Waking Olivia (12 page)

I
’m summoned
to Will’s office on Monday afternoon, which can’t possibly be a good thing.

"I've been hearing some stories," he begins, leaning back in his chair. "Big fight this weekend. Over a girl."

I roll my eyes. "I wasn't fighting over a girl if that's what you're accusing me of. I don't swing that way."

"I’m glad you find this so amusing, Olivia,” he says, his eyes narrowed. “Because the story I'm hearing is this girl at the party was another athlete, and she was kind of encouraging both of these guys, kind of egging them on. And they're getting drunker and drunker, and so is she, and she just thinks the whole thing is funny, the way these two guys clearly want to beat the shit out of each other. And she just keeps encouraging it until it finally happens. And then she
leaves
with someone else. So I hear this story and the first thing I think—
the very first thing
—is 'please don't let Olivia be the girl.’"

"Seems sort of unfair, the way you assume the girl was me."

"The girl
was
you, Olivia.”

"Okay, fine. So what? They weren't on the track team."

"Because we are all part of a larger team! What don't you get about that? We all work on behalf of the school, so when you mess with one part of that, it has repercussions everywhere. And now I've got the football coaches breathing down my neck because one of their guys has to sit on the bench all season with a busted hand."

I slouch in my seat. "I didn't
tell
them to fight," I mutter. "And if you ask me, this is all pretty misogynistic on your part. Two grown men decide to pummel the shit out of each over some girl who isn't interested in either of them and she's the one at fault?"

“I’m not saying you’re at fault, but you sure weren’t trying to help the situation either, were you?”

“Oh my God. Big fucking deal,” I say with an exaggerated exhale. “I'd just had too much to drink.”

"And that's the other thing. You weigh next-to-nothing soaking wet. So don't you think it's maybe not the greatest idea to get completely trashed at a party with a bunch of testosterone-fueled guys who are more than twice your weight?"

"I can take care of myself."

"Yeah? And how did taking care of yourself work out for you at your last school?"

My whole body tightens like it's imploding. It makes me hate myself, the decisions I sometimes make and how stupid and unjustifiable they are. And I hate him even more for calling me on them. "You've made your point. Are we done here?"

"Olivia, you're going to do what you're going to do. But I'd better not hear another 'Olivia was so fucked up' story for the rest of your tenure here."

I stand and walk out without saying a word because, just like the nightmares, there's not a chance in the world I can make him a promise like that.

F
or the rest
of the week, Will is unreasonably rude to me. He’s angry and critical and doesn’t smile at me once. I think he’d like me to just disappear.

The whole thing is ridiculous. Okay, maybe I sort of enjoyed their idiocy at the party. That doesn’t make me evil. How was I supposed to know one of them would wind up with a broken hand?

On Friday morning, I'm eating when a tray slides next to mine. For one horrible moment, I worry that it's Landon or Jason. But it's not. It's Evan, which is almost worse. Sure, he was nice about everything that night but it's awkward. I'm embarrassed by the way I freaked out if nothing else.

"I've been looking for you," he says.

"Why?" I ask coldly.

He grins, not dissuaded at all by my chilly reception. He’s really hot. I thought maybe my memory was beer-influenced, but it wasn’t. His black hair is cut almost military short, highlighting the structure of his face—hard jaw, nice mouth, mischievous eyes. "You're much nicer when you've had a bunch of beer."

"Everyone is nicer when they've had a bunch of beer," I retort, returning to my newspaper. "What do you want?"

"I want to take you out," he says.

"We tried that already, remember?"

"That wasn't taking you out. That was hooking up."

"Let's cut to the chase," I say bluntly, lifting my head. "You seem like a nice enough guy, but the truth of the matter is that you're only here because you're hoping if you buy me dinner I'll sleep with you."

"That is not even vaguely close to the truth," he says, and I have to admit he looks a little offended. "How about this: go out with me, on a real date, and I won't even try to kiss you at the end of it."

"What would you get out of it?" I ask.

"Finn, you're the hottest girl on this campus. Hell, you've got to be the hottest girl in the state for that matter. And you're pretty fun when you're not telling me to fuck off. That's what I'd get out of it."

"I don't really date.”

"Why not?"

"It's just not my thing.”

"You don't like food?" he asks. "You don't like movies? Going to see a band?"

I shrug. “I suppose.”

"So are you saying that you're positive you'd have less fun doing them with me than you would doing them alone? Like tomorrow night, for instance, would you have more fun making ramen noodles in your apartment and watching
Project Runway
than you would going to a restaurant with me?"

