Each day that I came to the pier, I ran through a series of thoughts surrounding how I felt about it being a suicide as opposed to murder. I determined that neither way really made me feel any better. He was gone, and that was it. I would never see him again. I would never be able to tell him how much he had hurt me or how much I hated him for turning Chad against me. He’d never be able to hear any of that, and I’d never hear him tell me that he wassorry.
Yet, I was supposed to believe that he loved me. That it was his love for me that made him do the things that he had done. What a load of fuckingshit.
I needed to get myself in gear, or else I’d lose everything. I had been neglecting school and baseball, and I had to figure something out. I only had three classes this semester since it was the spring and baseball was my priority. I could fix my issues with baseball and just turn my head off and play my ass off. But the classes were another thing. Right now, my biggest issue was the Screenwriting Plot Development class. I needed to talk to the professor because my plot was due tomorrow. As much as I didn’t want to, I felt my only option for an extension was to talk to him. Talking with him about an extension would most likely prompt him to ask me why I needed one, and that was going to be the hard part. I hadn’t told my roommates that I even knew my dad existed. Tiffany hadn’t even known. I kept it all to myself because it was easier. I think the only people that knew I had a father was the admissions office for USC from when I filled out the application. This was going to be more than hard to tell someone about it. But I thought it was my only chance for anextension.
I had gone to the house when I knew that my mom would be at work and looked for any sort of mail she had received concerning my father’s death. I flipped through a lot of piled up paperwork that had been in piles on the kitchen table and next to the coffee pot. Under the ashtray, was a letter from the United States Penitentiary Atwater.Dear Mrs. Hudson. My eyes watered and a lump formed in my throat as I read it. This would work. I quickly left and went to campus to talk to myprofessor.
I nervously waited outside of a class that he was conducting and ran through what I’d say. I had no idea what to say. Was it common for kids to not be able to meet an assignment because their dad died in prison? As the students filed out of the classroom, the professor appeared at a casual pace. He glanced around the hallway, and when he made eye contact with me, he stopped and smiled. This was mychance.
“Hi,” I said and set my backpack down between my feet so I could retrieve my mom’smail.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hudson. How are youtoday?”
“Okay.” My eyes started to get watery, so I quickly lookedaway.
“Ryan?”
Shit, he noticed. I quickly bent down and rummaged around in my bag, found the letter and pulled itout.
“Is something the matter,Ryan?
“Sort of. Yes.” I shook my head and stood up. “No, not really bad.” Fuck, who was I kidding? This was terribleshit.
“Ryan, my office is across the way, let’s go over there andtalk.”
Talk?Could I sit down and talk withsomeone?
“Okay.”
I held my mom’s letter in my hand as we walked across a small grassy section. I kept up the pace with him and worried about what I’d say when we got to hisoffice.
“How’s baseball going? You guys have a tough game coming up thisweekend.”
I could talk aboutbaseball.
“Baseball is good. We’ve been practicing hard and will be ready,” I saidconfidently.
Once we got to his office, he set his messenger bag down at his desk and motioned for me to have a seat. He sat down in the chair behind his desk, but wheeled it around and sat to the side of the desk. He laced his fingers together and set them on hislap.
“So, how may I help you,Ryan?”
Help?I didn’t need help. I was fine on my own and could survive without anyone. Help, ha! In my mind, I laughed briefly at the idea of needing help. I had never needed anyone, and that wasn’t going to start now. “I’ve noticed that you haven’t been in my class thisweek.”
Fuck. I took a deepbreath.
“I’m sorry. That’s sort of what I came to talk to you about. I have had a badweek.”
He stared quietly at me and waited for me to continue, but the words weren’t moving from my brain to my mouth. I saw him glance down at the paper in myhand.
“I need an extension on my initial plot development project. Please.” He was quiet, so I continued. “Last week, um.” Why was this so hard? My dad hated me. Why did I feelsick?
“Ryan, what’s happened?” he leaned forward in his chair when he saw me struggling with getting out what I was trying tosay.
I looked down at the paper in my hand. The words wereblurry.
“My dad died,” Imumbled.
“My God, Ryan. I’m so sorry for yourloss.”
