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  "Win would never tell you himself—you know how he is—but we're both so grateful for all this college business. You know, you're getting him the very best possible therapy."

  Wait—that got my attention. "What? I'm getting Win therapy?"

  "Oh, yeah. You should have seen him this afternoon on the computer. I'm not sure he'd even be making the effort, getting a special keyboard and all, if it wasn't for you. Going to websites, looking at schools ... He knows more about Ibsen College now than Ibsen does, probably!"

  "Super."

  "Oh, D.J., it is." She took a deep breath, like she was steeling herself. "You know, don't you, how important all this is? You don't want to spend the rest of your life milking cows. You need college, you know—it's your ticket off the farm. Well, I've got to go now, honey, but you ... Don't forget that now, will you? Don't forget."

  ***

  You don't want to spend the rest of your life milking cows. Did I not know this? Of course I needed college to get out of Red Bend! I remembered it every second of the day! But I'd never realized Mom knew it too. I'd never heard her say it, say so bluntly, that I needed to escape. She sounded desperate...

  You know what this meant? If I didn't make it—didn't get into college—I'd be totally disappointing her.

  Not to mention Win. Who apparently was taking on all this occupational therapy work just for me. Which I did not ask for, thank you very much, but was now feeling ten thousand pounds of guilt about. If I didn't get in, he'd spend the rest of his life reminding me that I blew it. Maybe not with words necessarily, but he'd be thinking it. Every time we were together, he'd think it, every family reunion for the rest of my life. Mom would be disappointed, but with Win it'd be flat-out disgust.

  Win would be flat-out disgusted with tonight's game, that's for sure. We'd beaten Whoopsville, yeah, but only because the rest of the team stood around while I hogged all the baskets. Whatever leadership is, I'd demonstrated just the opposite. Coach K worked and worked but I couldn't manage a single squeak, no matter how hard he tried. That college coach had said nice things about me, sure, but only because Coach K was his friend. I'd let K down, and that coach, and all the girls on the team, girls who never got a chance to play because I couldn't even manage to pass the ball. "Asset to the team"—ha. Tonight I'd been the worst kind of athlete possible.

  You know who else I'd let down, let down already? Beaner. I hadn't even known he was interested in me! For months, maybe, and I hadn't noticed. What does that say about me, huh? About my abilities with guys? I don't even know what dating is. It took a nine-year-old to explain that I was even on one. Talk about clueless.

  Thinking all these thoughts, these horrible true thoughts ... by the time I got home, I was almost puking, I was so upset. Remember way back on Monday when I was so freaked out by all that locker-decorating, we-have-a-date, D.J.-is-#1 attention? Well, guess what: my panic had turned out to be totally legitimate. All these people, Beaner and Coach K and the team and college scouts, and Mom and Win most of all, they all were focused on me, and expecting things from me—leadership and college scholarships and girlfriendness.

  Well, leadership I'd already failed at. Scholarships I was about to. And romance ... the record was pretty clear on that one already. With romance, I was zero for life.

  I already knew I was a loser. Someone who didn't measure up, not when the pressure was on. Now it was just a matter of everyone else figuring it out too.

  Oh, wouldn't that be fun.

  5. Snake-Filled Envelopes

  WELL, IF YOU THOUGHT I got hit by a disaster on Friday night, check out the weekend. Because Saturday I drove to Ibsen College. With Dad of all people, who actually drove two whole hours away from his cows after I promised we'd be back for evening milking. I'd been planning on going by myself, but at breakfast he volunteered to come along. Maybe Mom had put the screws in him, who knows—it's certainly not the sort of thing he does normally. As soon as he spoke up, I started thinking up all the ways he could embarrass me, bragging about his cows or asking if anyone knew about organic farming or scratching himself in a weird way; with Dad the list is pretty much endless. But there wasn't much I could do but say yes. And bite my tongue not to warn him to behave, because that'd just make him worse.

  At least he let me drive, which was nice of him, although Dad's a big fan of napping in cars, and if you got up at five a.m. every day you probably would be too. So after we chatted about milk prices and his new organic co-op Internet buddies, and Bill's chances of going pro, which if nothing else reminded me that I wasn't the only one dealing with long-shot lottery tickets, Dad put his seat back and dozed off while I thought some more about college.

