Page 16 of What We Knew Then
Anything more? That’s how you lose everything.
Silence settles between us as we head toward what I’m guessing is the theater. And for some reason, my mind goes to Coach Knight. The man who practically raised me. Nights at the table, Oliver talking a mile aminute, Coach laughing before telling us what it meant to be a good man.
He used to say, “Men get to be a lot of things. No matter what you choose, don’t forget to be good.”
Pretending not to know Freddy’s name? That’s nothing. Small, stupid. The kind of thing we would’ve laughed off before Coach or Mrs. Knight stepped in and nudged us back on track.
Fuck. This stings. Like a bruise on your thigh you thought was finally healed, then someone drives you into the boards and it lights back up. You tell yourself it’s nothing. Same spot, same hit. Old wound, fresh again.
I haven’t heard from them, but to be fair, that’s what I begged for. For them to forget about me, leave me behind, move on with their lives the way it was supposed to be. It wasn’t their fault that my parents were shitty and I wandered into their life, staying longer than I should have.
Part of me thought I’d eventually hear from Oliver. But it’s been nothing since the night everything went to shit.
“Ah! We were right!” Cora whisper-yells the second we step into the theater. It’s empty, but a single light glows over the stage, pulling me out of my head.
She spots the envelope, grabs it, and tears it open with a grin. Then she turns it toward me. There’s a map. An address. A phrase.
“Text the phrase to Troy. Then we’re basically done.”
I pull out my phone, find his name, and send it:better not bitter.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“The phrase sets the rankings. Timestamped texts so no one can argue. The address is for the party tonight. It’s tradition.”
I glance back at the message, my brow tightening. “What the hell does ‘better not bitter’ even mean?”
“It’s probably the motto for this season. That’s usually how captains share it.”
I’m already lining up an excuse. I’m tired. Busy. Anything to skip whatever this turns into.
“You have to go tonight.” Cora cuts me off like she can read my mind. “It’s a team thing. Starts with hockey, then everyone else shows up. Big team energy. Don’t skip it.” She points at me, wagging her finger like I’m about to get benched.
I drag in a breath and groan. “Fine.”
She snaps a picture of the map and address before handing it back to me.
“This is going to be my best finish yet.” She tries to play it off, but her excitement is barely contained. “So… good job. I guess.” A shrug like it doesn’t matter.
I don’t know what else to say, but there‘s an internal tug of war of being a dick and being normal. I picture Coach Knight, how he used to smile and clap me on the back when I made him proud.
“You too,” I reply.
I don’t stick around to see her reaction. Just turn and head out, leaving her in the theater with the lights still on.
Goodthingtheygaveme a fucking map. This place is in the middle of nowhere and farther than I thought it’d be. Since the campus is on a lake, there are pockets of ridiculous mansions sprinkled between lake houses. I've never understood the idea of wanting to live near a body of water, but there’s not a lot of that in Ohio.
Certainly not a lot of it in the Maxwell family.
Walking the road to the party location and passing all these massive homes is such a reminder of how much we didn’t have. It’s hard to have much of anything when your parents' idea of planning for the futureis where they were going to get their next drink, bump, or whatever degenerate activity they could get their hands on.
Luckily, I'm an only child. There was no one else to suffer besides me. No aunts, uncles, cousins, or even grandparents. Just my parents who did their absolute best to remind me of how I was a mistake and they didn’t owe me anything.
I remember when my mom signed me up for youth soccer. It was free since we were on the reduced lunch plan at school. I made most of my practices and games, even if I played in tennis shoes—not cleats—that were a size too small.
We were doing a popcorn fundraiser for the league and I remember bringing it home, excited to try and do my part. A few nights later, I watched my mom line up cocaine and use a credit card to snort it off the order form.
The only reason I made it this far is because people stepped in—the soccer mom who clocked my situation fast, got me to practice, and handed me “used” cleats that still had the plastic tag tucked inside. The second-grade teacher who always packed extra and slid me food without making it obvious when I went a month without lunch money or anything at all. The Knights.
