It should be fine. I swallow, and twist the knob slowly, pushing the door open.
Piles!
The stacks are not even neat like in the garage. There are mounds of clothes, and most don’t even look worn. On Rocco’s old desk, there’re stacks of opened bills that I assume are paid, and for no reason I can think of—other than Dad hates to throw things away—they’ve been allowed to accumulate. There are boxes of old Christmas decorations I don’t remember ever seeing in the house, and so many collections! He must have a collection of everything! Old books, model cars, footballs with every team logo on them, and so much sports memorabilia he could start a museum.
I inhale a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I’m going to need some coffee for this.”
It’s Saturday night, and I spent all day cleaning out Rocco’s old room. Dad and I only had one minor argument about a stack of 1970’s newspapers. Dad insisted we needed to save them. I offered to clip out the articles he wanted to save and make him a scrapbook, but he couldn’t tell me which articles were even in there. At that point, I girl bossed those papers into the recycling. You’d think that would be the end of that, but no. Later when I was using the restroom and went on a hunt for some toilet paper, I found the newspapers had somehow escaped from therecycling bin and stuffed themselves underneath the bathroom sink. I can’t fathom what’s so special about them.
We ended up bargaining. He keeps the papers, and I get one single box with some of Rocco’s football memorabilia: trophies, medals, photos, even old jerseys. It seems like everything football he’d ever owned from the time he was a little kid is in his old room, and I promised that I wasn’t going to throw it away.
I wanted to. I certainly had to chew the inside of my cheek, to get through that conversation. I might have fibbed that first time I sternly said I wasn’t throwing it out, but then there was a tiny tear in the corner of his eye, and I had to come up with a better plan.
He suggested donating the junk to the high school where Rocco played. Rocco is still a local legend. They will surely love to put this stuff in their glass display cases in the hall. Or at least that’s what I need dad to think they are doing with it. It’s just too painful in so many ways for us to keep this stuff around. Besides the fact that Rocco created one of the biggest NFL scandals and cut out his entire family, there isn’t any room for it.
As I drive over to the school, my mind races with all the signs I overlooked about this hoarding issue. Clearly, I looked the other way when I shouldn’t have, but I’m doing my best to right the situation now.
I smile nostalgically as I see the school. Some things never change. A sigh falls from my lips as Dad’s old Ford putters forward over the rocky-road parking lot. Even after all these years, there’s still the giant pothole near the entrance, and thankfully, I remember to slow for it. There must be something going on tonight as I can hardly find a parking spot. I jump out of the truck and grab the box. It would be better if I waited until Monday to call the principal and drop by, but I have to work next week. Surely there are some teachers here I can talk to, and they can pass my stuff to the right person.
I tuck my face down to keep warm and out of the chilly fall breeze. I should have grabbed a thicker jacket, as I had dressed to clean in old knee-ripped jeans and a faded sweatshirt, not considering I’d be making deliveries. Racing to the entrance, I’m easily able to enter the unlocked door.
I scan the lobby. It had been almost ten years since I was here, but boy am I instantly transported back, feeling as if it is my first day of school. The same blue carpet and white lockers. A ticket table is set up near the auditorium entrance next to a sign that announces a band concert. Even the not-quite-desirable smell is still the same. Like old buildings mixed with teenage drama.
I never thought much about high school after I left. I wasn’t one of those kids who pined for those years. I had fun. I did the things and attended the events, but I was glad to move on. I slow my steps as I near the office. The lights are off, but this is the hall where all the cheerleading memorabilia is hung, and I have to see my old photo.
All the varsity squads for the last twenty years have a 5 by 7 framed photo. I quickly find my squad, cringing when I see my bangs. At the time, I remember quite clearly my plan was to hide my giant forehead, but this photo is evidence of the fact that it did quite the opposite. I turn on my heel, as my cheeks burn, and I’m glad I’m alone. Down the hall, the band door is open. I heard everything in their room is updated, and they finally got some fancy tiered seating. I stroll down the hall, curious to peek inside.
“Ahem!” A stern, deep phlegmy throat clears from behind me, startling me to stand up straight and pivot toward it. A stout man wearing a dark button-down shirt with a badge on it glares at me with lowered eyebrows. “Excuse me, ma’am. What are you doing here?”
I eye his badge, concluding he must be some sort of rental cop for the concert. “Sorry.” I pull up one side of my lips into a half smile. “I don’t have my hall pass.”
Rent-a-cop has no sense of humor and doesn’t even twitch a lip. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”
“Now, is that any way to ask a girl out on a date?” I’m not trying to be annoying, but this guy is too serious about his rented badge. I’m clearly not doing anything wrong. I’m standing in the hallway with a box of antiques.
“I see you have confiscated school jerseys in that box.” Shortie rises to his toes, peering down into the box.
“I didn’t steal this!” My jaw dramatically flops open. “I brought it here to donate. These are my brother’s, Rocco Bella’s, jerseys.” As much as I didn’t care to talk to Rocco anymore, it felt good to name drop him because he is famous. “He played quarterback here and holds all the school records—”
“Ma’am, I’m going to ask you one more time to come with me, or I will be calling the cops—”
“Gia! There you are.” A familiar voice wafts from behind me as an adjacent classroom door sweeps open. As I pivot, the voice carries on, “Glen, she’s fine. You can let her go. I asked her to come visit and bring that stuff.”
I know that voice!
My heart thumps against my ribcage as I raise my gaze.
North Newson.
He hasn’t aged at all, with his dark-chocolate-espresso-brown eyes, still as dreamy as ever, in addition to his full mop of hair that falls to frame his eyes, drawing all the more attention to them. He looks better than a walking deep fried donut, and he’s coming this way.
nine
North
“Gia,” my voice hangs on to every letter in her name, and it feels so right. I had heard Glen harassing someone in the hallway, the voice teasing familiarity, but when I heard her say her brother was Rocco Bella, my heart puttered to a screeching halt, and I knew I had to rescue her from creepy Glen.
I step into the hall, making up a story as I speak, “Sorry if you got lost. I should have given you better directions.” I look back at Glen, my irritation with him growing with each passing second. “She’s my guest. You can leave us alone now. I’ll make sure she’s properly escorted out when she’s ready to leave.”