  I wasn't completely uninformed on the subject, I hope you know. I'd visited the University of Minnesota, after all, and seen Tyrona's dorm room—she's on the hoops team and super cool—and even eaten in the team cafeteria, which was pretty wild, seeing all that food and knowing athletes could have whatever they wanted. And I'd spent a bunch of hours walking around and looking at the U of M students and the buildings too, pretending I was one of them—the students, I mean, not the buildings—and being very into the whole college experience. Although maybe it was different at Ibsen. But I hoped not.

  Here's the thing: Ibsen is very different from the U of M, in every possible way.

  First of all, it's tiny in comparison to the University of Minnesota, which has a huge hospital and buildings with tubes coming out of them and fifty thousand students. Ibsen has less than a thousand students, and their whole campus could fit in one block of the U of M, probably. And their gym—well, their gym is about the size of Red Bend High School's. Even with the new floor.

  We didn't have any trouble parking—Dad said students were probably gone for the weekend. And the gym just had a student sitting at the entrance who didn't even let Dad finish his sentence before waving us through. So you can see how tight security was.

  And then when we got to the basketball court there was hardly anyone there. Red Bend's JV games get about three times the turnout. Maybe it was just because it was a girls' game—I mean a women's game, which is so hard for me to remember to say it like that—or everyone goes home on Saturday, or maybe the team wasn't having much of a season. But we found seats right near the center line without any trouble at all.

  And then the two teams came out and, well, some of the players looked a lot like Ashley Erdel, on both teams, and none of the players looked like me. They didn't play like me, either. I hate to sound so stuck up, but it's the truth, I won't lie. Jerry Knudsen was right there in the thick of it of course, being the coach, though he waved to us and kept looking back to check on me. Gave me a thumbs-up when one of his players landed a three-pointer.

  So we watched the game, which was about like a Red Bend game—well, like a Red Bend game if I wasn't playing. Again, to be honest. And if Kari wasn't playing either. Dad didn't say too much except for cheering the good shots, the good Ibsen shots. The score was pretty close, actually, and Ibsen was within four at halftime. Then the teams went into their locker rooms and some girls—women—came out to do this dance routine with a pep band that only had about four musicians, and Dad settled back a little and looked around the gym.

  "Not much of a crowd, is it?"

  "Nope," I said.

  "I went to a Badgers"—meaning the University of Wisconsin–Madison—"game once. I'd never seen that many people before all in one place." He laughed to himself. "I thought for a minute the roof was going to fall in, we were making so much noise. That was a night, all right." He glanced over at me. "You could play like that, you know."

  "You mean worrying about the roof?" But I grinned when I said it.

  "This isn't your league, sport. You come here and you'd be the whole team."

  He had a point. This was awfully small potatoes compared to Big Ten basketball. Granted, that had been a men's game Dad went to; he'd never watch a women's game if he didn't have a daughter. But you know, the Unive
rsity of Minnesota arena sells out for women's games—that's how much folks in Minneapolis care about women's hoops. It sells out almost as much for women as it does for men. Which is pretty awesome to think about.

  The second half started and Ibsen started losing, bit by bit, and Dad started getting fidgety about his cows, and so the next time Jerry Knudsen looked back I waved to him and gestured that we were leaving. We wandered around the campus for a few more minutes, checking out the other buildings, pretty old brick ones and modern concrete ones that looked awfully cold, the main building with an IBSEN COLLEGE sign and some lumpy snow-covered shrubs. Then we hit the road.

  Now I could really see what Jerry Knudsen meant about turning their program around—it'd be pretty much a 180 with me there. I'd get plenty of playing time, that's for sure. And the classes wouldn't be too hard, either. I'm sure you're wondering how I could tell that just from looking at the buildings, but I could. Which is something to think about as well, particularly considering that the whole point of college is to get educated in something beyond three-pointers. It'd be nice to do that without getting ulcers in the process.

  "Whatcha thinking?" Dad asked.

