by Harper James
“We really need to talk,” I say again, quieter this time, more desperate.
Carson takes a long drink of his beer, waves off the brewery employee who tried to offer him another sample, then walks toward the door. I follow; once outside we snake to the right of the bouncer, along the narrow, fenced-in patio that takes up just enough sidewalk space to allow for a few people to stand comfortably. Carson stops short and spins around so fast that I crash into his chest, which causes the scent of him to overpower me; with it comes a flood of pleasant memories that seem more like dreams, at the moment.
“The paper sent over a copy of your article,” he says flatly. “One of the coaches showed it to me this afternoon. So I couldn’t answer your texts because I had to call the lawyer, my family, and the team publicist to let them know the sort of shit that was about to hit the fan,” he says.
His eyes regard me with coldness and mistrust.
I shake my head and reach for his hand; he pulls it away. “Carson, no,” I say, shaking my head, tears forming in my eyes. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I didn’t really write it. It’s Devin— he was the one that put it together. He used these scraps from my story, which was originally what I promised you it’d be—“
“Your name is on it, Astrid. You might have pulled one over on me before, pretending to be a clueless reporter in the locker room, but you’re not doing it again.”
“I wasn’t undercover! I mean, I was, but I didn’t know— Devin used me. He sent me there on purpose, but I didn’t know. I really thought I was just filling in.”
“The fine arts reporter? Filling in for a seasoned sports writer?” Carson asks, rolling his eyes.
“It sounds stupid now, I know, but at the time— look, you can’t just turn down assignments!” I plead. “Carson, please. Please, please, please, listen to me. I didn’t want this. I didn’t mean to do any of this.”
Carson coughs and looks away, like he can’t bear to even meet my eyes. “Astrid, I have no idea whether you wanted this or not— but you damn sure did it.”
“Let me show you my article. The one I wanted to run—“
I don’t get a chance to finish, because Carson turns around, slings his hands into his pockets, and walks away.
He doesn’t need to actually say it out loud— it’s crystal clear.
We’re over.
16
Things really shouldn’t be able to get any worse, but they do.
First, I quit the paper, because fuck Devin and fuck everything he touches because he is the worst human ever and if I somehow become a scientist and discover a new kind of sexually transmitted disease, I’m naming it after him.
Of course, Devin’s version of the story runs, and while Carson is definitely made the villain in plenty of people’s eyes, there are just as many who— thanks to the team publicity department— think I betrayed his trust, essentially catfished him, and slept with him for the story. People have shouted Sluts For Slate! at me across campus more times than I can count.
Carson still won’t talk to me, no matter how many apologetic, pleading, desperate texts and emails I send him.
And finally, the cherry on top of it all…my parents find out about everything.
Thankfully, Jess and Arianna have been running interference for the last twenty-four hours, so they’re the ones who get to my cell phone first and see the caller ID.
“Whoa— nope, nope, nope. Don’t touch that one,” Jess says, silencing my phone and turning the television back up.
We’re been watching a lot of reality TV, because Arianna says there’s no better cure for a breakup than marathoning The Bachelorette (“You get to watch her break up with thirty guys. It’s like revenge porn for breakups”).
“Wait, who was it?” I ask.
Jess throws popcorn at me playfully. “Your mom. I assume that’s a hard pass?”
I bite my lip. “They texted earlier. They saw the story.”
“And I assume they’re not happy?” Arianna says, cringing.
“I have no idea, actually. It’s sort of a law story. Kind of. Maybe they think it’s a step toward law school,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I should call them back. If you think they won’t come down here in person to talk to me, you’re really underestimating them.”
“Okay, but I’m pausing this. Don’t think you can get out of the last group date episode you’ve got another thing coming,” Arianna says, and gets up to pour herself another glass of box wine (which she also says is the best cure for a breakup) (and I think she might actually be right about this one).
In my bedroom, I steel myself for the many directions this conversation could go, pretty much none of them good, and call my mother back. She answers the phone, and an instant later I can tell I’ve been put on speaker.
“Can you hear us?” my mother asks. “Your father is here.”
“Can she hear me?” my dad yells.
“That’s what I just asked!” my mother screams back.
I sigh. “I can hear you both.”
“Well, good. Astrid, we read the article you wrote about Carson Slate. We need to discuss this,” my father says stiffly. “I don’t like that you used yourself as…as…as bait to get a story on that boy.”
“That’s not really how it went,” I mumble. I pull up the story— the version they read— so I can better anticipate their concerns. While I’ve read my own version of the story a half dozen times, I haven’t read this one again since sitting in the stairwell. It’s too difficult, too painful to read something so heartless and cruel. When I read my version of the story, it hurts in a different way, a melancholy sort of way— it reminds me of what I had with Carson, for a while there. Of the person I know he really is.
“Honey? Are you still there?” my mother asks.
I blink back tears for the millionth time. “Yes, yes, sorry— I got distracted.” I focus my eyes on the Bowen Blaze webpage I have pulled up, where the story’s headline takes up most of the landing page.
