So, of course, on the anniversary of all my dreams going down the shitter, Willa Sutter, women’s soccer’s rising star, dropped herself in the seat next to me in Business Mathematics. It felt like the universe was kicking me right where it counts.
Didn’t help that she seemed to inexplicably hate my guts. As class ended, she gave me the death glare and shoved a pen in her hair like she wished it was a shiv spearing my heart. Rage tinged her amber irises coppery red, and violent energy practically radiated off of her. The woman whose future was once mine, the future I’d give anything to have back, looked like she wanted to kill me, then do it again, just for kicks. Sticking around to watch her try to melt me with her eyes when I had no idea what I’d done to earn such hatred might have been entertaining another time, but not that day.
Next class was just as bad. Once again, she dropped into the seat beside me, making me intensely aware of her body nearly brushing against mine. I’m an over-average-sized guy. I have broad shoulders, long legs. I don’t fit in those desks. So, it wasn’t necessarily surprising when I shifted in my seat and accidentally elbowed her, earning her evil eyes again.
What was surprising was that when she glared at me, demanding an explanation, I actually wanted to answer her. And that’s really saying something because I haven’t spoken a word in two years.
“Ry.” I hear it like I’m underwater, faint and warped. That’s what life sounds like with moderate and severe hearing loss, in the right and left ears, respectively. Bacterial meningitis came out of nowhere just a few cruel weeks before pre-season at UCLA began. I got horribly sick, fast, and the next time I woke up, I was in the hospital, hearing my mom’s voice as a tinny, garbled sound I barely recognized. Meningitis damaged my inner ear, and the antibiotics did their fair share, too.
There was no recovering Division-1 ability on a soccer field when my balance was off, when suddenly I couldn’t hear my name being called or a ball coming at me. My hearing aids made things worse, and the entire experience of trying to play again felt like one big nightmare.
Coach was encouraging. My teammates were supportive. I was realistic.
I took my career out back, behind the ball shed, and gave it a mercy killing. I hung up my cleats, forwent my athletic scholarship, and moved on. Now I’m not Ryder Bergman, solid left-back, freshman starter destined for greatness. Not anymore.
“Ry,” Ren tries again. I mean, maybe he said my nickname. My brother could have just as easily said my full name and I simply failed to catch most of it. I try not to care about details like that anymore, to wonder and worry about what I’m missing, but it’s not easy. At first, the anxiety was crippling. Now it’s a persistent hum of unease.
I swivel in my desk chair and face my brother Ren. Like me, he’s tall, broad-shouldered and built, but his blond hair is tinged russet, his eyes, pale blue-gray just like Mom’s.
Ren’s a professional hockey player who was massively anxious about the draft, convinced he’d get shipped away from us to the other side of the country. To his immense relief he managed to get signed with LA, though despite working and living nearby, he’s rarely home during the season. When he is, he’s usually up my ass.
I tip my head to the side and mouth, Where’d you come from?
Ren leans his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He frowns but still speaks clearly, so I can read his lips. “Off day. Next game’s tomorrow.”
And? I mouth.
With a roll of his eyes, Ren yanks his phone out of his pocket and wiggles it side to side in the air, which after two years, is code for, Get your phone out, asshole, and actually talk to me.
Sighing, I pull out my cell and open up our text message thread.
I know what day it is, he writes. Come on, I’m taking you out.
Old Ryder would let out a humorless laugh, but I’m practiced at swallowing the impulse to make a sound.
No, I type.
“Goddammit,” Ren’s mouth says. For a second, I feel bad. Ren is the last brother left, and he deserves my kindness for sticking it out with me. The other brothers have given up on trying to reach me, leaving me alone for the most part. It’s not their fault. I’ve pushed pretty much everyone away.
Freya threatened to drag you out if you don’t come willingly, he writes.
I throw my hands up and mouth, What the fuck?
Ren shrugs. “She’s tired of your bullshit. Says she knows a spot with a good burger that’s not loud, so it won’t give you a headache.”
A sigh leaves me, my thumbs typing, And if I don’t?
Ren laughs and pockets his phone. “She’s your sister, too. You know what will happen.”
Freya’s the oldest. She makes my brand of stubborn look like childish willfulness by comparison. It’s better to let her have her way. I’ll sit in a quiet place, eat, let them talk around me, and then she’ll leave me alone.
Standing, I yank off my hoodie, and run a hand through my hair, looking around for my ball cap. Ren takes my wardrobe change for the sign that it is, that rather than fight my strong-arming sister, I’m giving in to this stupid outing. He whoops in victory, a rare-pitched sound I can still hear. I want to say I’m grateful that I can hear him, but I’d be lying. All I think about when I hear something like that is everything I don’t. The counselor my parents made me see after everything happened told me it takes a while to see life as glass half full again.
Glass half full is a far way off.
To the outside observer, we look like a sadly asocial bunch, with our noses buried in our phones, but it’s the only way we can all talk since I’m here. Group chat usually only consists of the four of us. Freya, her husband, Aiden, me, and my brother Ren.
Sometimes they’ll talk out loud. I’ll read their lips, then I’ll respond to group chat. That way, they can have conversation like normal people, and I can just chime in when I want. Which isn’t often. That, at least, isn’t new. I’ve always been pretty quiet, even before my hearing loss.
Aiden sips his beer and sets it down. While giving me his face so I can read his lips, he says to everyone, “Someone ask Ry about his new friend in my class.”
My eyes narrow at him. Yes, Aiden is Professor MacCormack. My brother-in-law is also my instructor, which I was concerned would be a conflict of interest. Business Mathematics is a prerequisite for a class I’m dying to take next semester that only comes around once in a blue moon, and Aiden’s class was the only one with openings. He told me we’d be fine and I believed him. If anyone’s a big enough asshole to compartmentalize and enjoy making class a nightmare for me, it’s him.
Freya perks up and leans in. She smacks my hand to earn my attention. “New friend? Spill.”
She’s Mom’s twin, and I have the uncanny feeling of my mother poking me to talk about girlfriends, how she used to back in high school. Freya’s blonde hair is cut in a choppy pixie, her icy blue eyes sharp as ever, and she has a new piercing I hadn’t noticed.
I make a y with my fingers and bring my thumb to my temple.
Freya’s eyes narrow at me. “What?”
I smirk, typing in group chat, Bull. Your new piercing makes you look like a bull.
Ren snorts and tries to hide it with a cough, while Aiden chokes on his beer. Nobody fucks with Freya. Except me.