  I shrugged. "Ibsen is small. But that's not a bad thing."

  "You're bigger than that place, sport."

  "The coach said he could get me money."

  "Of course he'd say that. They'd win their conference with you playing, sure as shooting."

  "And winning's bad?"

  He looked out his window. "I'd sure like to see you playing in a real arena."

  Which meant that now I was going to disappoint him too.

  We got back way before milking, not that I was sweating that one, and right away Mom called. She wanted to hear all about Ibsen, and sounded so pleased that Dad had gone with me—he'd get lots of points for that—and was her usual positive self, saying how nice it was that there might be financial aid for me.

  Then Win got on and asked what the players had been like.

  "They were okay," I said.

  "Huh. I checked them out online—you know what their record is?"

  "I'd get lots of playing time—" I started, but then Dad took the phone right out of my hand.

  "Hey there, son ... Well, yeah, of course I told her. You know what she's like." What did that mean, what I was like? "Uh-huh ... Oh, I told her ... You betcha." Dad handed me the phone.

  I picked it up like it was covered in cow poop. "What?"

  "Are you going to make those calls now?"

  "They offered me money. Remember you said I'd get offered something? Well, Ibsen did. The coach said he could get me a pretty good package. Those were like his exact words."

  "You're wimping out, kiddo. First of all, until you have something in writing, don't believe anything a coach promises. And you can't look at just one college—"

  I snorted. I couldn't help it. Is it clear that I didn't want to make those calls? That I'd rather clean the barn bare-handed? And knowing Win was right didn't make it any easier.

  "Jeez, D.J., what is wrong with you?"

  I really wanted to say What's wrong with YOU? But even I had the brains to know how mean that would be. Plus thanks to Mom I now knew that my college recruiting had somehow become part of Win's recovery, which is just the sort of thing that Win can do, take something that's someone else's business and completely make it his. So I couldn't just hang up on him, no matter how much I wanted to, because that would be interfering with his therapy. "I don't want to call those people," I said finally.

  "Well, duh. But no one else can do it for you. You want Dad doing it? What are you, ten?"

  I gritted my teeth, trying to be nice for Mom's sake. Trying. "No, I don't want Dad—"

  "You want me to call first? Let them know you'll be contacting them?"

  Silence.

  Win sighed. "You want me to call?"

  "You're so much better at it..." Now trying to be super nice because it was an extremely good suggestion.

  "D.J., I can't even dial."

  I didn't have the guts to say that dialing a phone—or however SCI patients do it, with big push buttons I'm guessing—that that would be really good therapy. Although even Win's saying that aloud is impressive, to actually admit he had a weakness, which he's never been so good at before...

  Then the old bossy Win kicked in again. "This is your responsibility, kid. Start with U of M. The coach already knows you. You need to call her now. You need to call her tonight—"

  Finally I couldn't take any more, no matter how therapeutic it might be for Win to boss me around. "Can I talk to Mom again?"

  "Mom?"

  "You know, our mother? Can I talk to her?"

  So Win sighed, and there was this noise as they switched from his headset to a real phone, all the while Win grumbling. Nothing I could make out, but he definitely wasn't pleased.

  Only Mom was double-teaming me with him. "So honey, you going to make those calls?"

  "It's Saturday night, Mom—"

  "Well, I'm sure you can leave a message, you know. I'm sure they're all set up for that. You really need to get on this."

  I got off the phone finally, and then Dad of all people handed me the big grocery bag of recruiting letters. Now I was getting triple-teamed. I sat there staring at the envelopes, too scared to even touch them. Which is stupid, I know, because how dangerous can an envelope be? It's not like there are snakes or something inside. Or rats, yuck. But you'd have thought there were cobras tucked into those letters, the way I was looking at them.

  Curtis caught on pretty quick what I was up to because he started tiptoeing around like someone had died—he gets the dry heaves around a phone normally, let alone a high-stakes situation like this. And Dad patted me on the shoulder with a "Good luck, sport." Finally I took the phone and envelopes and went into the little office off the kitchen, Smut curled up beside me with her tail thumping at how exciting this all was, and all my letters that might be my ticket to college. And I didn't throw up. But I got pretty close once or twice.

