Unloved: Chapter 30

My knee is bouncing so rapidly I’m worried I’m gonna pull something before our away game this weekend, but the flurry of emotions is too high.

A fucking mandatory adviser meeting, with my math professor, like they’ve been invited to sit front row at my shame fest. All because I failed another test.

anything “Matthew?”

I shake my head, focusing on the man in front of me—my adviser, though I can’t remember his name.

My feet shuffle back and forth, the toe of my sneaker lightly kicking at the table leg over and over as I try not to bounce my knee.

.

“Is it just math, then?” he asks, but his tone tells me he’s already asked it. My cheeks heat.

“Failing? Yeah—I think—”

Someone knocks at the door before opening it and letting themselves in.

My professors, specifically Dr. Cipher, followed by a living nightmare.

“Dr. Tinley,” my adviser says, surprise evident in his voice. “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us today.”

Carmen smiles, tucking her short, wine-red hair back behind her ears and shaking his outstretched hand.

“I just got Freddy’s weighted grades finished to estimate his semester average, so when I saw the email, I figured I’d pop by.”

Fists clenched at my sides, I eye both teachers as they settle across from me at the conference room table.

“I thought this was math-specific,” I manage to spit out, but my tone is gruff enough that it seems to land like a hit to Carmen. “I’m passing biology. She doesn’t need to be here.”

There’s a tension in the room now, and I immediately regret my words and the attention they might bring. But my desire for her “Freddy,” she says, clearing her throat and sitting up a little straighter in her sharp blazer. “I’m not here for negative reasons. If anything, I’m here as an advocate.”

Biting back the disbelieving laugh is a physical feat.

“Whatever.” I shrug, leaning forward but bouncing my knee a little harder underneath the table to push the energy swirling in my body , because there’s nothing on this table I can fiddle with. “Let’s get this over with.”

Dr. Cipher clears his throat and carefully passes out the papers in his folder, photocopies of my last two failed tests. Carmen busies herself with picking at her nails, but out of the corner of my eye I clock her concerned gaze running over my test and then over my face.

It feels like nails scratching my skin there, and I close my eyes to heave a breath.

“As of now, Mr. Fredderic is going to fail again,” Dr. Cipher says plainly. He’s been an asshole all semester, and I’m pretty sure he’s never once bothered to glance at my file—considering I haven’t gotten a minute of extra time on anything.

Not that the extra time would help. Even with my mom and Archer’s help, I’d barely scraped by to graduate from high school. Now… I look around the room again.

Now that I’m alone, there’s no way I’m going to manage even that.

Someone knocks on the door, loud and impatient, interrupting whatever Dr. Cipher was in the middle of saying.

My adviser looks around and finally heads to open the door, seeming miffed at the interruption. Even more so when he opens it to reveal the odd couple in the doorway.

Coach Harris, stern-faced, arms crossed. And in front of him, dressed in an agglomeration of light green like it’s the first week of spring and not the middle of October, is Ro.

Ro with hair braided half up, her signature ribbon high on the top of her head, springy curls like a halo around her face—also stern, matching my coach like an intimidation tactic.

“We’re in the middle of a meeting—”

“I think we are supposed to be part of it, Mr. Hibberd.”

—now I remember his name. She pushes lightly on the door, letting herself inside the room without his permission, missing the glare Coach Harris sends the man on her behalf.

“Ms. Shariff, I believe I told you in my email that your presence was unnecessary for today.”

. The name makes me smile, but pride bleeds in. Her sweatshirt has a little kitten playing with a ball of green yarn that matches the color of her linen pants that look a little like pajama bottoms. She’s dressed exactly like herself, and holding her own against a bunch of stuffy collegiate assholes.

A little absurdly, I want to take a picture. Maybe send it to Tyler with the words Ro surveys the room briefly, her composure only cracking for a quick wink my way as she settles at my side before placing a thick binder on the table.

Coach Harris pats and squeezes my shoulder as he comes to stand on my other side.

“You did. However, as per school policy, considering Mr. Fredderic is a student athlete here on an athletics scholarship, his coach is to attend, if not often required. I am also his school-assigned tutor for the semester, and therefore should also be in attendance.”

