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"I'm sorry, sport. Coach K asked me to be there," Dad said. "Guess I shouldn't have come..."

"It's not that!" Only it probably sounded like "Iz—na—da" because I was crying so hard.

He patted my shoulder in an extremely awkward way. "Anything I can do to help?"

Which set me crying even harder.

Curtis walked back in and came over beside me. "Here."

I looked up: he was holding out a roll of toilet paper. I took a long sheet and blew my nose and wiped my eyes, then wiped off the table. "Thanks." At least it slowed my tears down, the combination of Curtis's niceness and Charmin. The tears didn't go away—I could feel them inside, just waiting to rev back up—but it gave me a bit of a breather.

"Guess you didn't want to go to Madison," Curtis said.

I laughed, a little non-laugh. "Guess I don't want Minnesota either," I said. Trying to sound casual instead of sobby.

All of a sudden the phone rang.

Dad picked up. "Hey ... Oh, hey, Win ... Yeah, you heard right. Wanna congratulate her?"

My face must have looked like a dynamited building, I started crying so fast.

"Oh!" Dad said. "Um, she, uh..."

"She's taking a shower," Curtis put in.

"Yeah. She's in the shower." Dad sounded pretty normal saying this, but he was looking at me like he couldn't figure out when the aliens had taken over his little girl.

I didn't care if I was full of aliens, I felt so bad. I just climbed the stairs to the bathroom—because it had been a good suggestion of Curtis's, doing that—with my face in my hands, the tears squeezing out between my fingers, and stood in the shower sobbing away, wondering if it was possible even to tell what was water and what was tears, and whether it really even mattered.

***

School the next day—oh, boy. I don't know who told, Dad or Coach K or whoever, but every single kid and every single grownup in the building seemed to know. And all of them, it seemed like, sought me out to congratulate me, asking me which one I was going to choose. Over and over again, all day long. Asking which one I loved the most.

It was all I could do not to lose it, fending off everyone's congratulations and knock-'em-deads and advice on where I should go, advice completely and totally based on their own personal notions and totally un-based on me. All day long, whenever anyone said anything, anything about how fantastic Big Ten ball was, all I could think about was Tyrona's two missed free throws and how I'd never, ever, ever put myself in that position. Ever. No matter what.

Even Amber got in on it. Only she just assumed I'd be going to the U of M because then I'd be able to hang out with Dale's friends in St. Paul. It was like my part in this decision, my voice, had nothing to do with it—it was all about her happiness and how psyched she was to have me as part of their gang. Which wouldn't be a bad thing, necessarily—knowing Dale, those friends were probably okay—but I wasn't given a choice one way or the other. This wasn't the first time Amber's treated me like someone who should just tag along with her ideas, but it had never gotten under my skin before. Because this time it wasn't which movie to see or what the best F-150 color is; it was my
life.
Which Amber didn't seem to get. Didn't even seem to sense, really.

It got so bad, with Amber and everyone else, that I almost cut school. Walked out the front doors and just drove away. But I didn't, and you know why? For the simple, stupid reason that I had no other place to go. Any building I entered, even if it was the pizza place or the Super Saver or my very own home, was bound to have folks as ready to jaw my ear off as the population of Red Bend High School.

So really even more than cutting school I wanted to curl up and die. Okay, not
die
—I wasn't
suicidal.
But die temporarily at least. Die enough that everyone would leave me alone and not remind me every two seconds of how I was going to have to tell the whole town that I was really a big fat wuss.

At least Ashley wasn't in school. Apparently her wrist hurt so much that she stayed home. Kari swore Ashley had been really psyched when Kari had told her about me and Madison, which would have been great to hear except that it was just another example of how everyone was putting their own feelings in place of mine, and in place of Ashley's too, it sounded like. Because of course Kari was so psyched that she probably just projected all that psyched-ness onto Ashley. But it was still a relief to walk into health class and know I didn't have to face her.

I felt so awful that I skipped practice. I told Coach KI was sick, which was a lie unless you count emotional sickness, which I had absolutely.

"You doing okay?" he asked, studying me. "Must be a bit overwhelming."

