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On principle, downloading mobile phone apps was a tedious and stifling activity. Cat and Laila had fully embraced the devil’s temptation and, from the glimpses Jean had caught of their phone screens, had multiple pages of icons in every color on the visual spectrum, each gaudier than the next. Even Jeremy admitted that twitter* was a fun way to connect with friends, even though from everything Jean had heard about the rotten bird app led him to believe it was a toxic cesspit—but then again, Jeremy had something nice to say about nearly everything. As far as Jean was concerned, the extent of his phone’s purpose was to communicate with relevant team members, emergency staff, and Renee; or, at least, that had been his perspective before the start of his first semester at USC.
The whole ‘independence’ thing was about as inconvenient as it was jarring. For all of the perks he was begrudgingly beginning to accept, it became immediately evident that without some form of personal organization, he would be unable to keep up with his classes in any meaningful capacity—meaningful being defined, of course, by his ability to continue playing with the Trojans.
Enter Cat’s avid promotion of Google Calendar. As horrifying as the notion of giving his phone more reasons to buzz at inconvenient times was, she assured him that it was an efficient means of keeping all of his important appointments in one place, and that he could use the same login and password as his USC email so he wouldn’t have to memorize yet another useless set of access information. The first thing to be logged was the Trojan’s (lackluster) practice schedule. The second: the Exy game schedule. His biweekly mandatory appointments with Dobson. Classes. Cat recommended setting aside blocks during the week for grocery shopping in case he (in her words) “accidentally went shopping when hungry and ended up running into one of the freshmen with a cart filled exclusively candy, chips, three bottles of cheap wine, four tequila shots, a stuffed bear from the discount aisle that ‘looked sad,’ and a performative bag of baby carrots”—so even though he was 99.5% sure this would and could never happen, he added in times to buy appropriate ingredients for balanced meals.
Somewhere between this fourth and fifth set of logs, Jean noticed two things. First, the colors were… admittedly nice. Not so nice as a rainbow, or the green of Kevin’s eyes under the stadium lights, or Renee’s hair, or the particular flush of Jeremy’s cheeks when they took a long run—but nice nonetheless. Second, the buzz in his phone that told him when a given event was scheduled successfully kept some of the existential dread caused by the absurd, loosey-goosey, Trojan flexibility at bay.
By the end of the week, his calendar was booked daily from 12:01AM-11:59PM, with the two minutes surrounding midnight to be left free for spontaneity (and certainly not because it was still infuriating trying to remember when PM switched to AM on the 12-hour clock). Cat, noticing the frequency with which Jean’s phone buzzed with a new event alert, seemed to be off put by the system, even when he explained it to her quite calmly and normally. Laila assured her that as long as it was helping him feel more comfortable adjusting to life in LA, it was probably not a bad thing, which Jean was inclined to agree with. His Google Calendar setup meant that he was always where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to do.
It also meant that when unexpected events occurred, such as Jeremy calling him spontaneously mid-afternoon to discuss Shane Reed’s incapacity to attend Business Writing classes for the upcoming week, that Jean had his full schedule conveniently digitalized to forward to the relevant Trojans.
Jean received such a call during his allocated “Weeping Silently Into My Pillow” time—a semi-flexible, 30-minute slot that corresponded with Laila and Cat’s boba tea dates. Noting that the caller was Jeremy Knox, he picked up between the first and second rings instead of waiting for the third. “Yes?”
“Jean! Great! Okay, you picked up, awesome. Er, there’s been an incident. Kind o—hey let go of that! Kind of.” There was evidently some variety of general commotion transpiring, but this was not Jean’s problem.
“I always pick up. You are my captain and my partner. What is the incident?”
“Ah—shoot, please stop eating that—sorry, having seagull issues—so Shane apparently got a tad hecked up last night and decided he had spider monkey powers? Long story short, he fell out of a tree and is out with a concussion for the week. It isn’t so bad, but he said something about you guys doing… stats work this week in one of your classes? I don’t know, I kind of tuned out after the third time he said ‘derivative.’ Anyways, he’s not supposed to look at screens.” The background audio between Jeremy’s words had faded into an uneven rush. Jean wondered fleetingly what ‘seagull issues’ could possibly entail.
“And you are telling me this to prepare me for William’s inevitable incompetence in the goal?”
“What? No? Jean, that isn’t nice.”
