The Season of Shay and Dane (2 page)

I trusted him for all
it was worth.

He’d made sure I stayed
up in academics too. One thing my mom insisted on for me and Katie. “You’re
twins,” she’d recite, “you have double the advantage to make good grades
helping each other out, and getting a good education is going to give you much more
than I ever could, and everything in my heart I wanted for you to have.”

The track kids got let
out of school early to head to their meets and sometimes that was the only
reason any of them ever joined. I was having to miss afternoon classes entirely
and he reminded me that not only did the big universities want a strong athlete,
but they had to be able to stand up academically, and he found me a tutor. And
to make it better, he had arranged for the three one hour sessions each week to
be in the burger joint in the evening.

By the time my senior
year came and universities started sending their scouts out, he had me ready. And
I performed. Even when I felt like my stomach yanked itself into a knot every
time I got down in the starting position with all of the eyes looking on. And two
weeks into the season—the morning the phone call came from Yale asking coach
about me and arranging for a brief meeting ahead of the track meet that they
were coming to—was the day that I felt like I had finally given something back
to him.

From then on they were
at every meet until early spring, when a decision had to be made about the
university I’d attend.  It was hard enough knowing Ivy League scouts were
watching my every race my senior year, just seeing if talent could supercede
the family name, which I didn’t have, but I had to prove everything each time over
when the starting gun shot.

And when those tests
were passed, I was called to bring my family and come for a visit to Yale to meet
with the blue bloods in person for an interview.

I was going to be flying
halfway across the country to meet people in a world that was carved out for
the privileged.

I remember walking up
those chiseled stone steps that morning—how everything about me said I was an
outsider, the unironed black slacks and gray sweater that was a little too
large, with my best brown leather shoes that didn’t really match, and my hair—mom
suggested I pay attention to it and keep the thickness of it smoothed down. I
felt like a six year old boy who’d been forced into wearing scratchy,
uncomfortable clothes to church.

To even think back of the
blank expression that I must have had as I walked through the campus just getting
there, passing lofty building after lofty building—Vanderbilt Hall, Phelps Hall,
one after another, towering monuments honoring those families, all of their
status and wealth on display for everyone to see. And when I got to the top of
the steps, my stomach knotted—just the way it did at the start of a race. I reached
and pulled open the massive door—only to see what looked like a gilded palace. Ornate,
dark wood lined the grand walls from floor to ceiling. And the ceiling was as
high and long as the building was tall, and from it, five monstrous, dimly lit
chandeliers, with the exact same distance spaced between them, looked like they
floated down—stopping midair, and for as far off as the long corridor stretched,
each black and white, crisscrossing, diagonal tile was perfect and shiny, as if
they’d never been walked on.

I had found my way to a
meek receptionist who led me to a waiting room and went off to tell them I’d arrived.
She brought me to a tall mahogany door that must have been as old as the
building itself and opened it for me. I paused just a moment before going in
and thought of the words coach said when he saw me off at the airport.
“Just
be your unassuming self, and relax. They’re only people like you and me Dane. You’ll
be fine.”
He was right. I looked at the four of them seated across the long
table, three men, one woman—their faces still bright with color, unlike most
people their age with sallow skin, as if they had never worried a day in their
life. And slowly I began answering their questions. . . and I watched, as the
stoic expressions of those blue bloods softened to a,
“Young man with a special
talent.”
You could see them forming the thought for themselves—country boy done
good. Now, not only did the scouts want me there, but the university as a whole
seemed interested. And two weeks later, when I took the envelope out of the mailbox
and tore my fingers through it. . . I opened a chance to give my family a
better life.

Kip patted my back. “I
think you’re good to go Dane. Get a long night’s sleep and you’ll feel brand
new in the morning.”

My body felt mostly
recovered. It wasn’t the little boy body lacking in tone and form anymore, I
was conditioned, and sometimes I got it—that I pushed myself a little too hard,
but each time I crossed the finish line for Yale and heard the cheering and
stomping, well,—there’s not much else like it.

I take a minute
standing up from the table, savoring the restful state my body’s in and slowly stretching
my legs.

“Top form for a star
athlete, huh Dane?” Kip had his back to me as he looked over his appointment
book.