"You can say that again."

"Me too, having two D-I coaches in my office ... Jerry was expecting this, you know. He knew it was a long shot."

I looked at him blankly.

"You remember—Jerry Knudsen. From Ibsen College."

"Oh. Him. Yeah, well, I still want to go there."

K laughed, and patted me on the back. "Glad to see you're keeping a sense of humor."

He didn't even notice I was serious.

And then, just to make my day completely perfect, on the way out I ran into Beaner. Who I'd been avoiding all day for reasons you probably can figure out without too much strain.

"Yo! Rock star! Total congrats, man!" He jumped up on my back like always, the way that always cheers me up no matter what. Always did, anyway, until today. "So, you waiting to hear from Connecticut now? The Olympic team, maybe? Hey, what's wrong? You feeling bad?"

"Yes," I said. Because that's precisely how I was feeling.

"Yeah, well ... It's probably not contagious." He gave me a kiss. "Man, you are sick."

"I know. I am."

Driving home, I couldn't help but wonder what Brian would think of all this. If he'd be able to understand what I was going through. He was a QB, after all; he knew what pressure was. Only he also knew how to handle it, a lot more than I did. He'd probably just say that of course I was good enough for D-I and I should just do it.

Which was exactly the advice I was already getting, and exactly what I didn't need to hear.

Then when I got home finally, I got another surprise, because sitting there at the kitchen table, wolfing down coffee and cinnamon buns, were the two farmers who'd helped us out right after Win got hurt.

Dad handed me a cinnamon bun. "Early practice there, sport?"

"Yeah, kind of." I eyeballed the farmers, trying to figure out what was going on.

"These fellas are going to manage the farm for a couple days," Dad said matter-of-factly. As if it was completely natural for him to turn his cows over to anyone who wasn't blood kin. "I'm heading over to Minnesota, you know. Spell your mother for a bit."

Then the three of them went out to the barn while I tried to sort this out. Dad hadn't even asked me. Normally—like every other time in my life up to now—he'd just dump all the farm work on me. Like last summer. He'd never call someone for help. Dad asking for help is right up there with Smut flying. That's what made it so amazing—trust me, I wasn't complaining or anything, I was just stumped—that he'd done it now. Without forcing me to argue about how important basketball is, and then feel bad about quitting like I'd had to do last winter after Dad's hip conked out. It was pretty nice of him, actually. Pretty darn thoughtful. Maybe meeting those two D-I coaches turned his head, too.

Or ... Mom was in trouble. That was it. Really, it was a marvel she'd lasted as long as she did with Win. No one else could have done it. But finally she'd snapped too.

Still, I couldn't get over Dad calling those farmers. People might think helping is hard, but really that's the easy part; just look how good it makes people feel. Look how happy all those Red Bend ladies were about chipping in. It's the asking that's so painful. It takes real courage, real
strength,
to say you're not strong enough to do it alone. Mom must really be hurting for Dad to be so brave.

That night I refused to talk to Win. No matter how Dad glared, I didn't budge. My insides felt like a bunch of drinking glasses all stacked up, just teetering there, and I knew Win first thing would knock them down. I could hear Dad answering Win's questions—getting kind of irked himself, which was nice to hear, someone getting mad at Win besides me—saying he didn't know what I'd said to those coaches to make them so generous.

Which I didn't know either. Because hadn't I made it clear I wasn't interested? I'd been complimentary, sure, but I'd never said I was dying to go there and just couldn't wait. Those words never came out of my mouth once. It was probably because the coaches felt sorry for us, because of Win and all. Maybe that's how strong Win's brainwashing is: he can even convince a school to offer up a ton of money just like that. It was almost worth calling the coaches just to ask what the heck they'd been thinking. Almost, but not quite.

Instead I listened to Dad reassuring someone—Mom, probably—that those farmers were fine and he'd be leaving right after morning milking. Poor Mom. She had all of Win's garbage to deal with, and all of Dad's as well ... She definitely needed this break.

Only when we got home from practice the next day, there she was, puttering around the kitchen just like she always does, trying to figure out where Dad hid the frying pan.

