Free What You Left Behind by Jessica Verdi Page A

by Hope an hour or two later. Same old story. But then something sort of miraculous happened. She was crying and crying, her sore little gums bared, two small white teeth only just starting to fight their way to the surface, her hands pulled into fists, making way more noise than a thing the size of a shoe box should be able to, and somehow I knew it was hunger crying, not teething crying, even though she had eaten right before I put her down. I knew it. So I made her some formula, pulled her into my lap, and she latched onto the bottle right away, her sobs subsiding almost instantaneously. It was like when my mom feeds her. Easy. Peaceful. Kind of awesome.
    She went right back to sleep when her bottle was finished. It was the first time I’ve ever gotten her to do that on my own.
    Since I was all amped up after that, I used the time to continue the Michael search.
    Michael Taylor Boston 1998 Ryden Brooks : 160,000 results and clear from the first page that they were all scraps of completely unrelated nothingness. Sometimes the Internet can be ostentatiously useless.
    So I switched missions and Googled UCLA day care . Way more productive. Turns out they have a campus day care that gives highly discounted rates to children of UCLA students if they meet the financial aid requirements. And hello, I’m poor as fuck.
    It’s all going to work out. Today is the day that my life finally starts to get back on track.
    I meet Mom in the kitchen. She looks up from her coffee and her book in surprise. (Mom reads a lot of paranormal trilogies. You’d think she was one of the girls at my school or something.) Then she takes in my practice gear and Hope all ready to go in her car seat, and her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”
    â€œGoing to soccer practice.”
    She blinks a few times, slowly, and then says, “You’re bringing the baby?”
    â€œNo. Alan’s gonna watch her.”
    â€œYou paying him?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œRyden.”
    â€œMom.”
    She sighs and puts down her coffee. “We need to talk, bud.” She pulls out the chair next to her.
    I glance at the clock. “I can’t right now. I have to be at practice in an hour, and I still have to show Alan how to heat up bottles and shit.”
    â€œI really don’t care. Sit down.”
    I don’t have time for this. But I sit, because I know that tone of voice, and I know she’s not going to let me go until I listen to what she has to say. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
    â€œEnough with the attitude, okay?” she says. “I’m on your side.”
    â€œI know,” I mumble.
    â€œGood. Now, explain this whole soccer thing to me. How on earth is that going to work?”
    â€œThe same way it always does.”
    Mom gives me a look. “What did I say about the attitude?”
    â€œI’m not trying to give you an attitude. I’m serious—soccer works the way it always does. I go to practice; I go to games; I come home. What’s to understand?”
    â€œWhat’s to understand is that you have a daughter now, and a job. And school. We talked about this. You have obligations, Ryden. Important ones. Soccer’s going to have to go.”
    I shake my head. “Soccer’s important. I can’t play in college if I don’t play this season.”
    Mom stares at me, her eyes bugging out of her head, as if I told her I’ve decided to become a woman or something.
    â€œWhat?” I ask.
    â€œBuddy,” she says softer, putting her hand on mine, “you can’t go to UCLA. I thought you understood that.”
    I yank my hand back. “The hell I can’t. That’s been the plan for almost two years! The coach wants me. When he called a couple of weeks ago, he said that they just need to see me play live, and then they’re going to make their official offer.”
    â€œThings are different now.”
    I push my chair