Chapter 2 Legal Jargon
MIA
I read the contract on the bus, brightness turned all the way down.
Section 9. Termination before sixty days forfeits remaining payment.
Sixty days. My stomach drops.
My phone buzzes. Chloe.
Did you sign it?
Signed. Delivered. Officially the worst decision I've ever made.
Caleb is already at our table when I get to the cafeteria. He doesn't stand. He nods at the chair across from him.
I sit anyway. Money doesn't care about pride.
"My father wants to meet you," he says.
"When?"
"Friday." He looks up. "He doesn't like surprises. He likes information. Have some ready."
"What kind of information?"
"The kind that makes you sound worth thirty thousand dollars." He leans back. "If he smells weakness, he'll eat you alive. Don't give him anything."
"I'm not scared of your father."
"You should be." It comes out fast, like he didn't mean to say it. "He doesn't want things. He acquires them. You included, now."
"I'm not an acquisition." I fold my arms. "I'm a line item. There's a difference."
Something shifts in his face. Almost respect.
"Friday," he says. "Wear something that isn't your hoodie."
"I don't own something that isn't my hoodie."
He doesn't answer that. He looks down at his tray.
Chloe drops into the seat beside me. "Well?" She looks between us. "You two look like you're negotiating a hostage exchange."
"Close enough."
Caleb stands, tray in hand. He hesitates like there's more he wants to say. There isn't. He walks off.
Chloe watches him go. "What was that?"
"His dad wants to meet me Friday."
"Richard Kessler." She says the name like it tastes bad. "My mom cleaned houses in that neighborhood one summer. Said the wives wear their jewelry like body armor."
"Great. Love that for me."
"Are you sure about this?"
"I signed it." I push my tray away. "There's no sure. There's just done."
She doesn't push. That's the thing about Chloe.
I catch Caleb in the hallway outside the locker room after my shift, phone pressed to his ear, voice low.
"I said I'll handle it. No, I don't need you to handle it for me." A pause. "Because I'm not seventeen anymore."
He hangs up. Sees me standing there. Something closes over his face fast.
"How long were you standing there?"
"Long enough to know your dad likes control more than he likes you."
I expect anger. Instead something like relief crosses his face.
"Friday," he says instead of answering. "Seven o'clock. I'll pick you up."
"I can find my own way to your father's tower."
"I know you can." He studies me a second too long. "I'd still rather drive."
I don't answer that. I walk past him into the equipment room and start pulling stick tape off the shelf.
Coach Daniels finds me stacking jerseys near closing.
"Heard about the arrangement," he says.
"It won't affect my work here."
"Didn't say it would." He studies me. "That boy's got real scouts watching him this season. First ones that ever mattered. Whatever you two are doing, don't cost him that."
"It won't."
"See that it doesn't."
He walks off. I lock up and sit on the bench a minute longer than I need to, the contract still open on my phone like it's daring me to reread it.
Danny texts before I make it out the door. A photo of his skates, laces frayed almost through. Whatever. Not a big deal.
It's a big deal. I text back something easy and shove the phone in my pocket before the guilt sets in.
I lock the rink doors and walk home. Friday. Seven o'clock. Richard Kessler waiting behind glass walls in a tower that probably costs more to heat for a month than my mother's whole treatment plan.
I think about the crack in Caleb's voice on that phone call. Whatever thirty thousand dollars is buying his father, it isn't peace of mind. Not for him. Not for me either.
My phone buzzes once more before I reach my building.
Wear the green dress if you have one. Cameras will be there before we even get inside.
I don't have a green dress. I don't tell him that.
I stand outside my building and stare at the message until the screen dims on its own.
I call Chloe instead of going inside.
"I need a green dress by Friday," I say. "Don't ask why."
"I'm always asking why. That's the whole friendship." Rustling on her end. "My cousin has one. Might fit. What happened to just wearing the hoodie?"
"Richard Kessler happened."
"Say less." A pause. "You okay, Mia? Really."
"I don't know yet." It's the most honest thing I've said all day. "Ask me again after Friday."
I hang up and climb the stairs. My mom is at the kitchen table when I let myself in, a mug of tea in front of her, the folder of hospital paperwork pushed to one side like she thinks I haven't seen it.
"You're back late," she says.
"Practice ran long."
"Practice." She raises an eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling it."
"Mom."
"I saw the article, Mia. The whole school probably saw the article." She wraps both hands around the mug. "Caleb Kessler."
"It's not real."
"I know it's not real." Her voice softens. "I just want to know you're not doing something you'll regret."
"I'm doing something that pays for your chemo." I sit across from her. "That's the only part that matters right now."
"That's not the only part that matters to me."
I don't have an answer for that, so I don't give her one. She lets it go, the way she lets most things go these days, like she's saving her energy for the fights that actually matter.
"Eat something," she says instead. "You look thin."
"I'm fine."
"You're always fine." She almost smiles. "Get some sleep. Friday's going to be a long day."
She has no idea how long. I don't tell her about Richard Kessler, or the tower downtown, or the way Caleb's knuckles went white around his phone in that hallway. Some things I keep for myself, the way I've kept everything for myself since my father left and never came back.
I go to bed still wearing my jacket, phone charging on the nightstand, contract still sitting open in a browser tab I can't bring myself to close.
Friday. Seven o'clock. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but all I can think about is the sound of Caleb's voice saying I'm not seventeen anymore, and wondering what it is his father did to make a boy that big sound that small.
