THE WILD SEASON

Chapter 7

When I turn onto our street, I notice a strange sedan in the driveway. It's a Tesla S, a car that requires a substantial paycheck, and I have no idea who it belongs to. I park nearby, and open our front door slowly.

"Dad?" I call out before stepping foot inside, as if this isn't my home anymore.

The truth is, my dad seldom has company.

You're the only friend I need, he says with a smile when I ask why he doesn't see Brian or Danny anymore. And what I hear when he says this is, You're my entire world now. Please don't let me down.

"In here!" My dad's voice. Cheerful. Way too cheerful.

I close the door and drop my bag before moving into the living room, my stomach twisting at what, or who, I may find this close to D-Day.

A woman sits on the couch across from Dad, hands in her lap, nervous nails scratching at her navy blue skirt. Her back is too straight, her smile too wide. She's wound tighter than I am, if that's possible.

Dad stands and walks toward me, waves a hand at the woman. "This is Margo Gouge. She's Eddie's niece."

My face must reflect my puzzlement, because my dad fills in the blanks with an awkward laugh. "You know, Eddie from work. He supplies the custom handles for our cabinets. And guess what? His niece works at Penn!"

My stomach hits the floor.

"Come sit," he says, pulling me by the elbow. "She doesn't have long to talk, but—"

"It's just I've got to pick up my son from daycare," she supplies, glancing at a watch that probably cost as much as her car.

"Right, right," my dad says, nearly manic in the way he moves, the way his words shotgun from his mouth. "But she knows what it's like at Penn. I thought she could give you a little pep talk before your big day tomorrow!"

I stare up at my dad, and he stares at Margo, grinning. "Well, I'll give you girls time to chat. Margo, do you want anything to drink? I've got tea, and juice. And water. I'll make tea. Does that work? Yeah, I'll make tea."

He swings into the kitchen before she has time to answer.

Margo watches him go, and then her eyes slide onto me.

"He's really excited about me going to college," I say, quietly.

Margo smiles. "It's better than what my mom did, which was to strap herself onto my back for my entire junior and senior year of high school."

I laugh, releasing some of the tension in my chest.

When a silence settles over us, I clear my throat and sit down. "So, uh, is Penn everything people say it is? I mean, I toured it and the campus is...amazing. But, I don't know. Is it...good?"

Margo pulls on her earring. "I've only taught there a few months, long ways from being tenured. But I can assure you it's good."

I nod.

"You're nervous, I'm sure," she supplies.

I nod again.

"Don't be. The test is a measure of how well you can learn in a collegiate setting, but it isn't everything admissions looks at."

I relax my shoulders. "Plus I can take the test again, right? Do the whole aggregated score thing?" It's a new thing schools were doing; letting applicants take the SAT multiple times, and then accepting the best score from each individual section versus the best overall score. It's one of the few things that's given me comfort. Knowing I'll have a second chance should I need it.

"Oh, no, Penn doesn't do that." She must see my face fall, because she says, quickly, "Aggregated scoring doesn't really make that much of a difference overall anyway."

I try hard to control my breathing, and Margo fills the empty void between us by explaining what life on campus will be like should I be admitted. She discusses the challenging classes, the nationally recognized group projects, and the extracurricular organizations I'll want to join to build my collegiate resume.

"Your GPA isn't the be-all and end-all for future employers, but obviously students with GPAs 3.75 and higher garner interviews with the most prestigious companies. Of course, you may choose graduate school after obtaining your undergrad degree. But many employers favor diversified school portfolios. So I'd recommend attending undergrad at Penn, and then moving onto MIT, or Stanford, or whichever school has the best reputation for your major."

Margo waits for me to jump in. When I don't, she stands and looks toward the door where my dad is still making tea. Tea! When I can barely breathe because I'm going to flunk the SAT even though that isn't a thing. My brain supplies an image of my father's face when I show him my subpar score. A score that isn't high enough for Penn, but is just the right amount to drag my dad through the floor of our house, through the basement below that. So low I won't be able to save him. Not again.

When my dad appears with the tea, at last, holding it on a tray with—I kid you not—doilies beneath each cup, Margo has already slung her purse strap over her shoulder and is halfway toward the door.

My dad's face stretches with surprise, but he swiftly collects himself and sets the tray down before walking her out. Their words blur together as my mind replays the things she said—

The real work begins once you're admitted. Many kids find they can't swing the course load because they aren't mentally prepared. That won't be you, I'm sure. You just have to focus.

I snap back long enough to hear Margo mentioning a letter of recommendation, but that it'll really be up to me to gain admittance.

"Her essay," she says.

"Her grades," she says.

"The test," she says.

My dad thanks her for coming with a brilliant, sure smile. "Don't worry. My Molly's got it. She takes after her mother." That smile falters for only a moment. Just long enough for my seasoned eye to catch it. "We'll be seeing you on campus next year!"

And that's when the anxiety coursing through my veins freezes, solidifying upon impact with the smile on my dad's face. That smile is happiness and hope like I haven't seen in years. What shoves me off the cliff I've been climbing is the contrast between that smile, and the lifeless color of his skin when I found him in our closed garage. The car running. The windows down.

I'd lost my mother.

I'd almost lost my father.

Him, though, I had saved. I'd reeled him up from that black, inky well of despair, and I'd showed him how perfectly beautiful life could be—just him and I.

I juggled it all. Round, and round, and round.

But seeing that smile, and knowing I may not be able to keep it there...

I feel those juggling balls slipping in my practiced grasp.

Feel them tumbling to the floor.