Fadeaway by E. Vickers (sight word readers TXT) 📕

Those weeks after his injury were some of the best times they’d spent together.

Now she’s writing college essays and elbow-deep in AP classes and he’s…spreading tar and laying shingles, barely keeping up in his classes. He’s still hoping for college, and the verbal agreement with Arizona State makes it seem possible, because the only way he can afford it is with that scholarship.

But the football coach’s words echo inside him. An injury could happen anytime, anywhere. What happens to scholarship players if they get injured? No way colleges would spend all that money for a damaged product, right? Do you have to pay the scholarship money back? Do they kick you out right when it happens?

Jake paces the roof. He has to relax. He forces himself to sit, breaks the seal on the Gatorade, and leans back on his elbows. But damn, that doesn’t feel right. His left elbow screams when he puts any weight on it at all, probably from lifting shingles all day.

No worries. Jake has planned for this. He rolls onto his side and reaches into his pocket for one little round circle of relief, better than any coin or currency.

But it isn’t there.

He hasn’t even put his hand in that pocket all day. How could it have fallen out? He stands up and reaches deeper, his fingers hoping for anything but soft, worn fabric. He turns the pocket inside out.

No.

No.

No.

The pill is small, but it would stand out on this black roof, wouldn’t it? Jake crawls over the whole thing, darting around like an animal. He scrambles to the edge and looks at the dirt below. Could it have fallen there?

The ground is a muddy mess of boot prints and tire tracks. But maybe he can find it and clean it off. Hell, he’ll take it dirty. All he needs is enough white to see it. He jumps to his feet, and the ground seems to sway beneath him.

The desperation leads his mind to even more desperate questions:

Even if he does find this pill, what then?

Where will the next one come from?

How many does he have at home?

How many refills will the doctors give him before they want more testing or at least some answers?

It’s one more reason Jake should have played football: four months when he was expected to hurt, when there wouldn’t be so many questions.

He needs a plan. A way to get more. Because with or without football or basketball or roofing or school or any of it, he knows there is hurt ahead, because he can feel it and see it stretched behind him for all his life: the hurt that comes from never being enough.

Something inside whispers, Your mom can’t afford this anymore. But they’ve met their deductible, and really, he doesn’t have to quit roofing to focus on basketball after all. They tell you sports shape character, but won’t this job build muscle and character and his ability to work with a team in ways that shooting around in the gym or reps in the weight room never could?

He sends a text to his boss: Hey Tim. Never mind about today being my last day. I can stay until November.

But none of this answers the real question: Where will the painkillers come from? How can he fix this problem of the empty pocket—and his empty wallet—and thereby fix all his other problems?

And then there they are. Those words again.

An injury could happen anytime, anywhere.

The thought is so surprising and so perfect it makes him laugh: a short, clipped sound with no happiness in it at all. He steps to the edge of the roof as a plan begins to form in his mind.

Careful with the arms and hands. You can rehabilitate an injury in time, but you can’t rebuild a shot.

It was your left knee that was injured last time, so better to protect that one.

Even from here, he can hear the roar from the football stadium as the Warriors score without him.

He flexes and stretches the muscles in his back that he’s counting on to soften his landing. He realizes how lucky it is that he knows his body so well, knows exactly what it’s capable of. Knows how to hurt himself just enough that he can get what he needs to heal.

But what if he can’t drive to the hospital afterward? Better to have a backup plan than to lie here for who knows how long. Kolt brought girls to this hillside—probably this very cul-de-sac—for postgame make-out sessions last year. “Cul-de-sex,” he called it, even though Jake knows for a fact Kolt’s never gone all the way.

No, Jake doesn’t want Kolt or his girl-of-the-week or anybody else to find him. But he still needs a backup, so he texts his boss again.

Finishing up now. Leaving your slate cutter at the site in case you need it this weekend.

Tim is a good guy, but he’s obsessed with his new slate cutter. He’ll be here in ten minutes, and if Jake’s not already gone, it’ll be for good reason.

He leans over and gauges the distance to the ground below. Maybe fifteen feet. A hoop and a half. Not so far, really. But far enough.

It’s startling how quickly the plan formed and the details fell into place. Almost as though it were meant to be, as if this were the only way forward.

Because honestly, if there were another way, Jake would take it. But the emptiness in his pocket and the hurt in his heart are too much. He’ll do what must be done.

Then three things happen at exactly the same time:

Jake closes his eyes and steps off the roof.

Luke steps out from behind the construction dumpster.

From the stadium below, the crowd roars.

Here’s what I write for the police:

You maybe know about the accident.

The night of the first home football game

I rode my bike up to where Jake was working.

Thought I would surprise him with some Laffy Taffy,

since it seemed like he’d run out of Jake