Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
I’ve barely gotten any further in the text when I sense a presence standing above me.
“You look like you’re having so much fun.” Kole’s hazel eyes shine in amusement, even through his glasses.
“This is worse than getting punched in the face.”
He takes the seat next to me. “Yes, well, as we established, you find being punched fun, so …”
I want to argue with him that it’s not so much fun, but telling him that hurting makes me feel alive is probably not that much better.
“What are you working on?” he asks.
“Digestion. Fun stuff.”
“What are you struggling with?”
“All of it. Sometimes I wonder if my brain is an actual brain or if maybe it’s, like, an avocado.”
Kole laughs. “Want some help?”
Yes. “Nah, it’s okay. Thanks though.”
“Seriously, I’m premed. I could talk to you about the digestive system all day.”
I bite my lip. Do I really want Kole to see how much of a dumbass I am? Then again, he saw me pick a fight for absolutely no reason, and you can’t get more dumbass than that. A smarter guy would work to put distance between us, not encourage a friendship that I’m sure I’ll screw up. “If you’re okay with it.”
“More than okay.” He pulls my laptop closer. “I took this course freshman year. I can totally help you. I probably still have all my notes too.”
“You … keep your notes?”
“If I’m going to go to med school, I need to be good at note and record keeping. Okay, where should we start?”
“I was trying to memorize all the technical terms for the functions of each organ, but I gave up on that. I can’t even remember all the parts to the intestinal tract. There are three segments of the small intestine alone.”
Kole nods. “Okay, and what’s your problem? Is it spelling the words, remembering them, what?”
“I’m not the type of guy to look at a text and memorize it. I don’t have a photographic memory.”
“Neither do I. We use mnemonic devices to help remember.”
“What’s that?”
Kole takes my notebook and writes Intestinal Tract.
Duodenum.
Jejunum.
Ileum.
Cecum.
Appendix.
Colon.
Sigmoid colon.
A concentration line forms above his brow, and then he starts writing. “Defenseman Josi ices Crosby and chirps Sceviour. DJICACS.”
“Sorry, what?”
“If you remember this sentence, you’ll remember the letters the intestinal tract starts with, and then it will be easier to pull the words from your brain.”
“So to recall words, I have to learn … more words. That makes no sense.”
“I tried to make it hockey related.”
“All that really told me is you’re a Pittsburgh fan, and that’s just blasphemous.”
“Let me guess, you love Boston.”
“Nope. Was a huge fan of Buffalo because they drafted me, but having to turn it down kind of soured me on them.”
“Why’d you turn it down?”
I eye him and think about how much to tell him. The smart answer: nothing. Keeping a layer of distance between us is a good thing. That doesn’t stop my mouth from answering, “Had to.”
“Oh. Because of your parents?”
I frown. “You know about that?”
“Your brother told me.”
“When did you talk to my brother? Is he telling you shit about me? Let me guess, making excuses for my bad behavior …” I don’t realize my voice is raised until someone nearby shushes me, but I don’t like the idea of Kole and West sitting around talking about me like—
Kole’s hand lands on my forearm. “Calm down. It was the other day after your fight. We were in the corridor of the rink, and he said something about your attitude only getting shittier since your parents died. The way you talked about them, I thought they were busy working all the time. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
I pull out of his hold. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t kill them.”
Kole’s voice lowers. “Because it was a shitty thing that happened to you.”
“Yep.” Like whenever I talk about my dad and stepmom’s accident, I’m short and to the point.
I know it comes out cold and distant, but I need to remove myself from it emotionally.
West always worries that I haven’t cried since their deaths. He thinks I haven’t mourned properly. But I don’t see the point in crying over something I can’t change. I’m more angry than sad. My ruined future isn’t even a blip on why I’m so pissed.
They were happy. My siblings were happy. West and I might’ve been a handful, but with us gone and out of their house, they were living the dream of the perfect family. The house might be old, but they made it a home.
I don’t understand why they had to die.
Instead of making me sad, it makes me want to go to Heaven, if that place even exists, and punch God in the face. They didn’t deserve it, and the kids sure as fuck don’t deserve me and West to be their guardians.
“Sorry. We don’t have to talk about them,” Kole says. “You kind of disappeared there.”