"I don't watch
Project Runway
."

He laughs. "You're avoiding the question."

I almost smile. "I'll have to think about it."

He starts eating. "You think. I'm just gonna eat my breakfast."

"I didn't mean I was going to think about it
now
," I argue. "It's not a snap decision."

“Well, I'm still going to eat here. So just pretend I'm your buddy. Your super-hot buddy who you secretly want to date."

I allow myself a small laugh. I’m not going out with him.
I’m not.
But I can’t say it’s the worst offer I’ve ever heard.

I
was out of line
. My anger, my reaction …

It was entirely wrong.

I know this because I’ve forced myself to imagine it, and if it were Betsy or Hannah or any other girl on the team who got drunk and caused a fight, and I know my reaction wouldn’t have been the same. I know I’d have put the blame squarely where it lies: with the two idiots who fought. But it wasn’t Betsy or Hannah, it was Olivia, who seems to do something to me that no one else does. The part that angered me most didn’t involve the fight. It involved her leaving with someone.

I know I need to pull back, and I spend the rest of the week doing just that. I don’t speak to her unless I have to. I don’t even
look
at her unless I have to. Maybe I’m doing her a disservice as her coach, by not spending the same amount of time on her. But I’m doing her a greater disservice by getting invested in the wrong way.

By the next week, however, she makes sure I can’t ignore her anymore.

On Tuesday afternoon, I can tell she’s off. She gets through four 800s but there's something distant in her face, fading. She was tired at this morning's workout too. There's a look on her face on days like this, days when she's pushed herself beyond what her body is willing to provide, and it's there now. Grim determination, the face of someone who would rather die than give up.

At the end of the fifth 800, I can no longer stand to watch. I call out to her, she turns toward me, and I know by the panicked look in her eyes as they meet mine and the way the color has left her face that she's going to pass out. I'm sprinting toward her before she's even begun to fall.

She collapses right where she stands. I was worried the last time this happened, but now it’s a different sort of thing, bordering on panic. I know she’s only fainted, but a million other possibilities run through my head anyway. The whole team is hovering around her when she finally opens her eyes.

"Olivia, do you know where you are?"

"Yes," she groans.

"Who's the current President?"

"Justin Bieber," she replies. Her eyes close. "I'm fine. Let me up."

I put Betsy in charge and take Olivia to my office so I can clean off her cuts.

"You're having a bad week," I tell her as I tape off her knee.

"No shit."

"I guess the question I really want to ask is
why
are you having a bad week? Are you stressed about the meet?"

She sighs, staring out the window over my shoulder. "Everyone assumes I'll take first now."

I'd like to tell her she's wrong, but she's not. Olivia's accomplishments are no longer a surprise, a thrill. They're expected, and as hostile as she tends to be, I know that she doesn't like disappointing people.

"Is that it? Or are you worried because you won't be at my mom's?" Our next meet is too far for a day trip, which means that we'll be in a hotel the night before, away from the safety of my mother's house.

She sighs. "A little."

It's a lot.

Everything about her posture is tense as she answers as if she's trying to compress the truth inside herself.

"What normally happens when you're in a hotel? You must have dealt with this before."

"I try not to fall asleep."

No wonder her performance has been so hit or miss through college. "How do you do that if the lights are off and you've got someone in the bed next to yours?"

A flush ghosts her cheekbones, which surprises me. I didn't think she was capable of being embarrassed. "I usually tell whoever I'm rooming with that I'm sneaking out."

My next question sounds angrier than it should. "To do
what
?"

"To go serve food to the homeless," she snaps. "What do you think? I let them think I'm staying with one of the guys."

"And do you?"

"What good would that do? You think I'm any less likely to run from a guy's room than I am from my own?"

A tightness I wasn’t even aware of seems to release in that moment, just a little. "So what do you do?"

"I go outside and walk to keep myself awake. If I can find a place that's open all night, I'll go there and hang out. When I start to fall asleep, I start walking again."

"Olivia, walking all night and staying up all night aren't much better before a meet than a six-mile run."

"Yeah, I know that. But they
are
better than being brought back by the cops or missing the meet entirely because I'm lost, or having my roommate watch me tear screaming out of the room in the middle of the night.”

“Well you can’t do that this weekend.”

“So what's your grand plan, Will?" she scoffs. "You gonna tie me to the bed? Because I'll warn you in advance I really, really like that."

Thank God I’m sitting behind a desk right now because there's definitely a part of me that reacts to that as if I'm not her coach and she's not off limits.

"No," I say, closing my eyes and trying to push the image from my brain. "Better. You're going to room with my mom."

