The Last Dance (23 page)
Authors: Kiki Hamilton
I grabbed my basketball and tossed it in the air over my head, the orange leather and black lines swirling into a blur, before I caught it again. Ivy wanted to go to Harvard. It was hard to admit it to myself, but part of me wanted to go where Ivy went. I didn’t want to lose her yet. It was the first time I’d ever met somebody who was so much like me. Someone who felt right for me.
Disgusted, I pushed myself off the bed and grabbed my basketball. I couldn’t make my plans based on somebody else’s dreams. I had to follow my own dreams. I headed downstairs and out to our driveway. Maybe the cold air and shooting some hoops would clear my head. It was crazy to be thinking like this.
But an hour later, instead of clearing my head, I’d come up with a crazy idea.
A
week after Q dragged me into the library and asked me what I thought he should do, he signed with Stanford University. Ollie Walker and Charlie Jackson both signed with the University of Washington. The local papers interviewed all of them and ran it as front page news. Even the Seattle TV stations carried the story.
I was shocked by Q’s decision. With so many people he cared about telling him not to play, I kind of thought he wouldn’t. But now, I could see how silly that was. A full ride to Stanford was nothing to walk away from. It was a difficult school to get into
any
time, and especially if you didn’t have a legacy connection—someone in your family who had attended. But playing Pac-12 ball had been Q’s dream and he’d earned it—why would I expect him to give up on it? Hopefully, he’d enjoy every second of his time at Stanford. And stay healthy.
Though I tried not to think about it, the reality of our changing futures was never far from my mind. With Q going to California and the possibility that I might attend school on the east coast—I wondered if I would ever see him again after we graduated.
KELLEN WAS AT school the next day, but you could hardly get near him for the crush of kids wanting to congratulate him. Or just touch him. He was so adored. I spotted Laurel’s blond head in the group surrounding him.
“It’s almost like we never really even knew him, isn’t it?” Mira said, as we stood at the other end of the hall and watched. “It’s like the beginning of school again.”
I slammed my locker shut, the metal door clanging. “You’re the one who said he wouldn’t hang out with us once he didn’t need us.” I looped my arm through hers and turned her to go out the back door so we could avoid the crush. “Be glad he’s well. We saved him, just like you wanted. Now it’s time to move on.”
“Yeah,” Mira said softly. “You’re right. But—”
“But nothing.” I put both hands on her back and shoved her out the door.
I glanced over my shoulder as I went out the door. Q was moving in the opposite direction down the hall, his back to me, still surrounded. I could hear him laugh about something and then to my surprise, he turned back and looked straight at me, almost like he knew I was there.
LIKE NORMAL, I checked the mailbox after Mira dropped me off at home. Usually, there was only the normal pile of bills and flyers, but today there was a cream colored envelope with the word VE RI TAS spelled out on what looked like three open books over a maroon shield. The black letters next to the shield read
HARVARD UNIVERSITY
. My hands started to shake.
I slid my finger under the corner edge and sliced the envelope open. The letter seemed to magically unfold in my hands.
‘We are honored to inform you of your acceptance into…’
Tears filled my eyes. All of my hard work was paying off. My dreams—and my parent’s dreams—were coming true. But how was I supposed to feel when the dream of college took me away from a dream of true love?
T
wo days after I signed with Stanford my mom said, “I’ve made an appointment in Seattle. I need you to drive me.” I hadn’t discussed my decision to sign with Stanford with either my mom or my dad. I’d turned eighteen in January and decided I wasn’t going to argue with them. I was going to have one sure plan for my life after high school.
I looked up in surprise. I was sitting at the kitchen table eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and reading the article about me, CJ and Ollie signing, as well as some other players in town. “What’s the appointment for?”
“I need to visit a lab. You know I don’t like to drive in the city traffic.” She picked up a stack of magazines and headed for the family room. “It won’t take long. We’ll leave after school tomorrow.”
SINCE WHEN DID my mom not like to drive in Seattle traffic? She went into the city all the time, even though the roads were very congested and half the time the freeway was total gridlock. I drove her Volvo sedan as she directed me to a big facility on Eastlake Avenue across the street from Lake Union.
