Page 17 of The Frathole

He’s right. I’ve already been accepted to the grad program for risk management, and Aiden’s received his acceptance letter to Peach State. It’s not like we won’t have time to hang, yet how he’s acting makes me think he might not even want to be around me when he’s on campus.

I use the garden shovel to create another hole and place another plant before checking the time on my phone. “Well, if I want to get to Aiden’s rec game, I better go.”

“I appreciate the help while you’re here,” Dad says before I head out.

At the rec center, I find Aiden on the basketball court with several kids I recognize as his friends from school. I came at a good time because he’s flying down the court, the guys on his tail. He spins his wheelchair, faking a move, but his opponent recovers quickly, blocking the shot. Aiden tosses the ball to a teammate, who dribbles toward the goal. The opposing players abandon Aiden and swarm their new target, leaving my bro wide open. Aiden’s teammate takes full advantage of the opportunity, returning the ball, and Aiden sinks one into the net.

His team cheers him on before he spins around, and when he sees me, he gives a dramatic bow before receiving high fives and fist bumps. Reminds me what a social guy he’s always been. That’s one of the many differences between Aiden and me. Not that I avoid people, but part of what I enjoy about the frat is that it forces me to push myself into talking to people, making friends, because if I were on my own, I would just squirrel myself away.

I sit in the bleachers and watch the rest of the game, noticing how effortlessly he soars across the court. Easy as he makes it seem, I know life is so much harder for him than it’s ever been for most of the other kids he plays with, or me. But he makes the adjustmentshe’s had to make since the accident look like second nature. Proud as I am of him, it’s still difficult when I know it shouldn’t be this way. It’s the sort of thought that—like so many of my thoughts—I try to push away, but it sits there, always in the back of my mind.

Survivor’s guilt, my therapist calls it.

Aiden’s team wins the game, and he’s sweaty as hell after he finishes up, the dark brown bangs we both get from Dad soaked through.

“Did you see me kicking their asses?”

“I did. You shouldn’t have hogged the ball like that, though.”

He laughs as he slips past me toward the car.

“How’s stuff going?” I ask.

“Pretty good. Did Mom and Dad tell you I got into the play?”

“Wait, what? They definitely did not.” I’m kind of pissed at them for not mentioning it as soon as I got home.

“I told them I wanted to tell you,” he clarifies, but I still don’t know that I give them a pass.

“What is it?”

“It’s a Canadian play. You know the story of that axe murderer, Lizzie Borden. Alleged, I guess.”

“I’m pretty sure she can’t sue you for defamation from the grave.”

“It takes place after she’s acquitted. She becomes an acting teacher, and her student winds up going through an exercise where she tries to get into what really happened the night of her parents’ murder.”

“The hell?”

“I’m the love interest Lizzie Borden kills her parents over. Well, or not. You’ll have to see to find out.”

“Um…”

“Yeah, weird shit, but it’s cool.”

“I was thinking you were gonna sayMy Fair Ladyor something.”

“Dude, have you heard me sing?”

“I haven’t seen you act either.” I glare at him, and I know him well enough to read the guilt in his wavering gaze.

“I was taking theater as an elective, and the teacher does the play. He encouraged me to audition.”

“And you didn’t even mention this to me?” I try to keep my cool, but I can’t help but sound hurt. I like knowing what’s going on in his life.

“It was an audition. I could have been shit and not gotten the part.”

“And what’s your excuse forafterthat?”