“It is true. He favors his right side too heavily and it unbalances his blocks.”
“That’s not—the goal will be fine. I’m asking you because Shane’s your buddy in that class, and I figured I should find a replacement for the week while he’s out. I was wondering if you could shoot me your schedule so I could compare it with the others. Cat says you’re obsessed with your Google Calendar or something so you can just send me an invite from there.”
“I am not obsessed. It is practical.” He added after a moment, his morbid curiosity getting the best of him, “Has the seagull issue resolved?”
“Working on outrunning them as we speak. They’re persistent little guys! Anyhow, if you would be able to—”
“Yes, yes, I will share my class schedule with you. If you could relay the message to Shane that he is an insufferable dingbat who should put a shred of effort into preserving his health, I would greatly appreciate it.”
“I will not be telling him that. See you at evening practice!”
Immediately after hanging up, Jean navigated to his calendar, highlighted his class schedule, and sent it along to Jeremy. He thought no more on the matter other than briefly wondering what Jeremy had done to upset the seagulls. Seeing as seagulls were wretched creatures, he imagined the slight wouldn’t have had to be particularly offensive. That particular question having been more or less resolved, he allowed himself to return to weeping.
*****************
The seagulls, thankfully, had stopped giving chase by the time Jeremy made it to Bobalicious. He hadn’t intended to crash Laila and Cat’s date, but had already waved and made it halfway across the cafe before realizing that maybe they were enjoying one-on-one time. Laila beamed anyways, and dragged a third chair over to their table. Jeremy accepted it with a relieved smile. The blast of air conditioning streaming from the wall vent felt fantastic on the sheen of sweat in his bangs. He was about to double check that he wasn’t interrupting when his phone pinged with the backliner’s alert.
“Jean?” Cat guessed, taking a particularly pronounced slurp of her tea. A tapioca ball must have hit the back of her throat because a split second later she was gagging and Laila was clapping her back with the practiced patience of someone who had had to do this many times before.
“Yeah. Since Shane brained himself on a tree limb I asked him to send over his—hm.” A glance at Jean’s forwarded schedule had his brow creasing.
Laila quickly leaned across the table to spy on his phone while Cat managed a warbled, “Tell meee” through her attempt to choke down the remains of tapioca. He hesitated a moment, but eventually conceded to the fact that the girls would find out one way or another, and that it was likely better that he received the brunt of the questioning than Jean himself. He turned his phone and slid it over so that they could scroll over the calendar, saying, “I—er, don’t think he meant to send all of that.”
The open schedule was for the upcoming Friday. It read in alternating, bright colors:
12:01-6:00AM: Rest
6:00-7:30AM: Trojan Morning Workout (Lyon)
7:30-7:31AM: Shower
7:31-7:45AM: Breakfast
7:45-8:00AM: Transit to class
8:00-10:00AM: Business Writing
10:00-10:30AM: Preparation
10:30-12:01PM: Beginner Ceramics
Up until that point, the schedule was—while mildly neurotic—in line with what Jeremy would expect from where the Venn Diagram between well-adjusted people and Jean Moreau intersect. The next section, however, made something in his chest clench.
12:00-1:00PM: Dreading
1:00-2:00PM: Hoping and Wishing
2:00-3:00PM: Dreading
3:00-4:00PM: Hoping and Wishing
4:00-5:00PM: Dreading
5:00-7:00PM: Locking In
7:00-10:00PM: GAME TIME
10:00-11:59PM: Suffering and/or Exuberance
Laila pursed her lips, frowning. “Who taught him the phrase ‘locking in’?”
Cat was frowning for a different reason and whipped to face her. “That’s your takeaway from this?!” She spun back to Jeremy, who was choking down a now-familiar tide of mingled confusion and grief. Cat’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, no no no Jer, you don’t need to cry over this—”
“I’m not crying,” he insisted, voice wobbling with tears.
Laila wordlessly pulled his head against her shoulder, running her fingers through the sweaty mess of his hair. “It’s probably a good thing!” she said, bullying on through Cat’s indignant squawk, “Seriously! A few months ago, would Jean have dedicated two whole hours of his day to ‘Hoping and Wishing’? And even the possibility of Exuberance after a match feels like a big win. Guys, this is progress!”
Cat shook her half-finished boba tea in Laila’s direction. “This is a travesty!” she declared, slamming her plastic cup on the table with an unsettling crunch as she got to her feet. “I’m gonna go yell at him.”
