Whistleblower ✓

17 | the interim coach

I squeezed Hanna tight.

"Can we go to Andre's?" she asked, her face still pressed against my shoulder. "It's really hot in here. I feel like I'm gonna pass out. Also, this is probably going to sound insensitive, given the circumstances, but can we stop and grab some iced coffee on the way there? You smell like Starbucks."

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After Hanna and I took turns showering and threw on clothes that weren't stained with coffee or sweat, we climbed into my car (me wincing when my bare thighs pressed down on the hot vinyl upholstery, Hanna letting out a string of curses when her elbow knocked against the blistering metal buckle of her seatbelt) and made our way to the drive through of the McDonald's at the end of the Rodeo.

We ordered three large black iced coffees.

Then, at Hanna's request, I dropped her off at Smart and Final so she could run in and grab a can of sweetened condensed milk—the secret ingredient to Vietnamese coffee.

A part of me had always been jealous of Hanna. Jealous that her parents were both around to teach her things about Vietnam you couldn't learn from Wikipedia. Jealous that she and her four younger siblings had all been to Hanoi more times than they could count on one hand.

More than anything, I think I was jealous that nobody questioned her when she told them she was Vietnamese.

When Hanna came back to the car, she had a can of sweetened condensed milk in one hand and a jumbo bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos in the other. The Cheetos, she explained when I shot her a disapproving look, had been in a display at check-out. What was she supposed to do, ignore them?

With our bountiful harvest secured, we headed to Andre's.

Andre lived with three other second string players in The Palazzo, the apartment complex most of the football team chose for it's proximity to the practice field and the Rodeo—and because it was, in true Garland football fashion, extraordinarily bougie.

There were fountains in the central courtyard, three separate gyms, a rock climbing wall, and a twenty-four-seven café stocked with a selection of pre-made organic salads, gluten-free sandwiches, and fresh-pressed juices. Whoever had designed the complex had clearly been aiming for the Italian villa aesthetic, but had gone a bit overboard with the friezes and potted palm trees and faux-candle chandeliers.

The resulting blight of a building looked like it belonged on the Las Vegas strip—not four blocks from one of the best private universities in California.

Andre's mom was a cardiologist, and his dad was a San Diego real estate agent. Money had never been an issue for the Shepherds. But I never felt the financial divide between us as keenly as I did standing in the marble-floored lobby, hair wet from the shower and chipped toenail polish on display in a pair of Old Navy flip-flops, spelling my name out for the woman behind the security desk so she could print me up a visitor's badge.

Hanna and I didn't come over often.

Mostly because Andre's roommates were obsessed with video games and always hogged the living room, but also because The Palazzo was such a hassle, between the guest parking and the security check-in.

But their air conditioning was top notch.

When Andre came down to the lobby in sweatpants and some Adidas slides to claim us, he found Hanna and me sprawled on the couches in front of the eight-foot-tall fake fireplace, basking in the artificial chill.

"Ugh, finally," Hanna said. "I need your can opener."

Andre frowned for a moment before I held out the large iced coffee we'd brought for him. Then his eyes lit up.