"Well hello, honey," she said, giving me a big hug before I'd even had time to take off my coat. "Would you like some cocoa?"

"Ah, sure," I said, watching Curtis scoot upstairs to grab the shower.

Mom put two cocoas on the table and sat down. That in and of itself was weird. Normally she doesn't sit because she's too busy scooting. "So. I feel like we haven't caught up in a while."

"Yeah," I said, wondering when she'd turned into Oprah Winfrey. "Um, how's Win?"

"He's talking about going back to Seattle in June—can you believe it? And don't tell anyone, but I think Maryann is going to move out there too." She beamed. "Not that she's saying it has anything to do with him. Now, how are things with
you?
"

As far as weirdness goes, this conversation was already off the charts. "I'm not dating my physical therapist," I offered finally. If Mom wasn't going to bring up the scholarships, I certainly wasn't going there either.

Mom chuckled, then sighed. "Curtis is so worried about you, honey..."

"Curtis?"

"That boy ... he insisted I come home. Really put his foot down. Isn't that something?"

It was all I could do not to burst into tears—burst into tears again—at the thought of Curtis looking out for me like that. Not that Mom would be able to help, but still, it was awfully considerate.

She squeezed my hand. "I heard Beaner asked you to the dance."

Great. Now I felt like crying twice as much.

"Don't you go worrying now. Dresses are
always
stressful."

"That's not it! Um—why, did you stress out about them?"

"Oh, yeah. I had shoes dyed to match for the senior prom. Had to go back three times to get the color right, you know." She sighed. "And then..."

"What? What happened?"

"Oh, nothing. Norman Boockvar—he was a basketball player, not that that matters. Anyway, he'd had a bit to drink, you know, and ended up throwing up on them."

I grinned—my first smile in days. "No way."

"Oh, yeah. And were they uncomfortable after that."

"You kept
wearing
them?"

"Well, I'd had them dyed. I wasn't going to just stop—"

"You danced in barf shoes? That's disgusting!" Man, did it cheer me up, hearing this story.

"And you know what? Last I heard, he was working in a shoe store." Which made me crack up even more. "So you see? We'll find you a dress now."

And—poof—my cheeriness was gone. I sighed. "It wasn't supposed to be like this, you know."

"Like what?"

"Like ... so hard."

Mom had to smile. "You mean life is hard?"

"Yeah! I always used to think things like boys and scholarships, you know, and dances and stuff, that they were easy. That only lucky people got those. But I don't feel lucky at all."

Mom gave me a squeeze. "Welcome to growing up."

"You mean it's always like this?"

"No. It gets easier after a while. But you'll manage. Most everyone does."

***

Only that's not how Win acted when I finally worked up the courage to speak to him.

Apparently it had been driving him so crazy that he ended up calling the coaches himself. And both of them said, at least according to Win, who's not like the most impartial person in the world, that they were really impressed with Mr. Jorgensen's tapes, how versatile I was and how I could take post or wing and was always willing to assist. How I was getting better at calling plays. How I got a bunch of girls to work out every day after practice. How I'd played football, and had been a total role model at football practice, which Coach Peterson told them when
he
called, which I hadn't even known he'd done, and talked their ears off even more than Coach K. Not to mention how us Schwenks are all so into sports, into helping each other and stuff, because apparently family support really matters even when the kid's not living at home, which is something I'm still having trouble figuring out. And both coaches heard, somehow, that I really wanted to go to their school.

"
What?
" I interrupted. "I never said that—" Win snorted. "You can't go telling two different schools you like them best. How many times did I tell you that? Come on, D.J.! It's a real kick, I'm sure, getting these offers, but it's not right to lead them along like this."

For a while I just sat there gaping. "You think I said that? I never promised anything!"

"Of course you did. You told the Badgers coach you were really impressed with his program and that anyone would want to be part of it. He wrote it down. Your exact words."

"I was being
nice!
"

"That's not what people say when they're being nice. 'Great T-shirt'—that's nice. Saying 'I want to be part of your program' is something totally different—"