Nothing Special by Geoff Herbach

said.
    â€œWhat fate?” Jerri asked.
    â€œFelton thinks I should be a pharmacist,” Andrew said.
    â€œOh crap, Andrew. I was in a bad mood when I said that. Don’t take everything—”
    â€œYes,” Jerri said. “You can go, Andrew. I’m glad you’re being constructive. How long is it again?”
    â€œEight weeks,” Andrew said.
    â€œFine. Good. Show me the information and if it seems legit…just tell me where to sign,” Jerri said.
    â€œI’ll have the paperwork filled out by morning,” Andrew told her.
    We stood there staring at each other for a few seconds. Then Jerri said, “Thus ends the intervention.” She turned and pushed past me. I followed her. In the hall, she whispered, “Why do you have to be such a jerk, Felton? A pharmacist ?”
    â€œI didn’t mean it,” I whispered back.
    â€œIs there no space between your brain and your mouth?”
    â€œSometimes,” I said. “If I’m supposed to talk…then there’s a big space.”
    â€œBackward,” Jerri said. She didn’t go into the living room. She went into her bedroom, so I had to watch the end of Hoarders by myself.
    Apparently, the camp was legit, Aleah. Jerri signed the papers.
    â€¢ • •
    Whoops. I’m blowing up here. Karpinski text.

August 16th, 2:17 a.m.
O’Hare Airport, Part X (Hotel)
    Karpinski texted to tell me that practice is stupid without me and I better get the hell back to Bluffton or he’ll quit.
    He won’t quit.
    We texted back and forth for a while. He totally doesn’t understand what the hell I’m doing right now. I’m not exactly sure either. What’s with me and my commitment to football, Aleah? Do I even care about it?
    Yes. Yes, I totally do, but…there’s definitely something going on.
    In February, I committed to go to the Michigan technique camp because your dad told me that Michigan might be a really good fit (good sports and really good academics).
    As soon as I told the offensive coordinator there that I was coming (he was too psyched—he wooed), I began having nightmares of giant asswipe dudes, other football players, trying to push me around. I dreamed of coaches screaming with crazy idiot voices, like South Park cartoon-freak coaches might scream. I dreamed of running through dorm hallways trying to get the hell away from dudes chasing me.
    Seriously, I got all whacked out and sleepless, until Jerri asked me what the hell my problem was one winter morning. (I totally fell asleep while eating a flaxseed frozen waffle.) Because I was weak and half asleep, I told her that visions of this stupid camp were driving me crazy.
    Jerri sat back in her chair and squinted at me. She said, “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
    I sat straight up in my chair, all filled with monkey juice. I spat at her, “You don’t want me to go! You hate football!”
    She folded her arms and smirked at me. “Felton, I’m trying to comfort you. Do whatever you want. No matter what, I’m firmly committed to being the mother of a dumb jock.”
    â€œThat’s not nice!”
    â€œI’m making a joke.”
    Jerri has gotten in the habit of making sort of mean jokes, if you haven’t noticed. (Gus totally noticed this summer.)
    But here’s the truth: as soon as Jerri said I didn’t have to go, the dreams went away. Pressure release. I never cancelled the camp, never called to tell them I wasn’t going, but in the back of my head I sort of thought I wouldn’t go.
    I didn’t go, but not exactly because I was scared of my dreams—Andrew gave me an excuse.
    Is Andrew turning into my way out of football? Here I am, chasing him instead of playing the game.
    Karpinski texted at one point tonight: You think peyton manning would miss practice week of first game???
    I’ve been thinking about that. Do you know who