Flash (Penmore #2)

by Malorie Verdant

  “It’s about the car, right?” she asked softly. “He knew you needed the money for court fees, Coop. He didn’t restore the car he found you in only for it to be the reason you never talk to him again. He knew selling that car hurt you as much as it hurt him, but he would want to help you again.”

  “Just leave it alone, Lizzie. I’m not going back there yet,” I told her firmly.

  Lizzie clearly wasn’t happy about my response and wanted to ask more questions, but she kept her mouth closed. She’d learned after trying to ask questions during lunch that the moment I decided I didn’t want to talk about something, she could ask all the questions in the world and it wouldn’t get her very far. I just wouldn’t answer.

  “Jake would hate this.” She poked an old newspaper in the corner of the room with her foot, checking if a dead animal was hiding underneath. “He would’ve blamed himself for this.”

  “Good thing we both know that’s not true,” I muttered, ignoring the plea in her eyes to change my mind. To pretend like the last two years never happened. “Look, Lizzie, you know I’ve never needed a lot of belongings to survive. After watching numerous foster parents flush their dollars down the drain for random shit, I don’t need a fancy dinner table or expensive TV.”

  “Coop, this isn’t just living minimally—it’s living with nothing.”

  “More than I had in prison. Plus it’s a pretty good location. One of the best colleges in the state is just around the corner. I’m thinking of taking some classes.”

  “Coop, you know I love you, but you’ve got to be realistic. Getting accepted at Penmore, is that really going to happen? How the hell would you even begin to afford tuition or meet their admission requirements? And spring classes will have started already. Coop, please, just come home with me. We’ll work something out.”

  “I’m not going to risk the life you’ve built. I’ll hang around here, settle in, apply for the fall semester once I’ve got everything sorted. Don’t worry about how I pay for classes or entry. Apparently the dean saw me play in a high school game and will do pretty much anything for his precious Herons to be the best. He visited me a couple of times, spoke to some of my guidance counselors about my grades, and went to the parole hearing. He kept telling me that his friends on the school board knew about my ‘extenuating circumstances’ and were willing to organize financial aid. I don’t give a shit if he’s trying to pretend like his star wide receiver and running back weren't just drafted and he ain’t doing all this for a trophy in his cabinet. All I care about is that my record is now being overlooked, I’ve got my GED, and I’ve got money coming in to pay for tuition. Coach Hardy will even let me try out for one of the walk-on positions in a couple of weeks. Of course, the dean mentioned it was basically a done deal, but still.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  Once upon a time, she would’ve laughed or squealed at the idea of me being a part of the Herons. When I was fifteen and was put on the varsity team of my latest school, we had dreamed about me making it to a Division I school and the NFL. We talked for hours about the way football could help drag all of us out of the pit we were living in. Then I got a new foster house, new school. No varsity football program.

  It’s been a long time since we were foolish enough to dream. Now we were skeptics. Weary of even the most transparent situations, hurt by everything that we couldn’t control.

  “I’ve got something for you,” she whispered, letting go of her concerns. “It’s just a photo. I didn’t think you’d have much from before, and well, we never did have many photos together. Anyway, the social worker took it the day I got approved as a foster mom and Beth finally came to stay with me. I thought—we thought you might want it here with you. I’ll just leave it here near the mail.”

  Fuck. “You know I can’t be around you guys and come for dinner without risking your ability to foster kids. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to—”

  “I know.”

  “My record now means—”

  “I know, Coop,” she said quietly before she stepped forward and hugged me. “Beth and I are just happy you’re out. That you’re here. Always, yeah?”

  “Always.”

  “All right, I’m leaving you to this lovely aroma and heading to work. My number, my work, and Beth’s cell are on the back of that photo. I know you won’t call, but just in case, they’re there.”

  “Bye, Lizzie.”

  “Bye, Coop.”

  When the door closed and her boots could be heard descending the stairs, I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  I walked to the right of the door where my bed and pseudo-bedroom were erected and pried open one of the rusty fire escape windows. Climbing out, I sat on the ladder. I could feel the cool breeze through my hair and could hear the suburban melody. The buzzing of the shop’s neon sign below, the distant rumble of passing cars, and the sound of feet hitting the pavement. It might not have been most people's idea of a relaxation mix tape, but compared to the sounds I had grown accustomed to over the past two years, it was exactly what I needed. Small reminders that I was out. The noise also helped fill the silence in my mind, occupying it temporarily, so I wasn’t buried in memories and pain.

  I was still numb. I knew it wouldn’t last. I had eight months to get my shit together before school started. I thought about how I would need double that amount to stop hearing the sound of a skull hitting cement. Then I would start moving forward with my plans. All my actions and all my plans for the future were for one purpose: to distract myself from the pain I kept trying to bury. A pain that, without sound or stimulants, tried to smother me when I was alone.

  MILLIE

  “LOOK, YOU’RE NOT BEING VERY welcoming, and this is meant to be welcome week!” I hissed at the girl giving me nothing but shade. I wished I smoked cigarettes so I could blow smoke into her face. Instead I ended my statement with a big-ass smile, the ‘stop being such a nasty person and start to give a damn about other people, you selfish prick’ sort.

