“While the major focus of your teamwork is your final project and test, midterms are right around the corner. I suggest you begin sooner rather than later familiarizing yourself with your partner and supporting each other’s learning. Study together, quiz each other. Get used to each other. Even though we aren’t even halfway through the semester, start working on your project concept as soon as you’re paired off. Your final project and examination account for fifty percent of your grade, so for those of you who are struggling thus far—” His eyes dance across the room, and he makes a point of lifting his eyebrows when he looks at me. “I suggest you take this quite seriously. It can make or break your grade.”
Another collective groan echoes around the lecture hall. Mac smirks, hands in his pockets. “Pairs will be announced next class. Have a great day, everybody!”
Before I can even put the cap on my pen, Ryder’s out of his seat. Tossing his bag over his shoulder, he storms out of the room, weaving and pressing his way through the slowly exiting throng.
I turn back slowly, stunned at this guy’s level of douchery. I mean, it takes work to be that big of a dick.
“But he’s kind of a cute dick,” a voice says.
I jump and spin to my left. “Sorry. I didn’t know I was thinking out loud.”
She shrugs and smiles. “No worries. I could tell. I’m Emily.”
“Willa.” Standing, I fold my notebook shut and stuff it into my bookbag.
Her smile widens. “Oh, I love that name. Like the novelist, Willa Cather?”
I nod as pain pinches my chest and I think of Mama. “Yep.”
I should ask Emily if she takes thorough notes and if I could impose on her to copy them. But once again, my tongue-tied fear of asking anyone for anything—or worse, having my request be rejected—silences me.
“Well, have a nice day!” she says brightly.
I have mountains of schoolwork, practice to prepare for the game against one of our toughest competitors, and I’m heading to the hospital to hear how my mom’s latest biopsy went. Good isn’t what I expect this day to be.
“Thanks,” I manage. “You too.”
I’m used to the hospital routine by now. The smells, the sounds. The whoosh and ping of elevators arriving, sneakers squeaking on linoleum. The din of fluorescents and the mixed smell of antiseptic and urine. Oddly enough, I don’t hate it. It’s the place that’s been home to Mama this past month, and wherever she is, that’s where I want to be.
“Willa Rose!” Mama sets down her book and opens her thin arms wide for me.
“Hi, Mama.” I blow her a kiss, then tug off my hoodie and wash my hands diligently. Mama’s immunosuppressed and college kids are Petri dishes, Dr. B said, so I scrub up to my elbows, followed by a few squirts of hand sanitizer for good measure.
Finally, I can lean over and accept her hug. It’s strong and long-lasting. She clasps her fingers together behind my back like always and gives me a good squeeze.
“How was your day, honey?” she asks.
Mama sits back and her eyes meet mine. When I look at my mother, I’m always grateful for the reminder that, but for my crazy hair, I’m nearly her duplicate. It lets me pretend that I just came from Mama, that I’m all hers.
“Not too bad.” I sit gently on the edge of her bed and eyeball her uneaten tray of food.
She waves her hand. “It tastes like garbage.”
“But, Mama, if you don’t eat, you won’t have energy. And you need your energy.”
Sighing, she clasps my fingers. “I know. Barbara from that church outreach program is bringing me homemade chicken soup later on.”
God bless that church program because it picks up my slack. I should be cooking my mom homemade meals, not some sweet Lutheran lady named Barbara, but I’ll take it. It nourishes Mama, and she usually gets a nice visit with a stranger. Unlike me, my mother doesn’t totally stick her foot in her mouth when she converses with others, and actually enjoys small talk.
Mama and I are all alone, and I don’t see that as a bad thing, just how it is. We’ve traveled too much over the years to pick up any lasting friendships, and we’re both fairly solitary women. My family has only ever been Grandma Rose and Mama. Grandma Rose died when I was in high school, and I still miss her. She was a real firecracker who loved her vegetable and flower gardens, always won at Trivial Pursuit, chain-smoked, and swore like a sailor. Apparently, I inherited her temper.
“Okay.” I pull out an orange and start peeling it. Once I tug all the fine fibers off of the segments, Mama and I will split it. It’s our routine. “What’s the news?” My eyes are on the orange as I tear the peel and send a spray of zest into the air. I’m worried I’m going to see that look in Mama’s eyes when she has to tell me bad news.
“What news?” she asks.
My eyes snap up to her. “Don’t play dumb, Joy Sutter.”
She smiles and it makes her eyes twinkle. “Biopsy wasn’t great, but Dr. B’s got a game plan for me. He’s my triple threat—brains, balls, and beauty.”
I jerk my head back, making sure no one is at the door.
Mama chuckles. “He knows I’m joking. But I do think the world of him, and he totally uses it to his advantage, getting me to do things like eat my meals and walk around the halls.”
“Smart man,” I mutter. “Tall, ginger, and handsome was always your speed.”
“I like what I like. Gingers don’t get enough love in this world. Now, talk to me about life, school, the team.” Mama shifts in her bed and tries to hide a grimace. “I feel like I have no clue what’s going on these days.”
I tell her about the pad thai that Rooney tried to make the other night, how it made the whole apartment smell like a rotten fish carcass and the noodles were so hard when I took a bite, I was positive I’d cracked a molar.
Mama laughs until it turns into a coughing fit. A nurse stops in, giving my mom some oxygen while giving me a look that says, Simmer down, Sutter.
Deciding I’ll try not to make her laugh like that anymore for the night, I tell Mama about the upcoming match, the strategy we’re taking to be more offensive than usual. We’ve been playing me as the lone striker, so if they’re smart, our opposition will try to double-team me. We’ll set Rooney on top with me as a fellow forward rather than her typical spot in midfield. If Rooney’s up there, pulling their defense, hopefully, she and I can string together a couple of goals.
“That sounds great,” Mama says. She pops an orange segment in her mouth and smiles. “Scouts will be coming around soon, keeping their eye on you, right?”
I throw back an orange segment, too. “Yep,” I say around my bite. “If I can stay eligible.”
Mama’s faint eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry, Willa Rose, have I missed something? You are a hardworking, dependable student. Your grades have never been in jeopardy before.”
Groaning, I drop sideways until my head is in her lap. Mama’s hands wander to my hair, trying to make order out of chaos. “Tell me, honey.”
It tumbles out. How I naively expected Professor MacCormack to act like every other instructor I’ve had, and when I realized he wasn’t going to, how nervous I got to ask him for what I needed. I don’t get to tell her about the asshole lumberjack before Mama tsks and shakes her head.