“Oh, good, I was afraid we were disconnected. Anyhow, Astrid, it’s nice to see that you’re getting into criminal investigations with the newspaper. I think this will look great on your law school applications. Did you get the brochures we sent?” my mother asks. There’s no malice in her voice, no acknowledgment that I didn’t want the damn brochures, even though she knows that’s the case; my mother is all practicality, all the time.
“I did,” I say.
“It’s certainly the most interesting article you’ve written. I hear it’s being syndicated nationally! Pity you don’t get paid. Or do you? How does that work?” my dad muses.
“Never mind that,” my mother says, and I can hear her slapping him lightly in the chest. “I want to know more about this Carson Slate boy. Now, Astrid— he comes from a powerful family. You let us know if they threaten you in any way. We spoke to your father’s lawyer, and she says the school is responsible for keeping you safe from him—“
“I don’t think you need to worry about that, Mom.”
“I absolutely do! I hear horror stories all the time of jilted men wreaking havoc on women’ lives!”
“It’s not like that, Mom. It’s an article I wrote, but it doesn’t really tell the whole story of Carson Slate. Just the version of the story my editor wanted it to tell.”
“Is Devin your editor? What’s he like? Devin is a nice, strong name,” my mother says thoughtfully.
“Mom. Focus.”
“That’s right, honey, focus,” my father says to my mother. “Astrid, we are just so impressed. Writing for the school paper didn’t seem like a very wise use for your time, but this is really quite an impressive piece. I think it will look great to law schools, and honestly, if you were to want to seriously pursue investigative journalism…well, perhaps that’s a discussion we could have.”
I blink. Is this actually my father on the phone? My father, who for some reason seems to equate being a writer with being a circus artist or prostitute?
“Wow,” I say, or perhaps just breathe— it’s hard to tell. Have they said that, once, since I told them I wanted to be a writer? Since I told them I didn’t want to be a lawyer?
I look down at my computer screen, at the bastardized version of my story. Carson Slate the monster, Devin the snappy investigator working out the alibi, and me, the trap who used her body to lure Carson Slate into spilling his secrets. There’s nothing about the feeling of being chained to one’s parents, about try to escape without cutting ties entirely, about the way Carson feels about his dad and how it’s not entirely unlike the way I feel about my parents, the way everyone feels about their parents, as best as I can tell. That is the better story— and a story that I could have been proud of, even if perhaps my parents wouldn’t have been.
“The story isn’t what you think,” I say, sighing into the phone. “Devin, my editor— he took the story I wrote and he turned it into this giant murder mystery scandal. The truth is, I know Carson Slate. I know him well, at this point. He’s a good person, and he was put in a horrible position around being an alibi for his father. Carson didn’t really know for sure if they had dinner together that night, but he wanted to trust his parent. I understand that.”
“I don’t…think I understand,” my father says slowly, and I can perfectly picture the way his brows are furrowed into a single line.
“I don’t think newspaper reporting is for me,” I reply. “I don’t like boiling people down into facts and headlines. I want more humanity to it. I want to tell a whole story, not a summary of someone’s worst moments.”
“Well, okay, honey,” my mother says, sounding a little worried. “Do you want to switch over to pre-law?”
I smile to myself. “No. I think I’m going to switch to creative writing. I quit the paper, by the way. Devin’s the worst person on earth, and that is his whole story.”
There’s silence for a few moments, then an eruption of voices as my parents begin to talk over one another— creative writing doesn’t even allow you to teach after college, and, that’s not a job, it’s a hobby, and, if you think we’re paying for you to go to school and write fairytales, you’ve got another thing coming, and…
And plenty else. I put the phone down and pull up my version of Carson’s article, reading through it. I understand why, even if Devin wasn’t a dick, it couldn’t have been published in the newspaper.
This isn’t a news article: It’s a love story.
17
My parents get over it.
Well, sort of. Not really.
They get over it to the tune that they’ll pay my living expenses, since they’d “have to pay those anywhere”, but they totally refuse to pay for tuition if I’m not moving toward a “serviceable career”. Which is fine with me— I’ve got decent scholarships and can apply for a few more, if need be. Besides, now that I’m not working at the Blaze, I can pick up a part time job or something next semester.
It’s been three weeks since the article went live and my relationship with Carson went very, very dead. Even though I can tell I’m moving on with life, it has a surreal, false feeling, like being on those moving sidewalks at the airport. Things are going by, but you look down and see you’re moving at a fraction of the world’s pace. I can’t help but wonder how it feels for Carson. He didn’t just find out his alibi for his dad was fake— the entire world found out it was fake.
I wonder if he talked with his father, with his brothers, his mother— do they understand? Do they forgive him? Or do they blame the investigation that lead to the alibi being blown on me?
Despite the fact that my suitemates advise a total Carson detox, I sneak to watch the second to last game of the regular football season on television while they do the same at one of the sports bars in town.