A
t first
, I refuse. The idea of Dorothy being the victim of my craziness when I’m not even aware of what’s happening horrifies me. Eventually, he convinces me by promising that he’ll be in the adjoining room and his mother will make no effort to stop me. I appreciate what they’re doing for me, I really do, but it still blows to have the rest of the team think I’m rooming with Dorothy because of my bad reputation.

"That completely sucks," says Erin. "You started one fight. That doesn’t mean you need a chaperone."

"It doesn't matter," I sigh. "It's not like we were going to sit around braiding each other's hair and talking about boys.”

"I'd planned to braid yours.” She grins. "And I
always
talk about boys."

I half-smirk. "Then maybe I'm glad I'm rooming with Mrs. Langstrom."

B
rofton plants
his cocky ass beside me that morning on the bus, edging out Reed Loughlin, who'd just asked if the seat was free. And that's fine. I have no problem putting an asshole like Brofton in his place, but I'm worried Reed's got a little crush, and that's harder to deal with.

"Heard you're staying with Will's mom," smirks Brofton. "So we'll need to be really quiet when I come to your room."

"If you were in my room, I guarantee I'd be quiet. I'd probably sleep right through it."

"Keep giving me something to prove, Finn. It's just going to make it that much better when you're screaming my name."

"Only thing I'd be screaming for with you is a magnifying glass," I reply. Reed and Erin crack up, but Will's shoulders tense, which tells me he's listening and he's not happy. Fuck him. I'm not a nun. I didn't take an oath of celibacy to be on this team.

Fortunately for Will, Reed changes the subject. "Are your parents coming in, Finn?" he asks.

Before I can answer, Betsy chimes in. "Finn's parents never come. I guess they like her about as much as everyone else does."

"I'm surprised your parents bother," I retort, “seeing as how you've never placed."

“That’s enough,” Will intones without ever turning his head. I don’t appreciate him intervening like he’s our fucking dad, but I’m consoled by how pissed off Betsy looks right now. I give her a big grin and shoot her the finger before I turn around in my seat.

W
hen we arrive
, Erin's parents are waiting with their wide smiles and their bright eyes. I want to resent it, but oddly I don't. I like Erin. I'm jealous, yes, but I still wouldn't want to take this away from her. I know that somewhere deep inside I've looked at these situations and felt that something was taken from me, as if every set of proud, involved parents could have been mine if they didn't belong to someone else, as ridiculous as that is. But even if it were true, I would never want Erin to be alone like me. She's too sweet, too soft. If one of us had to draw a short straw, it’s best that it was me.

Her parents invite me out to dinner with them. I agree, feeling oddly chagrined that I won’t be eating with Dorothy and Will, which makes absolutely no sense. Why would I
want
to eat with my dickhead coach and his mother for Christ’s sake? I shower and blow out my hair, put on a little make-up, skinny jeans, and my favorite royal blue blouse.

"Don't you look cute?" Dorothy smiles. "Where are you off to?"

Just then, Will knocks on the door. His face seems to empty, go blank, for a moment, as he looks at me, as if he didn't expect to find me here at all. "You guys ready to go to dinner?" he asks.

"Erin invited me to go out to eat with her and her parents.”

His mouth goes into a tight line. "Not happening."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't trust you enough to let you go to dinner with Erin.”

"Seriously?" I snap. "How much trouble do you think I can get into between here and Erin's room?"

"Plenty," he retorts, "but that's not what I'm concerned about. I don't trust you to eat."

"I'll eat. I don't need a babysitter."

"I had to force feed you
last week
. But suddenly you've got it all under control?"

"If I'm telling you I'll eat, I'll eat."

"Fine, I'll give you two choices. One, you tell Erin I said you couldn't go. Or two, you write down every bite of food you put in your mouth and Erin's parents come here personally and vouch for the fact that it's true."

"Will," his mother says softly.

"No, Mom," he snaps. "Do
not
take her side. I've had to watch her pass out one too many times and I'm not watching it tomorrow too."

When the door slams behind him I turn, jaw agape, to Dorothy. I'm livid, and I expect to her to be as well. But she's got a small smile on her face instead, the kind people get when they’re looking at a puppy or a newborn.

"You
support
this?" I demand. "He's being completely unreasonable! You can't possibly think he's right?"

"No," she says, "but I think he cares. And it's been a long time since I've seen my boy care about anything."

Something seems to flip in my stomach at her words, nauseating and hopeful at once, but I cling to my anger instead. I know well enough that feeling hopeful about anything is always a dead end.