Aced (Blocked #2) (24 page)

He whistled through his teeth. “Tough.” He shook his head. “But I passed.”

“Congrats!” I licked tomato sauce off my thumb.
Yum
. “So, uh, what does that mean exactly?”

“My coursework’s done, and I can start my dissertation, hopefully graduate in a couple years.”

I remembered more about his program as he spoke. “Right. And part of your exam was your dissertation proposal defense?”

He relaxed as he nodded. The microwave dinged, and I started heating my portion after he’d moved his plate to the little dining table behind my sofa.

“Did they like your proposal?” I asked.

“Mof coursch.”

Thanks for waiting for me
. “What’s your dissertation about again?”

“White supremacy in the Republican party.”

Oh, no.
I zipped out of the kitchen. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.” He gave me a hard stare for five seconds before he started laughing. “You’re so gullible.”

“And you’re an asshole.” I retrieved my warmed plate as he continued laughing behind me. He didn’t stop chuckling until I joined him at the table.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get a drink in this place?”

“He’s gotta treat his sister with respect.” I arched an eyebrow before I took a bite.
Gooey mozzarella heaven
.

When it was clear I wasn’t going to fetch a beverage for him, he went to the kitchen. My anger dissipated when he returned with two glasses of milk. Nana had always served us milk with dinner, and he continued the habit at age twenty-six.

“Looks like you just went to the grocery store,” he said.

I studied him as I took a swig of milk. “Alejandro stocked up my fridge.”

His fork clanged on his plate. “So it’s true? You’re dating that right winger?”

“I already told Nana and Gramps I was.”

“How can you be attracted to him, Maddie? Don’t you know his dad just slashed food stamps? How can you like someone who absolutely hates the poor?”

I sighed. “I already told you I don’t care about politics.”

“That blows my mind, too! How can you stick your head in the sand like that?”

“I’ve been busy. You don’t know what it’s like to be a D-one student-athlete.” Braxton had been a top high school basketball player, but he hadn’t pursued a college scholarship. He’d claimed athletes in revenue sports brought in so much money that the universities should pay them salaries on top of tuition. Since that didn’t happen, he refused to be a “slave” to the white man.

“So you don’t follow politics,” he said. “But you have to know his dad’s a total poseur.”

I shrugged. “I’ve never met President Ramirez. But I like Lucia.”
And Alejandro. A lot
. “She’s become a good friend. She’s helped me.”

“How?”

I looked down at my plate. “This semester has been difficult. I, um…” I glanced up at him. How would he take the news? Would he judge me? “I…have clinical depression.”

His eyes darkened. “Says who?”

“Dr. Valentine, my sport psychologist. She’s pretty cool.”

“She’s white, right?”

“Why does
that
matter?”

“How can she possibly understand what you’re going through if she’s white?”

Oh, Braxton
. “Rez sees her for an eating disorder. Are you saying Dr. Valentine needs to have an eating disorder in order to help her?”

“That’s different.”

“How?” This eating disorder talk made me hungry. I wished Nana would send food down every week.

“Because she’s part of the white hegemony that can’t wait to slap a mental illness label on black people.”

“But I’m not mentally ill. I’m depressed. Dr. Valentine said depression can run in families, so maybe you’ll get it too.”

He scowled. “It’s not contagious like the common cold. And I’m not depressed.”

“Well, you might be one day. Dad seems to get down sometimes—do you know if he’s depressed? Is there a family history of depression?”

“Will you shut it with all the questions?” he roared.

Stunned, I leaned back in my chair. He shot up from the table and marched his half-eaten lasagna back into the kitchen.

I followed him and watched him stretch some plastic wrap over his plate before sticking it in the fridge. What was his deal? “You okay?”

“I was hoping to spend the night—I need to talk to a Highbanks professor about my research tomorrow—but that’s obviously a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“You don’t want me here.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’ll go back to Cleveland.” He made a beeline for his coat hanging by the door.