  Usually I could control my inner bitch better, but after I tried talking reasonably with this girl for nearly an hour without success, my bitch was edging to the surface. I could feel her burning out my eyes, and I knew things were not going to end well. I already had a Taylor Swift anthem about bad blood playing in my head. I was prepared for some girl-on-girl hair-pulling, nail-scratching action. Getting nothing but foul looks and sass from this prissy blonde behind the counter was taking its toll. It was on.

  “Ma’am, I can’t change everyone’s schedules to suit their work. You enrolled in the classes, and I’ve shown you your schedule. You already paid for your classes—I’ve checked the records. Unfortunately, you can’t just come in a week before they start and expect to switch lecture times for one of our most popular time slots. Everything is full.”

  Did she just call me ma’am?

  I was barely two years older than her. Asshole.

  Deep breath.

  Not worth my time.

  Let’s try this again.

  “Look, I hate bringing this up. I hate it because it sounds like I’m making excuses, but I’m a single mom and I work nights. I may have been really tired when I filled in the silly online forms. Having a class this early in the morning, when my mother-in-law leaves before six and the only daycare place I can afford doesn’t open until eight, makes drop-off extremely difficult. If I could just swap into the afternoon class, it would save me some serious stress.”

  “I thought you just said you were single? How do you have a mother-in-law? Look, lady, I don’t have time for your bullshit. I get it that you don’t want to wake up early. Your type never does. Cuts into doing your hair, I’m sure. Suck it up or drop out.” She turned her seat, ignoring me.

  “I just say mother-in-law because its eas—” I began to tell her before I realized she was already on her cell phone.

  Well that’s just great.

  I took a few steps backward, watching the student behind me get serv
ed with a smile while I collapsed, exhausted, in one of the waiting chairs. Not sleeping properly for two and a half years, trying to improve my life inch by inch, and still getting handed shit made me want to cry. I was ready for a damn break. I was sick of everything costing more money than I had. More time than I could afford.

  Or both.

  I was clawing for my independence, and the only things I had to show for it were the dirt underneath my nails and a splitting headache.

  I was tempted to give Gray a call. Everyone at this place worshiped my daughter’s uncle. The star quarterback and local hero. I knew if he walked through those doors that the bitch’s tongue would be hanging out of her mouth and she would be eager to give me any class I wanted. Hell, he’d been the one to ensure that the dean hadn’t blinked at the idea of taking on a mature transfer student. He’d been the one to convince me that enrolling at Penmore was a better option than moving away from Jessie’s only living relatives to go to a small community college.

  I figured it had little to do with me. Him using every ounce of his stardom to help me get into this college had everything to do with how much he adored his niece.

  If only I hadn’t told myself that after Gray’s help with admission, I was going to do this on my own. I was going to suck it up and deal with the dirt under my nails.

  Before I left, I decided if I wasn’t going to make the blonde bitch swallow her tongue by using my daughter’s handsome uncle, I was at least going to put on a show. Pretend that the exhaustion I felt didn’t go down to the bone. She wanted to think I was a Barbie who just did her hair, so I was walking out those doors like a freaking goddess.

  I threw my handbag over my shoulder and did my best Beyoncé impersonation, complete with hair flick and sassy strut. Millie-Fierce. No matter what, I was not dropping out. I was going to be a college graduate. My life was going to be awesome. So I had to take an art class in the morning. A class I didn’t really want to take, except it put me one step closer to becoming an elementary teacher. I was going to have a full-time job, work with kids, and have summers free to spend time with Jessie.

  I just had to get through this year.

  Hell, I was a fucking pro at dealing with setbacks by that point.

  Nothing and no one was going to stand in my way.

  COOPER

  From the back of the student services line, I saw her deal with the jealous chick behind the counter. I watched her fall into the big armchair looking defeated. When she threw her mane of red hair over her shoulder and strutted out the door like a model walking a runway, I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  She was beautiful.

  Better than when I saw her last: a mirage sitting in a café, giggling with her friend, on the one day of my life I couldn’t forget, no matter how hard I tried.

  The events of that day started to replay in my mind. I remembered the boyish way Jake ran to my car. The joy I felt. I recall how hours later, everything went to shit.

  Suddenly I was standing in the fucking college building once more, my jaw tightening as I clenched my teeth.

  My life was like an acid spill, and she’d just reminded me that some lives go untouched by time. They were completely perfect.

  If she was upset about an administration girl being a jealous bitch at a fancy college, she clearly hadn’t experienced any real problems. Seeing her was a damn good reminder that I lived in a different world than those around me.

  I stared at the chair she was sitting on and couldn’t help but think that if life was a game of musical chairs, only the lucky got a seat. They found where they belonged without having to step in shit or be forced to stand alone.

  I thought it was safe to say I was losing that game. I scrunched my fists and reminded myself that it was a good thing I liked to stand the fuck up anyway.

  Besides, if I’d already lost, then I had nothing to lose.

  I was about to turn my back and walk up to the counter, collect the student crap they told me I needed, and be on my way—forget about the princess, just like in the café—when the light shining through the office windows reflected off something in the chair. I told myself to ignore it, that nothing good could come from approaching where she was sitting.