“Working on it,
thanks.” I yank my towel tight around my waist again and head off down to the
locker room to dress and walk back to the athlete’s housing. Tomorrow’s the
last chance I have for an early morning run through campus, I tell myself—to get
to hear only the pounding of my own two feet on the familiar path I’ve come to love,
before there are thousands of students you can barely manage to walk among.

shay

“Be sure and call us
when you get to your apartment.” Mom’s nervousness about me travelling back and
forth hasn’t gone away in the nearly two years since it began, not to mention
her anxiety about me living on my own without a roommate.

I give her one last hug
before I board my flight. “Don’t worry, I will. And I’ll be seeing you in a
couple of months. I’ll be back before you know it, as soon as the semester
ends.” She gives me a weak smile. I can’t tell if it’s weak because she’s more
sad this time for some reason—there was something not right about it.

I turn to give dad a
hug. “Love you Dad.”

“We love you too. You
better hurry along. You’re already one day later than you wanted to be getting
back.” He picks up my carry-on bag and computer case and hands them to me.

I walk towards the line
forming to depart, leaving them standing at the gate. I tell myself the smile is
nothing, and turn around to wave before I’m out of sight.

*
* *

The flight was
uneventful and fast, what I’ve come to rely on.

Jenny was waiting as
promised to give me a ride home. She’s been the biggest help I’ve had since
getting into the graduate program. She’s one year ahead of me and in real time
that amounts to about ten years of good advice being passed down, including the
suggestion that I take a look at the vacant apartment in her building that was just
one level below hers—which I did.

She came with me when I
signed my lease, and helped me and my parents unload the few furnishings that I
had. As far as apartments go it’s not anything special, but I’ve made it my own.

“A studio
flat
,”
Dad said as he walked through it, seeing if it had everything essential and working
that I might need. “Well, I think it’ll be just fine,” he offered as he reached
inside the refrigerator and adjusted the temperature.

I thought it was
perfect.

I didn’t care if the
bathroom sink was still that robin’s egg blue from the 70’s, or that there
wasn’t a real division for a bedroom, at least that way I could feel safe being
able to see from which corner any little sound came that I heard. I was just excited
at the thought of living on my own for the first time, even if it was just a
college apartment. And actually, it kind of reminded of our house from the
outside, and that made me feel even more comfortable.  You could tell that
there were many wealthy families wanting to live near Yale when it was built,
and those old, large houses eventually got dissected inside into many boarding
rooms—then in time, many small apartments. And if we were standing inside of my
house, my apartment would be in the same place as the dining room and about the
same size.

It only took me about a
week to get it looking the way I wanted it to. It’s amazing what you can do
with a little frugal shopping to a nearly empty square.

The walls had been
painted a milky cream color, which was a nice contrast to the beautiful crown
molding stained so dark it was nearly black, that lined the whole room; I just
needed to add some brightness to the space. I bought a pine daybed and covered it
with a light pink duvet with tiny rosettes scattered over it and put it below
the one large window that I had. The old fireplace, making me think that this
once was a bedroom or part of one, wasn’t useable anymore, but it was pretty
anyway I thought, and I set some large candles on the flat stones of its
opening. I hung eyelet curtains with a ruffled edge over the window above my
daybed, and the small one above the kitchen sink. Mom and dad gave me a quaint round
table and two chairs that they had stored in the attic. I found a light green
and white gingham tablecloth and bought a vase and flowers and arranged the
table in the middle of the room. A giant, soft, white rug spread between the
bed and table, nearly connecting them and covering the original, cold, well-worn
wooden floor—some new, fluffy towels and washcloths on a narrow stand in the
small bathroom, and I had made myself a home.

Jenny couldn’t believe
how it looked, comparing it to hers; that she thought looked like the inside of
a high school locker.

I was glad she was just
one floor above me. . . and every once and awhile I remind mom of that.

“Shay! Over here!” she
calls over the crowd shuffling about, the wheels of their luggage rattling on
the concrete. I wave at her with my one free hand.

“Thanks for coming to
get me. Have you been here long?” We walk over to luggage pickup, waiting for mine
to come around.

“Nope. Just got here
about fifteen minutes before you did—and have I got a bulletin for you! Of all
people! Professor
Dick-dick
has a list of three labs he’s raving mad
about—and your name’s on the top! Your lab’s not ready. What gives?” She
reaches to help me yank my luggage off.

