“I have a friend from high school who I believe has a learning disability, but she never got tested.”

Susan makes a sympathetic noise. “That’s terrible. Talk about hamstringing that child for the rest of her life. Early detection and testing really helps kids overcome and manage their learning disability. There are so many ways we can help them these days.”

I hope this meeting will be over soon. Susan’s words make me feel even guiltier than when I talked on the phone with Mom, particularly when I spent all of my morning adding two classes for the express purpose of further “hamstringing” my brother.

“Well, a personal connection is good. It makes you more empathetic. You want to have passion when you write a grant proposal, and a personal appeal makes you really want to get after it.” She makes a rocking motion with her fist.

“Is there any chance for adults?”

“Of course. We don’t specialize in that, but—” She holds up a finger and digs through a pile of papers on the bookcase near her desk. “Here. This is a great organization for helping adult literacy challenges.”

“Thanks. If I see her at break, I’ll give it to her.” I take the brochure and tuck it into my bag.

“You might want to be careful when you approach her,” Susan cautions. “Most people, regardless of age, are quite sensitive about having reading or writing challenges. Adults tend to deny it, particularly if they are functioning well in most other areas.”

“I hear you.” She’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. I broached the subject with Jack only once before. We took an SAT prep course as juniors. He’d gotten very frustrated and I suggested extra tutoring. He looked at me with a look of utter betrayal and asked me if I thought he should be riding the short bus. I told him that was offensive. We got in a big fight and didn’t talk for about three days. We made up but I never brought it up again. I don’t even know if I can now.

“Good,” she says briskly. “If you don’t need anything further, then we’re done. I’ll want to see a rough draft by your midterm.” She looks down at a sheet of paper. “Is that in October?”

“Yes. I could get it to you by October 1. How’s that?”

“Perfect. Rough draft by October 1, and then the final version on December 1.” Susan shakes my hand, piles me with paper, and sends me on my way. The brochure burns a hole in my pocket.

•••

Jack shows up the next afternoon to check out my apartment and, I suppose, Riley.

“Nice place,” he says. “I call dibs on the chair.”

He points to a round velvet chair in deep red Riley said she found at a thrift store. It’s as comfortable as Jack imagines and I plan to spend a lot of time there in front of the television on Saturdays, watching Jack’s games. Despite what I told Masters, I don’t sit at the top of the stadium or with the other students. It’s too damn stressful.

“You can’t call dibs,” Riley protests. “This isn’t your apartment.”

“It’s Ellie’s, which means it’s mine, too.” Jack winks at her but Riley is having none of it.

She scowls and shakes a scolding finger at Jack. “You make a mess and you have to clean it up.”

“No problem.” He smiles again and this time it’s deep enough that his dimples appear. Uh oh. I had better separate the two before Riley falls under the spell of Jack’s charms.

“Come on.” I grab his arm. “I need your help unpacking stuff.”

He snaps to immediately and follows me to my room. “What do you need?”

I point to the stack of empty cardboard boxes. “I’ve unpacked most everything, but I need help getting rid of these boxes.”

“Sorry I wasn’t here to help you carry this shit up here.” Jack makes quick work of the first box, tearing off the tape and punching it flat. “I still can’t believe those shitheads didn’t drive down with you.”

He tosses the now flat box into the hallway and proceeds to efficiently destroy the five other boxes.

“It’s fine. The manager had a four-wheel dolly and he helped me bring most of it up.”

“Riley wasn’t even here?” The nerve in Jack’s jaw starts ticking with annoyance. It’s not directed at me or Riley. It’s directed at our parents. I reach over and pull the laundry basket away from him before he crushes it.

“Her family is in town. Look, I didn’t want to stay home any longer and I missed you.”

“So what’s your roommate like? She seems nice.”

“No dating her.”

“I wouldn’t date her,” he protests a shade too vigorously.

“I think she’s nice and normal, so you have to stay away.”

“Do you see something wrong with this picture?”

Not wanting him to date my roommate, dump her, and make her not want to live with me? No, I didn’t see anything wrong with preventing that outcome. “It sounds exactly right to me.”

He throws himself onto my bed. “What you’re essentially saying is that if your roommate is a great chick, fun to hang out with, totally normal, then she’s off limits. If she’s burn-the-bunny crazy, though, she’s all mine.”

I push his feet off. “That’s right. Good job on putting together two and two.”

“Shouldn’t you be encouraging me to date nice girls?”

“First, you don’t date anyone. You sleep with girls for anywhere between one night and a month. Maybe two tops. Then I’m left with either the constant crier or the I’m cutting off your brother’s dick the next time I see him roommate.” I had both in junior college.

“You’re a killjoy, El.” He reaches to my desk pushed against the foot of the bed and grabs the miniature Nerf football sitting between my pen cup and Kleenex box. “Besides, I can’t help it if the girls you room with turned into bunny boilers.”

“Guess what! You don't have to sleep any of them. Here’s an idea; how about you not sleep with the girls who have a tendency to go rabid after you dump them.” I grab the football from him and throw it at his face. He snatches it out of the air before it can come within two feet of him. Damn reflexes!

“Next thing you’ll say I should stop having sex like Knox Masters.”

I stumble on a non-existent fold in my rug and have to steady myself on the edge of the desk. “Knox Masters is celibate?”

Jack rolls over on his side and tosses the football at me. I don’t bother to catch it. The ball strikes the back wall and bounces onto the desk, knocking papers onto the floor.

“Not just celibate, but a virgin.” Jack bends down and gathers up the papers on the floor. I’m still too stunned to help him.

“No. I don’t believe it,” I answer flatly. Knox is gorgeous. His abs are so defined that a girl might cut her tongue on his ridged perfection, and based on this morning’s interaction, he’s got a little charm. Okay, a lot of fucking charm. “Do you really believe he’s a virgin? Maybe he tells people he’s a virgin and then the girls fight each other to show him the ropes—to be the first.”

“Hard to say. I’ve seen him hook up with girls. One night we went to a club downtown and a girl ate his face off.”

Yeah, so not a virgin.

“Still, I mean, he could be a virgin.” Jack rifles through the papers. Fuck, where is my class schedule? I surreptitiously look around my desk for it. “What’s this?” he demands.

I look over at the sheet of paper he’s thrust out. Is it…? No, thank God. I grab the intramural informational sheet from his hands and drop it on my desk. The other paper he has is the literacy brochure.

My schedule with his classes rests innocently inside a notebook. I stack my papers together and shove them all in the drawer.

“It’s the Western intramural schedule.”

“What are you playing?” he says with suspicion.

“Softball. Is that okay?”

“Maybe. What position? Not catcher, I hope. Not with your knee.”

“This is intramural softball, Jack.” I emphasize the word in hopes he catches on that I don’t want him interfering or riding me about playing. I need to have a life outside of him and football. “And I don’t know what position I’m playing. I’m meeting with the team Sunday night.”