CHAPTER 38
DARE
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder. I think it just makes the silence louder.
There wastoothpaste in the sink again, but it wasn’t Tru’s.
The guy I was sharing the dorm with left the bathroom a mess—music too loud, towels soured and spread across the floor as offerings to mildew. The worst part? There wasn’t a hoodie waiting on my chair with Tru’s scent clinging to it. Just space. Just silence.
I checked my phone before brushing my teeth, and again after. Still nothing. Not that I expected anything yet, it was too early. But I looked anyway, hoping something might’ve slipped through while I was asleep. Our last text thread glowedup at me.
Tru:
Send me a picture when you get there. I want to see you in that staff shirt.
Only if you promise not to jerk off to it.
He’d sent the tongue emoji. I sent the peach.
Now my screen was blank. Just that stupid bubble background and my own reflection staring back.
I tugged on the navy staff polo, finger-combed my hair, and left before I could change my mind.
The building smelled of fresh paint and floor wax, proof that someone cared. It was small, just three offices, a main room, a kitchen, and a fenced-in concrete court out back, but it buzzed with energy that made me stand up straighter.
Maya, the director, handed me a clipboard with the day’s schedule, smirking like she already knew I’d memorized it.
“First-timer, go easy on yourself,” she said. “You’re not saving the world in a day.”
“Why not?” I grinned. “Feels like a solid goal.”
She laughed and waved me toward the rec room.
There were twelve kids today, too-cool middle schoolers and shy high schoolers who pretended they didn’t care but hovered close every time I demonstrated something. We started with a stretching workshop, then drills. Kenny, small and jittery, asked if we could do ball control instead. Said he wanted to “stop sucking”.
I told him I’d practiced so much I could juggle a sock. Hedidn’t believe me, so I proved it. The room exploded when I landed the last flick into the laundry basket by the door. The noise hit me in the chest. It felt like flying.
After drills, I helped a few of the older kids write bios for their team funding applications. One of them didn’t know how to phrase,“I live with my aunt now because my mom’s not around.”So we talked about truth and power, and how to find words that honored both.
I felt out of my element. I grew up in a nice house in an affluent suburb. My dad drove a brand new SUV. Every season, I started out with new cleats and soccer equipment. My bedroom was filled with game consoles and the newest electronics, and my clothes were name-brand. Imposter syndrome was real, and the irony of wanting to be less just to fit in here would almost be funny, except nothing about these kids' lives and what they lacked was remotely funny.
That was why I needed to connect with them, because maybe connection was the one thing I could give.
I sat on the curb behind the building, staff shirt damp with sweat and effort, and tried to remember how to feel grateful without wanting to share it with him.
Then I checked my phone. Still nothing. No missed calls. No rooftop selfie. No “miss your face”—just fingerprints and silence.
I opened my notes app and typed:
Today, a kid said he wanted to stop sucking. I get it. I want to stop aching.
Then I deleted it before I hit save.
Jackson, my new roommate, had brought a microwave. Iheated up leftovers, something beige and soupy from a container labeledsteal this and die – Tru.
I left him a sticky note back:You said that last time and I’m still breathing.
It was dumb. But pretending he might see it made me feel less alone.