“Great,” I muster,
envisioning his pitiless ascent on me in the morning. “I don’t know,” I say,
trailing off as my thoughts begin wandering, “some supplies hadn’t arrived yet
and I’d planned to be back yesterday, before his usual storming about.” I kept
telling myself on the flight that I wasn’t getting lazy, but I really wanted to
stay a little longer. Maybe I am getting lazy. The visit was just so different
this time, and it’s not like the lab is a
ship
, everything isn’t—it
can’t be—in militant order, some things are out of my control, even as hard as
I try, fetal pigs don’t arrive on time, someone cuts their finger, or better
yet, sticks it in formaldehyde and spends the rest of their life schleffing off
and re-growing skin in the spot that got saturated from it—stuff happens. “And call
him Richards,” I say half-scoldingly and frustrated. “What will people think if
they hear you—if he hears you?”

It’s not a secret he’s
a right pain to deal with, and Jenny fearlessly knows which buttons to push. As
if it’s a humorous release for her to be able to keep coping through the
semesters. For me, I was so glad to get into such a selective degree that it
may have clouded me as to what to expect and until now I didn’t take it for
granted, not even a little.

My interview for the
spot had been absolutely professional, and when I arrived the first day I
thought that that tone would continue on. And my,
Welcome to your first day
at Yale’sMolecular Biology Program
, became his—
“Just because you got
into this program doesn’t mean you’re going to remain in it. I don’t want to
know your personal problems. I don’t want any excuses—I’m not your friend. You
will perform beyond your own expectations and perform to mine—and then— I’ll
decide how far you get.”

It hit me fast and hard
as it should have. I was in one of the best programs in the country and
hundreds of other hopeful students didn’t get accepted into it. There weren’t
going to be too many pats on the back—with him maybe none, and rightfully I
needed to prove myself for being one of the students that did get in.

*
* *

“Shay? We’re here.”
Jenny nudges my arm. I guess I had leaned my head back and fallen asleep on the
drive home.

“Sorry. Are you hungry?
I’ll order us a pizza,” I offer, getting myself awake.

“Sure. Sounds great,”
she calls from around the trunk, taking out my luggage. I pile my things
together from the backseat. I know I’ll have to get to the lab extra early
tomorrow to beat Richards to my room and finish setting up. There’s just one
more day before classes start again and I don’t want to spend it with steely
eyes looking over my shoulder.

dane

“Hey dude, smells great
in here!” Vince closes the door behind his girl-of-the-night. “You got any
leftovers? We’re starving,” he asks already rooting in the refrigerator.

I could’ve been landed
with a lot worse roommate, but ideally
no
roommate is at the top of my
wants for housing next year. Senior year has a few perks for us athletes, one of
them being a room to yourself if you get your name on the list early enough.

“Sure, help yourself. Lasagna’s
on the bottom shelf.” One thing I did know how to do well on my own was cook.
Mom gave me a few lessons for some easy meals before I came out here, so I
wouldn’t be left eating junk in the cafeteria all the time. If I’m lucky enough
to make it just for myself, it’ll last a couple of days, but I’ve come to be
heavily relied on as food supplier in our two bedroom suite.

I catch a glimpse of
the new face standing by his side, lightly teetering from one foot to the other
to keep her balance. I’m sure they’ve been drinking all night at
Gathering House
.
If anyone wants freedom from the rules after their first year here, they
usually ended up sharing a room there, sometimes four of them piled into a
bedroom together—famously known as the athlete’s
designated
off-campus
house, just down the street. It’s a monstrous, dilapidated shell of how nice it
once was I’m sure. Some professional athlete alumni years ago passed it down as
owner after his claim to status, and leased it to athletes, and encouraged the
free-for-all that it is now. Not that I’m against having a good time, but the
one time I did go in it the scene had to be like a bachelor party for an NBA player
in some hotel. Being raised by a single mom, I had too much respect for women,
and if any of the
goons
found out that I was 22 and still a virgin I’d
be their centerpiece for an unrelenting game of Dane Must Score.

I switch off the
television and head to my room as he microwaves a heaping plate of lasagna.
Entirely lacking in any kind of manners towards women—I only know this because
of two semesters of
unavoidable
observation
and things like him
thinking the extent of being a nice guy is showering with one of them to clean
her up after she gets sick in the bathroom. Anyway, he’ll no doubt grab two
forks from the drawer and eat from the plate like it’s a dog bowl. But at least
this way he’ll have a full stomach and maybe crash before I’m resigned to force
my head under the pillow to muffle out sounds of pleasured moaning and a squeaking
bed frame gnashing into the wall. . .