It’s weird, watching a game from home after attending them live; being able to mute the crowd only contributes to that surreal sense. But I curl up with a blanket and all the junk food I can scrounge together from the pantry, and watch. I remember what Desi told me about the way Carson played at the last game— that he was better than ever before, because he was happy. I wonder— and I bet his teammates are wondering— how he’ll play now, since I know he’s got to be anything but.
The answer? Poorly. Very, very poorly, in fact.
Carson usually looks like a general commanding his troops— a great general when he’s happy, and a middling general the rest of the time. At today’s game, though, he looks like an overzealous dictator, shouting commands, missing signals, passing before his teammates can guarantee a catch. He’s a mess, and the announcers can’t get enough of it— they have pity in their voices, but they still zoom in and replay each and every one of his failures. The coaches are in deep discussion through their time outs, and there’s even talk of them pulling him from the game entirely.
That’s the last thing he needs. Come on, Carson. Pull through this, I think hard at the television. I know scouts are watching, I know the everything’s more important now, toward the end of the season. Even people who think he’s a villain have to know that his mind is in a million different places, but that this isn’t his usual game— right?
I curse at the television when another pass is ruled incomplete. Did I manage to not only derail Carson’s family life, but his entire future career as well? The coaches argue with the referees for a few moments, and the camera zooms in close to Carson. He’s talking with another player, and it’s clear that the other guy is trying to calm him down. Carson has removed his helmet, and his face is harsh, all straight lines and dark eyes. He doesn’t appear to be hearing a thing the other player is saying, nor does he appear to feel the sweat dripping from his hair onto his cheeks. It looks like his mind is somewhere else entirely.
In that moment, my heart breaks.
I miss him so much. If only he would have spoken to me, let me back in…
The announcers stop talking for a moment, waiting to hear the outcome of the conversation between the referee and the coaches. To fill the time, the cameraman zooms in on the marching band, then the crowd, finally focusing on a few people in particular. I can’t sort out why at first, but realize what’s going on at the same moment the announcers do— Carson wasn’t zoned out, he was staring at a group of students from the opposing school who are hanging over the side of the bleachers. They’ve unfurled a sheet on which they’ve painted, “Slate For Prison 2020”. They’re jeering at Carson, though I can’t make out their words— still, it’s clear from their faces that they’re not shouting compliments his way.
The announcers discuss this for a moment, calling it unsportsmanlike, wondering if someone will make them stop, if anyone has the authority, and the camera alternates between a tight shot of Carson’s face and the jeering fans. I hear the announcers mention the article, citing my name and Devin’s name, and even through the television I can feel tension in the air, that frightening sense of stillness before two dogs lunge at one another.
Carson moves; the crowd erupts in cheers or boos as he shoves past his teammates on the sidelines. The guy he’d been talking to on the field— Desi’s boyfriend, I think— tries to stop him, as do a few other teammates when they realize what’s about to happen. Coaches are running in from the sides, shouting, but Carson is already at the bleachers. Thank god the people themselves are too high for him to reach— but their sign isn’t. He grabs the sheet and yanks it down so sharply that one of the students nearly tumbles over the side rail. Thankfully, they remain safe; the sign flutters to the ground just as most of Carson’s teammates reach him and pull him back, but the damage is done.
The announcers are going nuts, pity in their voices— understanding why the sign got to him, but unforgiving about him acting from his emotions. The crowd is going crazy, and the conversation between the referees and coaches, which was previously about that incomplete pass, changes tone. In a matter of seconds, the pass is rule
d incomplete, and Carson is cited for unsportsmanlike conduct. Bowen loses fifteen yards, but worse, the coaches opt to pull Carson from the game— the first time it’s happened all season. I close my eyes— I’m not sure I can watch this any longer. I fumble for the remote and, eyes still shut, find the mute button.
I understand why they pulled him from the game— it’s not the coaches’ fault. In fact, it’s what reasonable-headed-Carson would have wanted— for the team to succeed rather than for the focus to be on him. But this is all my doing, even if it wasn’t on purpose. The fact that I didn’t mean for it to go down this way doesn’t make it any easier— in fact, if I’d plotted to take Carson down like the article suggested it’d probably be easier, since it’d mean I was against him from the beginning. Devin’s probably fist pumping in his living room right now, in fact.
I wish so badly that Carson was here with me. I wish his arms were around me, I wish my chin was tilted up toward him. I wish I could tell him to power through and finish the job— that he is his father’s son, but not his father. That I know the fake alibi was an accident, in the same way the article was an accident. That I know he’s good, and that I want him, and that no stupid college newspaper editor will ever change that.
The internet lights up that evening with information on Carson. Because of my past research on him, it feels like every ad I see has something to do with football, or Bowen, or the Slate family— I can’t escape it.
So I open up a new file on my laptop and begin to type out what really happened between me and Carson. I don’t really know where I’m headed with it; I guess it just feels like I might be able to take all the pain and frustration out of my head and let it live on the computer for a while. When I’ve written a dozen or so pages— the story of that disastrous first meeting in the locker room— I sit back, consider it, and then send it to Carson without any explanation.