don’t tell me we’re about to fight each other?” I’m kidding, but also waiting for some kind of reassurance.
The two of them do not laugh. They’re walking over to the other side of the room, where the mats are rolled up against the wall. They take hold of three freestanding boxing bags from the piles, scooting them to the center of the room.
I stand there feeling useless, so I start to wind the wrap around my hands. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I figure there can’t really be a wrong way to prepare your hands for boxing. When the bags are in place, Theo comes over to me, takes my hand, and undoes the wrap. Jasper and I listen as he instructs us on the proper way to wrap our hands, though it’s obvious Jasper has done this before. He’s always a few steps ahead of the instructions, but he concentrates, examining his and Theo’s against each other, so careful to get it right. Theo helps us both with our gloves, which doesn’t seem like something one would need help with, but once one glove is on, it’s tricky to squeeze on the other one.
“And now what?” I say, taking position next to a bag, which is what Jasper’s doing.
Theo syncs his phone with the speakers, and suddenly the room fills with loud, fast music.
“And now you hit the bag, Collins,” Theo says.
He and Jasper go to town, their fists slamming against the bags. I swing my arm and make contact, but the pushback is uncomfortable.
“Use your whole body,” Jasper calls to me. He shows me his punch, the way he positions his feet and twists his body. I nod and copy him. It does feel much better.
Theo explains the different kinds of punches—jab, cross, hook, uppercut, overhand—and tells me to punch from my core, which doesn’t make sense until I really get going and feel the power in this. Next, Theo directs me in the proper way to kick the bag, how to position my foot so that I don’t get hurt.
Jasper is focused on his bag, hitting it, kicking it, circling it like it’s his opponent. It seems like it might be working for him, the way Theo intended. He’s out of his head. He’s coursing with adrenaline. He’s wearing himself out—maybe enough that he’ll be able to sleep. Theo is different with his bag; he’s concerned with form and technique. He does an ordered sequence of punches and kicks over and over again before he changes it up, like it’s a choreographed set.
I try it Theo’s way first, making up a sequence—kick, jab, cross, uppercut. But I keep messing up. I like the punches the most. The jabs and the crosses make me feel the best. With each punch, there is a power I’m releasing, as well as a tension. A mounting anger and then an impactful release.
You’re so strong. I hear Rosie’s voice in my head. You can do this. You won’t let us down.
She’s turning out to be wrong—isn’t she? Here I am alone with the Mahoney brothers and I still have no idea what Theo’s being paid to keep quiet about, and Jasper finds my gestures to move our relationship beyond that of study partners to be patronizing.
Rosie took me out to dinner, just the two of us, after I officially got into Rutherford. To celebrate, she claimed. But by then, it’d been over a month since I was accepted and I’d already learned there was another reason she wanted me there.
It was during a dinner of prime rib and rosemary potatoes that she pulled out her phone and showed me Jasper and Theo.
“These are her boys, Collins. All she cares about. The reason she’s secured your father as insurance for when her debt catches up with her.”
I stared at the screen, scrolling through the photos Rosie must’ve collected from various social media accounts and publications, at their polite expressions, the list of all their accolades. The backdrops of their photos—grand staircases, lawns with perfectly trimmed grass, ocean views, and European skyscapes. And Rutherford. The stained glass of the B wing. The stadium lights of the athletic complex. The cathedral ceiling of the library. I had photos like this, too. A life on sprawling, green land, charming through and through. Trips to Hawaii and Europe. Summers on the coast. Telluride winters. And now I would have Rutherford, too. This is what Mrs. Mahoney was supposedly fighting to preserve, getting involved with my father.
My first instinct was to worry that it would be awkward to walk the halls with them, knowing what I did about our parents; wondering if they knew, too. But Rosie assured me that it was a best-kept secret, too risky for Marylyn Mahoney to let anyone know about it, especially her family.
“I could ask him to stop seeing her.” I’d floated this idea by Rosie before. Her answer was always the same.
“You could. But he didn’t believe me. And even if he listened to you, then it’d be you who was depriving him of the happiness and love he thinks he’s getting from her. It shouldn’t be something you have to ask him, a burden you’d have to carry.” I thought about an ultimatum, stop seeing her or else, if he didn’t believe me that she was bad for him. But what proof did I have of that except what Rosie told me? And what could I possibly threaten or else?
I looked at the photo of Jasper and Theo again—a family portrait from when they were younger, where it reall
y stuck out that they had their mother’s eyes and their father’s smile.
“She’d risk breaking up her family?” I asked.
“Her priorities are squarely with money, and that’s what she thinks is best for her boys ultimately.”
I nodded. As I sat there, I thought there was nothing we could do. But over the next few days, I started to get ideas.
“What kinds of things do you think would make her break it off with him?” I’d mused. Rosie and I were sitting outside the capital building waiting for Mimi to finish up with her meeting downtown and meet us for lunch.
She stayed quiet, like she knew I had something specific I was getting at.
“Since I’ll be at Rutherford with her sons and they’re all she cares about besides my dad’s money, then maybe they would be able to help with this.”
“How so?”
“Like if they knew, they might ask her to stop seeing him. If she cares what they think, maybe she’ll do it.”
“Would they believe you, though, with these accusations against their own mother, someone who’s always been there for them, who puts their own happiness above her own? And if they asked her, she could always lie.” She shook her head. “Besides, that would backfire. They always shoot the messenger, Collins.”
At the time, I hadn’t believed her.
I punch the bag hard over and over again, thinking about how wrong I’d been. How much I’d hated the messenger and didn’t care if it was unfair. I think of the broken glass on the floor. Mimi’s voice escalating into this helpless cry while Rosie yelled. How frozen and numb I felt while it was all happening. The first and most shameful thought that kept surfacing was this: I love my father, and I don’t care what he’s done, but how am I supposed to forgive the two of them?
My skin is covered in sweat, and it’s starting to feel tight around my chest and neck. A tingling sensation with a shortness of breath. I peel off the gloves. They bounce lightly when they hit the gym floor. My hands are shaking as I attempt to untangle the wrap from around my hands and wrists.
“What are you doing?” Theo says, out of breath.