After popping my frozen lunch in the microwave, I start stripping. Everybody in this house accuses me of being an exhibitionist, and they’re not wrong, but I’m also practical. If I get naked now, I don’t have to get naked later. See? That’s logical.
Plus, the washer and dryer are right next to the kitchen. That’s basically an invitation to get naked while I cook.
Okay, cooking is probably a generous term for what I’m doing, but after The Incident last year, I’m restricted from doing certain tasks like using the stove when no one else is home. It’s kinda bullshit because that’s not how the fire started at all. It was the combination of a big ass candle and a very flammable couch. Coulda happened to anyone.
But no. You light one house on fire, and suddenly your roommates make a bunch of rules.
I can’t blame them, I guess. It’s not like that was the first dumbass stunt I ever pulled. Or the last.
When the timer dings, I grab my lunch, and head upstairs. My room is huge. It’s big enough for a queen-sized bed, a dresser, a desk, and a couch. I step into the bathroom and turn the knob for the shower. That water heats up in a matter of seconds. This place is way nicer than the old hockey house, but have I gotten a single thank you? Nope.
Stepping under the spray, I’m careful not to drench my burrito. Over the years, I’ve perfected the fine art of shower snacking. I think it started in middle school, maybe? I’d forget to eat, and then I’d make food. But then I’d take a few bites and set my plate down so I could game or stare at my homework. And then I’d remember to shower. And then I’d find my cold food on my bedside table. So, I started taking my dinner into the shower with me. It was the ideal solution. Cold fries are the devil’s work, but so are soggy ones, so I quickly learned where to stand and how to angle my head. And you know that tiny little shelf thing that all showers have? It’s probably where you’re supposed to put a bar of soap, but a half-eaten burrito fits perfectly. Same for a hot dog or a hoagie.
By the time I’ve washed, exfoliated, and conditioned all the necessary parts of my body, I’m finished with my burrito. I’m telling you, shower snacks are going to catch on someday, and you’re going to know you heard it here first.
I’m reaching for a towel when there’s a knock at the door.
“Come on in,” I call.
Leo opens the door and sticks his head in. Since our rooms are next to each other, he’s used to seeing my bare-naked ass, but by the time he steps inside, I’ve got a towel wrapped around my waist.
“What’s up?” I ask, squirting some smoothing cream into my palms before working it through my hair. Can you tell my sister’s a stylist?
“Mail delivery,” he says, setting a white envelope on my desk. He gives me a wave before ducking out again. The guy doesn’t say much, but he’s a damn fine hockey player. Besides, I talk enough for at least two people, so it’s probably a good thing he’s so quiet.
Dropping my towel into the hamper, I pick up the mail that Leo dropped off. It’s got the university’s seal on it, which seemsweird. I mean, why send a letter when they could just email me? Although, to be fair, my inbox has about thirty thousand unread messages in it, so maybe they already have. I’m not so good at maintenance. It’s the ADHD. If something’s not right in front of me, I’ll forget all about it. And if it is right in front of me, I might get distracted and forget all about it anyway.
I tear the envelope open and pull out the letter inside. It’s probably something about my athletic scholarship. Or maybe it’s about scheduling classes for the fall. I think I need to do that soon. I’m not really good at keeping track of dates like that. I just go when JT goes.
It’s looking more and more like Portland’s going to call him up for next season, so that means he’ll be moving across the damn country. I guess that means I’ll have to start taking care of shit by myself, like a grown ass adult.
Maybe Leo will adopt me? He’s only a freshman, but he’s got his shit together. I bet he knows when scheduling starts.
Before I can step out into the hall and see if he’s around, I force myself to focus on the letter in my hands. I guess I should find out what it’s about first.
I unfold the letter and let my eyes roam over the words. What the hell? I have to read it twice more before the meaning finally registers.
Mr. Brannon Mikalski,
We have attempted to reach you several times. We are writing to inform you that you have earned the maximum number of elective credits. Unfortunately, you are in a deficit for credits in your major. You’ve only earned nine credits in Communications. To earn your degree, you’ll need the remaining fifty-one credits. That can be accomplished over the next four semesters.
As you know, your athletic scholarship will only last through the next academic year. You may be able to take some credits online or during our minimesters. Please call the Academic Advising Office as soon as possible to schedule an appointment so that we can help you make a plan for success.
Thank you,
Barbara Arnold
Dean of Academic Affairs
I read it another few times just for good measure. I read it until I can feel the blood rushing in my ears and my heart beating in my chest.
I hate making phone calls, but my fingers fly over the keypad as I tap out the numbers listed at the top of the page. The phone rings about a million times until an automated message tells me that the office is closed for the day.
Of fucking course they are.
Barb dropped a damn bomb on my life and now she’s on her way home. I hope she gets stuck in traffic.
Okay, that’s not really fair. It’s not Barb’s fault I’m a fuck up.