“What are you picking up?” I asked again as I parked the car. “Should I wait here?”
“No, I need you to come with me.” She slid out the door and tightened the belt on her black coat. She hadn’t talked much on the ride over and part of me was getting scared. What the heck was going on? Did my mom have cancer or something?
“Is everything okay, Mom?” I looked at the side of her face as we walked in the big glass entry doors. “You’re not, like,
sick
or anything, are you?” My palms were a little sweaty and I wiped them on the sides of my jeans.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry.” She led me to the elevator bank like she knew where she was going. We exited on the fifth floor and mom led me down a hallway to a doorway on the left. A small sign on it said ‘Laboratory Three’. She knocked twice, then poked her head in the door. “Dr. Anton?”
There was a muffled reply and my mom pushed the door open and walked in. It was like walking into a stainless steel surgical center. Long shining silver tables stretched across the room with cabinets and counters on each side.
A petite woman, with dark hair wearing a white doctor’s jacket approached us with her hand out.
“Hello Jane. So nice to see you again.” She looked at me. “And this must be Kellen.”
“Yes.” My mom motioned at me. “This is my son, Kellen. Kellen, this is Dr. Anton.” I smiled and shook the doctor’s hand, wondering what in the hell was going on. “She’s a neurological researcher. Her particular area of study is brains.”
Warning bells started going off in my head.
“Dr. Anton has received a donation recently. A dozen brains from deceased NFL, college and high school football players.” My mother’s voice shifted ever so slightly. “I wanted you to see for yourself what they looked like.”
My emotions warred between utter disbelief and utter pissed-off-ness. I swiveled my head. “Seriously, Mom?”
“Come this way, Kellen. I’ve got the brains on this table over here.” Dr. Anton walked across the room and I followed her while I widened my eyes with a WTF? look at my mom. She got my message. And totally ignored it.
“These are the brains of CTE victims,” Dr. Anton said, waving her hand at an array of slides with brown tissue slices attached. The slides were surrounded by a row of white plastic containers. I glanced in a few and sure as shit, there were brown clumps of tissue that looked just like half of someone’s brain.
“CTE?” I slid my hands into my pockets so I wouldn’t touch anything and looked at the slides with a mixture of morbid fascination and disgust. Wasn’t that what Dr. Murdoch had mentioned too?
“Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy,” Dr. Anton said in a matter-of-fact voice. “It’s also known as dementia pugilistica or punch-drunk syndrome because in the past, the overwhelming majority of its victims were boxers.” She picked up a sleeve of slides and held them up to the light. “But not anymore.”
After she positioned the slide she swung her head over to look at me. “A disturbing trend has been discovered between CTE and high impact sports such as hockey, soccer and especially football.” She motioned to a microscope on the table. “Take a look.”
I leaned down and gazed through the eye holes.
“What you’re looking at is a normal brain.”
I could see clear, pinkish-grey tissue. Hard to believe that was a slice of someone’s brain. “And this—” she swapped out the slide for a new one. The new section was covered with brown spots. “— is a brain with CTE. All those brown spots are tau, which is a protein that is released when the brain suffers some kind of trauma.”
My stomach clenched, like I was doing crunches. Looking at those two samples reminded me of the endless drug lectures they’d drilled into our heads during health class: here’s your brain, and here’s your brain on football.
“What does CTE do to you?” I stared at the speckled, gross slide. The difference between the two samples was startling. And disturbing.
“Common symptoms of CTE include memory loss, paranoia and depression in middle age. There is a possibility that several recent suicides of athletes are linked to CTE, as well.” She shifted another slide under the lens. “Some athletes have even donated their brains to CTE research upon their deaths. The links are irrefutable, but we are just beginning to realize the far-reaching implications and causes of this disease.”
I straightened up, suddenly sick to my stomach. “How do you get it?”
“Brain trauma. There is a link between high contact sports, like football,” she tipped her head at me, “and the occurrence of CTE. It seems that today’s football helmets are actually increasing the problem—because they’ve become more like battering rams for the players than protection.