“Wait! It’s too cold. What if your car breaks down? Drive back tomorrow, when it’s light.”

He hesitated.

“C’mon, Brax. Stay. You can sleep on Shitty.” He eyed the scratched, saggy cushions, then frowned when his gaze returned to the flower arrangement. How could I convince him? “What if I make you hot chocolate?”

He turned. “With marshmallows?”

“Yes.”

“The itty bitty ones?”

“Of course.”
I hope I have them
.

He stood still for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.” He folded his six-foot-three body onto the sofa.

I exhaled.
Wait
—why had I convinced him to stay when I hadn’t invited him in the first place? My brother was infuriating. By the time I carried two steaming mugs into the family room, I noticed my coffee table was bare.

“Where are my flowers?”

He pointed to my bedroom. “In there. Couldn’t see the TV with that damn pink jungle in my face.”

“But the TV’s not on.” I set down his mug and curled onto the sofa.

He shrugged. “Couldn’t find the remote.”

“Because I don’t have one.”

“What the fuck, Maddie? Who doesn’t have a remote?”

“Who has time for TV?” I blew on my cocoa.

He shook his head as he picked up his mug. “No wonder you’re so uninformed.” He lapped up some mini marshmallows. “So you didn’t see the picture of our house on the news? Hear them talking about our family?”

I winced. “I saw.”

“You heard what they said about…” His cheek twitched as he looked down.

At that point I realized the actual reason for my brother’s visit: he needed to talk to the only person who could understand. I also realized why he’d almost bailed before he had the chance. I felt the same ambivalence.

“About Mom,” I said.

He froze as he stared at his cocoa. After a slow sip, he sighed. “My advisor took me into her office yesterday, said she heard about Mom leaving me at a young age.” His upper lip squeezed toward his nose. “So embarrassing. I didn’t want this to be a
thing
at grad school—for people to see me as the poor black boy from a broken home. I don’t want their pity.”

“I know.” My heart felt heavy. “I’m sorry.”

“My advisor said it made my academic achievements all the more impressive. Asked if there was anything she could do.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to get the hell out of there. She’s never been so gooey and sweet before.”

Today’s practice came to my mind. Nina and I had practiced quick-sets against Lucia’s block for countless repetitions. Nina’s first few sets were on the money, and I’d slammed them through the block, but then her timing struggles had forced me to hit into the net.

“Sorry,” she’d told me, and the look of sincerity in her eyes had floored me. “I’ll get it right this time.” That
had
to be related to that news piece about my mother.

A ghost from twenty years ago still haunted Braxton and me. “You were six when Mom left. What was she like?”

Braxton looked away, and I clenched my fists. He’d evaded my childhood questions about Mom so often I’d stopped asking, but tonight I didn’t want to give up. “Please. I was only two, and I don’t really remember her.”

He finally said, “She was so tall.”

I nodded. I’d seen a photo of my parents on their wedding day, and my mother had stood only an inch shorter than our six-foot-two father.

“And pretty.”

I knew that too, from the photo. I took a sip of hot chocolate.

He looked at me. “You have her mouth.”

I skimmed my finger across my lip.

“She could be a lot of fun.” He gazed at the blank TV, like he was watching a grainy home movie. “She took us to Cedar Point sometimes.”

“I didn’t know that.” I’d visited the amusement park with my physics class in high school—I thought for the first time.

“You were just a baby in a stroller.” With sudden energy, he sat up. “One time she got us ice cream with, with those rainbow sprinkles. My favorite. She fed you some from her bowl, but I got my own cone—my big boy cone. When I tripped, my whole cone flew into your stroller. Ice cream got all
over
you.” He smiled as I’d never seen him before. “Your hair, your dress…You were licking it off your fingers—you loved it, and I didn’t even care I’d lost my ice cream because you were giggling like a little monkey…” His grin faded. “But when Mom tried to clean you up, she started crying.” He set his mug down.