  Then the light fractured again.

  Fuck it.

  I spotted the gold charm hooked onto a tread of the armchair in seconds. It was smaller than a penny, a flat tiny house with a window and a door. I slipped it into my pocket, figuring if I saw her again, I’d just drop it into her palm. It was no big deal. I didn’t notice that when I joined the line, my hand lightly felt and traced each ridge of the charm in my pocket. I didn’t notice that the tiny gold charm had tamed my anger. Each stroke made me forget: forget that she was untouchable, that she was better off without me showing her what real problems looked like, that she lived in a completely different world, one without death, drugs, violence, and cruelty.

  Playing with that damn charm, I almost failed to recall that I had a plan. I had my time here all mapped out. A goal and a reward were waiting for just the right moment.

  When the service counter chick turned her attention to me, her eyes filled with interest, I remembered.

  I couldn’t allow distractions on campus.

  The charm would remain in my pocket, because it was nothing. She was nothing. Just a memory from my past.

  A flash of red hair in my rearview mirror.

  Five hours later and I was no longer heated about the injustices of the world. I was not concerned about my focus. I was scanning the stands and the obvious groupies hanging around the field for any sign of that bright red hair.

  I doubted she’d be close by—her attitude didn’t really scream jersey chaser—but fuck, did I need a momentary diversion.

  Watching the starters showing off their skills for all the coaches and reporters was doing my head in. Waiting on the sidelines, drinking water and ignoring the walk-ons was more painful than I could’ve imagined. Fuck, all the freshmen were trying to start small talk with one another to size up their competition. It was a damn joke. I found even applauding the senior douchebags who thought they were gods among men while they ran drills an idiot could perform was taxing.

  At least when I was in prison, no guy was tapping me on the ass without expecting a fist to the face. And no one wanted the presidential treatment for handing me a fucking cup of water. It was starting to piss me off that I was being treated like a second-class citizen on this team because Coach Hardy had a stick up his ass about where I came from and how I got there.

  When I had first tried out for the Herons in the spring, I’d barely strapped on my pads before the coach was in my face. “Dean Mathews thinks you’re special, kid. Tells me Cooper Daniels has had a rough life, been dealt a shitty hand, but has lots of hidden talent. Thinks your prison sentence wasn't deserved and that you should be starting at running back when we play against Washington State in the fall,” he informed me before pausing and staring me down. He seemed to be looking for something in the lift of my brow or the twitch of my lips. He got nothing.

  We stood for a while, staring silently at one another, until I realized that he thought his words would inspire me to beg him. He was waiting for me to plead my case. I’d only done that once before, in a courtroom against police officers, and it had gotten me nowhere. I wouldn’t do it on a damn football field.

  “Happy to go wherever you want me, Coach,” I told him during that first tryout. “Even if that’s out the door.”

  “Good, because this team is mine and I choose our walk-ons, and no one on my team gets a starting position without earning it, tough life or not. The dean doesn’t control my team. I also haven’t seen anything yet that makes you so damn special, and you won’t be moving up until I do. You hear me? You won’t be starting in our first game, and you sure as hell won’t start period until I say otherwise. You look like you’re suffering withdrawals, boy, and we aren’t a rehabilitation program or a charity case. You want that shit, there are te
ams in Mississippi that’ll have you. And if you don’t pass one drug test or I hear one word about you violating your parole, you can be damn certain that you won’t just be off my team but out of this damn school.”

  “Don’t want charity, sir,” I gritted out. “I served my time, not looking to do it again. You can even ask my parole officer. I’m clean, I’ve got a job, a place to live, and I’m not associated with any of my old friends. I’m just here to work hard. My past is no secret, but that's what it is, the past.”

  When he dismissed me with a jerk of his head, I made it a mission to show him exactly why the dean had heard whispers about me. With his snide comments burning through my veins, I ran every drill, every play like my body was on fire. My muscles screamed and my mind blanked. I was good. Better than fucking good. I ran faster than people expected, and it took more than a couple of guys to take me down.

  A talent I developed out of necessity.

  At every school I was bounced into as a kid, it took less than a week training with their high school football team before I heard that I was good enough for an athletic scholarship. I was told if I practiced and played for them that in no time, scouts would’ve been knocking down my door. Unfortunately, I never stayed at one school long enough for scouts to come calling. Then it wasn't about scouts; not a lot of time for many varsity games and pep rallies when you’re locked up. But now I’m at a Division I school as a walk-on.

  Granted, I was stuck sitting on the bench or standing around on the sideline, waiting for Coach to finish his pissing contest with the dean and give in to my presence. Waiting for him to realize the scrawny kid everyone was paying attention to was crap, and I was better. It pissed me off, but I knew it wouldn’t take much longer; then my plans could be put into motion.

  “Daniels?” some boy standing to the right of me asked. “Hey, I’m Kyle, but everyone calls me Trick. I saw you at the tryouts. You were awesome dude.”

  As if watching from the sidelines wasn’t shitty enough, now I was babysitting. He looked like he was fifteen, lean and narrow with short, curling blonde hair.