What We Take Away

Chapter 28 | Zac

February 15th, 2006

I'm supposed to be in physiology class right now. But today, I'm cutting class.

The bells at St. Andrew's Lutheran Church resound high and clear, signaling nine o'clock to everyone in the vicinity. I pass Zen Books, a secondhand book shop and Rare Leaf, the snobby tea shop that always smells like incense, and cross the street towards Ugly Donuts.

Church Street swarms with people on their lunch break, but I continue to walk and weave my way down the long street.

I approach Eddie's Tavern, remembering the time I pranked Cass with a fake birthday treat. Everything seemed simpler then.

If only things could go back to the way they were, I sulk.

I turn into Lou's Deli & Bagels at the top of the street and find an unoccupied table. It's quiet in here today, save the sound of workers in the kitchen blasting mariachi music. Only one other person is sitting in the store, an old, scruffy man I've seen around Church Street a lot. He has the tendency to talk to himself when no one's watching. All the store owners seem to give him free stuff.

The man gesticulates madly to something invisible in the air, as though he's a lawyer defending a righteous cause before a grand jury. Sighing, I stare out the front window of Lou's and watch as people hurry from one place to the other.

I twiddle my fingers together restlessly and exhale a nervous breath.

Dad should be here soon.

After receiving my drunken voicemail two weeks ago, Dad called to tell me he'd arrange to take a day off work to come visit me at Copper Hill. Even though I protested this idea to both Mom and to Beth, neither of whom were sympathetic to my cause, Dad told me to block off my morning for a very overdue father-son chat.

I've just begun counting the number of university frat boys sauntering past the window with the same preppy haircut when the bell above the door jingles. Though I outgrew my father in height when I was sixteen, Walt Peters is still a sight to behold. He's wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball hat and his trucker jacket.

He spots me and tilts his head. 

"That was a hell of a long drive. I'm starving," he says, his voice gruff. "Food first."

Moments later, we reseat ourselves with paper cups of coffee and piping hot bagel sandwiches. I carefully peel the foil wrapper away from my sandwich and take a bite.

"So," Dad wipes his mouth with a corner of a napkin. "You want to tell me about that night?"

I kick my feet out, suddenly feeling like I'm a kid all over again.

"Not really," I mutter.

"I have the voicemail here if you want to listen to it yourself," he says, pulling out his phone.

"I don't want to listen to it."

"Is this what you've been doing so far at college? Getting drunk and yelling at your team? Tell me, are you proud—"

"Did you really come all this way to lecture me about underage drinking?" I interrupt angrily. "Because if that's what this about, then you can leave. I don't want to look at another can of beer again."

Dad sighs and pulls the hat from his head. He'd been losing his hair even before I left for college, but he seems somehow balder now.

"Look," he says, trying again. "I know you're upset about Copper Hill nixing the Men's Track Team. Honestly, it's happening all over the country. Track kids get the highest GPAs and are the easiest teams to cut since they're so big. Doesn't make it right, but your coach tells me the decision can't be undone."