“Cat, please don’t yell at him,” Jeremy pulled his head off Laila’s shoulder, wiping at his eyes in a vain attempt to get himself back under control. “It won’t help.”
“Like hell it won’t!” she snapped. “Dreading, Jeremy! Dreading! An Exy Match! That boy will not recognize happiness until it marches up and cracks a good one across his jaw, so one of us has gotta get crackin’.”
“Babe,” Laila said reasonably.
“Babe,” Cat replied with a bit more heat.
“Sit back down.”
Cat let out an angry huff and plopped, seething, back into the booth. “I’m just saying. This is not what Google Calendar is supposed to be used for. It isn’t good for him to dedicate two hours every Friday to suffering.”
“Presumably only if we lose,” Laila pointed out.
“Or if he messes up a play, or if Derek fails to catch a pass on the rebound, or if anyone misses a sidestep and gets bodied without pushing back,” Jeremy added morosely. He leaned back in his chair, shoulders sagging. “I’m sure he could think of plenty of other reasons, too.”
“But. But—” Laila reminded him. “Exuberance.”
“When is the last time any of us has seen Jean Moreau exuberant?” Cat grumbled.
“French people probably just show it differently.”
“By sulking and glaring? I feel like that doesn’t match up with what I’ve seen of Emily in Paris.”
“…The sulking and glaring might just be Jean,” Laila admitted. “But I do think it’s getting better. This stays between us, but…” she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m pretty sure I saw him almost smile when Jabs licked his nose the other day.”
The warmth of this detail combined with the secretive way in which Laila shared it eased some of the tension in Jeremy’s chest and tugged a smile back onto his face. “He’s such a softie,” he murmured, mostly to himself.
Cat hummed her agreement, some of the righteous fury ebbing from her expression as well. “Just so it’s said,” she stated again, “I still don’t like this schedule of his.”
Jeremy wrangled all of the optimism he could manage, refusing to sink back into a hole of hopeless despair from which he wouldn’t be able to reach Jean or anyone else. “Guess we’ll just have to find new things to fill it with. What day is this for—Friday?”
Cat nodded thoughtfully. It took less than ten seconds for a scheming grin to spread across her face. “There’s a mani-pedi place uptown I’ve been dying to try out.”
A laugh bubbled to Jeremy’s lips before he could stop it. “There’s no way he’d go for that.”
“Oh, come on. You know you’d go absolutely feral if he got a nice navy gloss on those nails. Plus, mani-pedis are notoriously relaxing. No room for dread in the throes of luxury.” She held up a hand before Jeremy could grimace and clarified, “Real luxury. Mani-pedi luxury. Not the faux-luxurious illusion of being surrounded by wealthy dipshits.”
Laila nodded, adding soberly, “I concur. Next Friday, mani-pedi appointment for four. Consider it booked.”
Jeremy snorted. “Alright. Who’s going to be the one to break it to him, then?”
Laila hummed, tapping a finger to her lips in what a glance looked like thought—but, thankfully, Jeremy knew her secretly-mischievous expression well enough that when she shouted, “NOSE GOES!” that he wasn’t taken off-guard. Both of their palms hit their faces in synchrony, leaving Cat to blink at them.
“I would have volunteered,” she pointed out.
Jeremy rubbed his nose. “Ow.” A beat of silence passed before his brow furrowed again. “Wait—you’re not allowed to yell at him.”
Cat raised her eyebrows, a picture of faux-innocence. “Hm?”
“You’re not allowed to yell at him. About his calendar.” He sighed, trying to dispel the lingering dredges of tightness in his chest. “Laila’s… probably right. That it’s… progress.”
The corner of Cat’s mouth twitched but—at long last—her head dipped into a conceding nod. “I won’t yell. This time. Dios mio that boy will be the death of me,” she added in a grumble that Jeremy was happy to pretend not to hear. He pushed his chair back with a wide smile, setting it back at its proper table.
“Great! Well, seeing as the flock has… probably dispersed by now, I should head home to get some reading done before practice. Let Jean know about the mani-pedis.” He pointed a stern finger at Cat. “No yelling.”
She rolled her eyes. “No yelling. It would fix him, though.”
That would have to be good enough. Before he would be forced to field any questions about what the flock was and why he was avoiding it, he gave a chipper wave and left them to their date, pushing Jean’s calendar out of his mind.