  All the coaches, all the letters, said I could call whenever, which was crazy because what if I called at two a.m.? Although I guess it'd be pretty stupid of a prospect to demonstrate she can't even tell time. Maybe it was too late already ... Although it wasn't late at all. It wasn't even supper time yet.

  If I didn't get this done, Win would eat me alive. And then Mom would come over to my dead, eaten body and say how disappointed she was that I wasn't helping Win's therapy. And then Coach K and everyone else in school would say how unsurprised they were that it had taken me so little time to screw up, that of course I'd fail at phone calls considering I couldn't even manage point guard ... It was like every person I knew was squeezed into that little office with me, whispering what a loser I was.

  Smut licked my hand and gave me one of those worried looks she's so good at, like no matter what anyone said she still loved me. Which was a boost. And it got me to pick up the phone and dial, hoping like crazy it'd go to voice mail, although what would I say then? I hadn't even thought about that, which is so stupid because that's one thing that's actually easy and doable. I should have at least written something down...

  Here's what I can remember of the U of M call:

  A WOMAN: Hello?

  ME: Um, hello. This is D.J., um, Schwenk. I met you like a month ago—

  HER: Oh, yes, D.J.! (How could she remember me like that? She has hundreds of girls to keep track of.) It's great to hear from you.

  ME: Oh...

  HER: So how are you doing?

  ME: Um, okay ... Is this a good time? You know, to call?

  HER: Sure it is. You sound a little nervous.

  ME: Well, yeah. A little...

  HER: Well, you shouldn't be. This is just a chance for the two of us to get to know each other a bit. No pressure at all.

  ME: Oh. We had our first game yesterday—

  HER: You know, we can talk basketball later. Right now I'm a lot more interested in you
. You know, I didn't have a chance to ask earlier—do you have any pets?

  ME: Yeah. A dog. (Smut immediately tries to climb into my lap.)

  HER: What's his name—or her name? Is it a boy or a girl?

  ME: Her name is Smut ... It's goofy, I know.

  HER: (Laughing.) It's a great name. I bet there's a great story behind it.

  ME: Not really...

  By this time I was sweating so bad, the phone was practically sliding out of my hand. I don't know why I was sweating, because as you can see the coach couldn't have been nicer. But just knowing I had to talk was a killer.

  Eventually, though, my heart stopped pounding quite so much, and I figured out how to hold the phone with a tissue to soak up the sweat, and I actually, you know, communicated. She asked how Win was doing, and was super nice to ask if I even wanted to talk about him and his accident and stuff. You'd think I wouldn't considering how many hours I'd talked about it already, but sometimes there's still stuff to say. So instead of saying he was okay, I described what recovery means when you've got a C5-C6 incomplete stable spinal cord injury. Although I left out the part about how he's a total pain in the butt. And she said she'd love to have me visit again soon, and that the U of M was having a great season so far and she'd like to see me play and maybe if she was in Wisconsin sometime she would.

  I didn't get bitten by snakes, not once. But when I got off the phone I was shaking, I was so spent. It was just talking, I know, but it was the hardest talking I'd ever done. Plus she hadn't even wanted to talk sports, which is the one topic I'm halfway decent at! My voice was all scratchy too. All I wanted to do...

  All I wanted to do was to talk to Brian Nelson. There. I'll admit it. After all that torture, I wanted to talk to the only person I've ever been able to really talk to. Like over the summer when we were painting the barn. Or this fall when I was stuck in Seattle with Win, and Win was refusing to talk to the doctors or anyone else or to me. During that time Brian and I talked every day, for hours sometimes. And sure, we'd gab about Brian's football season and movies and funny things that had happened, but he also helped me understand what was going on with Win, to get inside Win's head better than anyone else in the world could, and whenever I complained he'd just agree that it sounded really hard without ever once saying I was wimping out, or criticizing Win either, which would have been just as tough to hear. I've never in my life known anyone as good at talking as Brian, talking in a understanding, heart-to-heart way without all that baggage and pretending that most people clog up their conversations with.