My throat tightened. “Did she cry a lot?”

“Some days.” He looked at me again. “Do you remember that?”

“I don’t know.” I would’ve been too young to recall. But a gnawing sadness spread through me as I remembered the whimpering sound of her sobs, and the sheer size of a colossal bedroom door. I would peer through the crack at the bottom of the door into a dark room, the carpet a thick forest blocking my view. “Did she…did she lock herself in her room sometimes?”

“You can’t remember that. You were too young.”

“Maybe.”
But I do remember
.

“Dad said not to disturb her.” He stared at the TV again. “He said she was having a bad day. She had them often.” He swallowed visibly. “When Dad was at class, you would cry, but Mom still wouldn’t come out. I learned how to change your diaper.”

A five- or six-year-old changing a baby’s diaper? No wonder he seemed angry. “Thanks for doing that.”

“Of course I did it. Who
else
would?” His eyes flared. “Dad didn’t do anything about Mom. He just let her hole herself off from the world. He’s so fucking impotent.”

Whoa
.

“I don’t know what he saw in her,” Braxton spat. “Should’ve married someone else.”

The fury of his words had pressed me into the corner of the sofa, and I straightened as I took a deep breath. “How did Dad and Mom meet?”

“Nana’s never told you?”

I shook my head.

Braxton twisted one of his dreads between his fingers. “When our grandma on Mom’s side was dying of cancer, Mom stayed with her at The Cleveland Clinic. Nana was her nurse.”

“What kind of cancer?”

He scowled at me. “What difference does that make?”

“We have our maternal grandmother’s genes, dummy. We’re more at risk for that cancer, and probably other cancers too.”

“Not sure. You’ll have to ask Nana.”

Yeah, like I wanted to do that.

“Anyway,” my brother continued, “Dad came to visit Nana at the hospital one day, and that’s when he met Mom. Love at first sight and all that bullshit.”

Braxton seemed so jaded. He’d had a girlfriend in high school, but he hadn’t dated anyone since. Just like Dad had never remarried.

“They were so different,” Braxton said. I couldn’t believe he was still talking. “Dad was headed to grad school, and Mom didn’t even finish high school. She had to drop out to take care of her mom when she got sick. And she was so poor. Her dad had taken off after she was born, and she basically grew up in the ghetto, surrounded by drugs and guns.”

Oh, Mom
. I’d heard hints about her coming from poverty, but hadn’t known she’d lived in such squalor. What horrors had she witnessed? The heaviness in my chest made it hard to breathe.

“Jeez, Maddie.” He got to his feet and pressed hands to his back as he stretched. “You
have
to get a better couch.”

Just like that, I knew the conversation about Mom had ended. I struggled for a calming breath as I faked a smile. “With whose money?”

“How about that rich boyfriend of yours? His family’s loaded.”

Braxton recognizing Alejandro as my boyfriend seemed like progress. But Alejandro would
not
be buying me a new sofa. I didn’t deserve all of his largesse.

“I’m gonna reheat the rest of my lasagna. Want me to heat up yours, too?”

I nodded.

“Maddie…” He looked down at me as he picked up our empty mugs. “I know I can’t stop you from dating that tea party tool. But I don’t trust him. Be careful, okay?” He frowned. “Don’t make rash decisions just because you think you’re depressed.”

He took our mugs into the kitchen, leaving me reeling.
Don’t you dare give me false hopes about my future, Alex.

Chapter Sixteen

“W
HO’S
C
ONSIDERING
P
SYCHIATRY
for a career?”

Dr. Moore’s question hung in the air as my classmates and I looked around at each other.
Heck no
, I thought.
No way I’ll sit in an office talking to troubled patients all day.
I wanted blood. I wanted action. Apparently my classmates felt the same because no hands went up. I glanced at my buddy Dave, who tilted his neck and crossed his eyes like a crazy person. I shook my head, but couldn’t hide my faint smile. Sometimes my med school classmates were more immature than undergrads.