Mr. Hibberd seems frustrated, which nearly makes me smile.

Ro hands out the packets she’s got in her folder. They’re highlighted and tabbed, I realize as she hands me a copy as well.

Carmen gives her a smile, but it looks a little forced. Ro doesn’t seem to notice—or if she does, she doesn’t care. And somehow, that makes me feel even better.

I’m not spinning anymore. There’s a peace in knowing Coach has my back, in knowing Ro’s here in of me.

“Matt Fredderic has documentation for his ADHD, dyslexia, and dyscalculia. I have been tutoring for four years now here at Waterfell, specifically with ADHD and dyslexia students, but this is my first student with dyscalculia.”

She flips the page and everyone in the room follows her direction.

“I have logs of his tutoring assistance dating back to freshman year. He has managed to stay within eligibility for three years now, failing only two classes, one of which he is in the midst of retaking—and succeeding in.” Ro gestures to Carmen Tinley quickly, who nods slightly and relaxes back in her chair, I’m sure admiring Ro in the way I am, too.

Mr. Hibberd gruffly cuts in. “We are aware of his success in biology, Ms. Shariff, but that isn’t the concern. Mr. Fredderic is failing his singular math credit.”

“He’s a communications major.”

Mr. Hibberd’s brow wrinkles. “So?”

“So? What are we torturing him for?” She flips through to another page, tabbed with purple sticky notes on everyone’s packets. “These are ten cases of comparable students who substituted a critical thinking course for mathematics in cases of dyscalculia. I think this is not only a viable option for Matt, but I believe it is the option this school can offer without bringing an internal investigation in the handling of learning differences and accommodations that have not been reported, nor offered, in this case.”

The entire room stretches in the silence, while my joy feels almost tangible.

No one, since my mother, has defended me so fiercely.

I think I’m in love with her—not even romantically, but on some soul level. I feel devoted to her.

When no one speaks, Ro clears her throat and stands up again, only to hand out another, single sheet, this one on online critical thinking courses offered and their costs for the school.

“Matt is a brilliant, talented student. When offered the correct accommodations, he thrives. It would be quite disappointing to see this school fail him in this.”

She smiles at me again, squeezing my shoulder with her delicate, slender fingers. I have to resist the urge to grab her in a hug and spin her around the room.

I’m walking on clouds as we leave the conference room, registration number for my new replacement course clenched in my hand as I follow a stomping Ro like a lost puppy.

“Ridiculous,” she mutters. “The way they treat you is absurd. Have they been like that to you the entire time?”

She doesn’t wait for my answer before continuing to stomp across the green, wind pulling some of her curls free until she looks a little more haphazard, softer, and I can’t stop staring at her.

“Accusing you of not applying yourself? God—I’m insulted you. To fight me on that? They don’t know about you.”

Ro swings back toward me, finger wagging toward my face. “Don’t listen to a single thing they said. You’re so smart and kind and I’m proud of you, so… So screw them! You’re better than all of them anyway, Matty. Smarter, too.”

I should laugh, but I can’t breathe.

. It pours over my skin like warmth and comfort. Home.

My entire soul feels like it’s fracturing, and she has no clue, still stomping across the parking lot toward what I now realize is her car. And I’m still following her.

“Sorry, I’m just.” She growls a little and shakes her head. “I’m done. I swear.”

“You can keep going,” I stammer. “I like you angry for me.”

She grins and laughs a little, breathing in deeply and out slowly as if to calm herself down.

“I am. Very angry for you. But I know you’ve got a practice to get to and I made you something.”

She opens her car door and reaches in for a little gift bag, handing it to me shyly.

“It’s silly, but I wanted to make you something for your first away game this weekend and the official start of your last season. So…” She shrugs again, all the fire from earlier seeming to bleed away into self-consciousness.

That has me ripping into the bag faster, pulling out a length of silky blue fabric. It’s a tie, embroidered with the Wolves’ logo and my number in pretty cursive with a star.

“A star?”

“You’re gonna play for Dallas, right? I felt like it would be good luck. It’s—”

“It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten. Ever, Rosalie.” I crush her into my chest without hesitation, kissing the top of her head and laying my cheek there as I rock us back and forth. “Thank you.”