“But don’t the helmets protect their heads?”
“Ah.” She held her gloved hand up. “A common misconception. While the helmets protect the outside of the head—the problem occurs when the soft brain tissue inside slams into the cranium—that’s what causes the damage.”
The doctor motioned to the slides spread out across the table. “Football players suffer 43,000 to 67,000 concussions per year and estimates suggest that 50% go unreported. We’re now finding that players experiencing subconcussive blows—without ever reporting an actual concussion—are suffering this same sort of brain damage.”
My stomach did a slow roll.
“Alzheimer’s, depression and other memory-related diseases are inevitable with this kind of injury.” She looked up at me. “Do you have any questions?”
I took a step back and looked at my mom. She was waiting behind me—letting me get my fill. “No, doc. I think I’ve seen enough.”
MOM AND I didn’t talk for half of the ride home. I was still trying to wrap my head around everything I’d just seen and learned. Did I have tau protein gumming up my brain right now?
“I thought it was important that you know the facts, Kellen.” Mom’s voice was perfectly neutral. “Your father and I have encouraged you to play football all these years, never realizing the danger we were putting you in. When I saw you in that hospital bed, unable to move—” her tough veneer cracked— “all over a stupid
game
. I will
never
willingly let you play football again. I can’t allow you to put yourself in harm’s way for
nothing
.”
I reached over and patted her shoulder. “Thanks Mom. I guess maybe I should tell you about plan B.”
T
he next few weeks passed in a blur. It was already the middle of March and next weekend was Tolo – the formal dance where girls asked boys to attend. Then the next week was spring break and the orchestra group was headed to Paris. I couldn’t wait to escape.
Brandon was going out with Jenny McNamara again. Tank and Mira broke up, but ever since coming to her rescue at The Crypt, Charlie Jackson had been hanging around her a lot more. Q was his normal friendly self, just like nothing had ever happened between us. When I’d wished that we could all be friends again, I should have been more careful with what I’d wished.
Apparently, Q still had sixth period study hall, because he’d show up there three or four days a week, but he never sat with me and Mira. He was always surrounded by other people, usually half were girls drooling over him. I’d catch him looking our way occasionally, and he’d wave from across the room if our eyes met, but he never made any attempt to talk.
“He’s kind of like the sun, isn’t he?” Mira mused one day as she licked the cream from the center of a Twinkie. “It’s like half the students in the school orbit him.”
“Yeah, it’s the gravitational pull—like flies and shit.”
Mira turned to look at me, her brows pulled down in a frown. “Are you okay?”
“Just stating the facts, M’am.” I didn’t look up from the science write-up I was working on. It hurt too much. I ached with missing him. Missing what I could have had with him. At night, I’d lay in the dark, my arms clutched around my pillow and remember our conversations, his expressions, the feel of his hands on my face, in my hair. I had Ivy’s Song memorized and the hauntingly beautiful notes would play in my head as I pictured him sitting at that piano, playing for me. I swear it would have been better to never have loved him, then to love him like this and never have him.
Mira shrugged. “Okay, whatever.” She licked her fingers, the Twinkie consumed. “Are you going to ask anyone to Tolo?”
I snorted out a laugh. “Like who?”
Mira shrugged. “I don’t know.” She looked across the room. “Maybe you should ask Q.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. Was this a test of some kind? We’d never actually talked about me dating Q. Mira had only acknowledged that he wasn’t interested in her. “What?”
Mira squirmed in her seat. “It was just an idea.” She was dressed like an anime character today, with the spiky bangs hanging over her eyes and her hair in two ponytails on each side. She wore a black choker around her neck and a black jacket with some sort of sexy lace-up corset thing underneath. I’m not sure if she was supposed to be a vampire or a vampire hunter, but her fingernails were painted blood red along with her lips. “You could ask Q and I could ask CJ.”
My mouth dropped open.
“What?”
“You heard me,” she said in a defensive tone. “It’d be fun.”
