The Hard Count (25 page)

“It’s okay, Reagan,” Nico says, still facing my dad. “I can ride my board.”

“I’ll take you,” Travis says.

“Thanks, yeah. See…it’s fine, Travis will take me,” he says, sucking his lip in and glancing down from my father, the disappointment evident to me…to everyone. “Hey,” he says, turning and taking a few humble steps in my direction, his eyes soft over me, his mouth curling in the faintest smile. I start to shake my head
no
, no because I’m not willing to let this go. Nico nods
yes,
though, and reaches for my fingers, glancing down and smiling at our touch. “I’ll call you when I get home.”

He looks back up, staring into my eyes, and his dimple shows, though faint.

“You texted me, so I finally have your number,” he says.

My eyes feel heavy, my brow drawn in as his hand slips away. He walks slowly to the locker room with Travis and Colton. Eventually, the rest of the team follows along, the coaches long gone, in their cars and on the road already. I’m left under the bright floodlights with my father and my brother, and all I can think about is how different the three of us are for people who share the same DNA.

“Reagan…” my father starts, and I cut him off, recognizing the tone. He’s going to lecture me, explain how he knows best, how the neighborhood isn’t safe, how this isn’t about Nico at all, but I just can’t hear it. I just can’t, because that boy did nothing wrong, and neither did I. And I’m embarrassed.

“Don’t,” I say, closing my eyes.

“It’s just that it’s late, and you’re only eighteen, and…”

“I said
don’t
, Dad. Please, just…” I stop, and open my gaze on my father, his mouth set in a firm line.

The three of us stand silent, and I tug my equipment bag up my arm and fix my grip on the tripod, thankful when my father’s phone rings. I look to my brother, who actually seems sympathetic, raising his shoulder in a slight shrug. “Could have gone worse,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry…she…she’s what?”

My dad pushes a finger in his open ear and holds the phone tight to his head, turning slightly away from me and my brother.

“Right…I see. Yes…I’ll be right there,” my dad responds, ending the call and staring at his phone screen, his body rigid, and his eyes not blinking.

“Dad? What is it?” I ask.

“Your mom,” he says, and my pulse picks up as the blood leaves my head. I feel faint. My dad’s eyes flit to me. “She drove the car through the garage…into the house.”

“Oh my God!” I shout, holding my hand to my chest.

“Linda heard the noise and ran next door. She says Mom’s high off her ass on marijuana. Where the hell would she get that?”

My dad looks back at his phone, as if it’s going to give him any answers. My eyes grow wide, and I feel the earth pull me down as my blood rushes back through my body. My mouth is frozen open and dry as hell. I tell myself repeatedly not to say a word, when my brother falls on the sword that’s been waiting for him for weeks…probably months.

“Fuuuuuccckkk,” he breathes, his eyes closing and his head tilting to the sky.

Noah Prescott may as well get used to those crutches, because in less than an hour, I’m pretty sure our father is going to break his other leg.

“
S
o
, let me get this straight,” Izzy says, her phone cutting in and out while she moves around her house. “Your brother…has to pee in a cup.”

“Yep.”

When Noah and I got home from practice last night, chaos does not even begin to describe the scene we walked into. It seems the good ladies of the social committee for the Cornwall boosters decided to organize a coup—meeting at Jimmy O’Donahue’s house with his wife, Tori. After an hour, Tori had sold the other women on her idea: Lauren Prescott was not the best fit for the new direction The Tradition social committee needed to go in. According to Travis’s mom Linda, the women were concerned that my mom had too much on her plate with Noah’s injury and “recent challenges.” What they meant was my brother was becoming a slacker, druggie asshole, and it was a convenient excuse to push my mom out.

Linda got to my mom first, just after quitting the committee herself. She told us my mom was quiet, but seemed to take the news all right, saying that it was almost a relief, and that it would give her time to maybe focus on her own health. Then, when Linda went home, my mom tore into Noah’s pot and smoked herself into a fit of paranoia. She drove through the garage thinking the car was in reverse. When Linda found her, she was giggling hysterically.

“How’s your mom?” Izzy asks.

I tuck my phone in the crook of my neck so I can slip my Vans on my feet.

“She’s…okay, I guess. I haven’t really talked to her. She’s still sleeping, and Dad left already. I mean, I guess it’s like nothing happened really, only…there’s a big-ass hole in our house covered up with plywood and plastic, and my brother isn’t allowed to have a door. I mean, for real—Dad removed it,” I say, grabbing my bags and looking over my shoulder at the gaping doorway that leads to Noah’s room.

He went to school early with my dad—another thing he’ll be doing until my dad decides to let him off the extremely-short leash.

“I can’t believe no one got arrested,” Izzy says.

“I know, but really, it was more about the insurance claim and fixing the garage,” I say, stopping outside our front door to slip my key in and lock up. When I turn around, I startle to see Nico leaning against a car, parked at the curb in front of my house. “Hey, Izz. I gotta go.”

I don’t even bother to wait for her goodbye. I hang up, slip my phone in my pocket and walk up to my boyfriend. He waits for me to get close before pushing off the brown, four-door, boxy contraption he drove here in. There’s a dent in the back side-passenger door, and a bungie cord wrapped around the front bumper, holding it up.

“Whatcha got here?” I ask, my heart fluttering—
actually fluttering—
when he reaches down and grabs my hand in his without hesitation. He pulls it to his mouth and kisses my knuckles, grinning against them.

“It’s just a loaner…for now. My uncle says if I can fix it up enough, I can keep it. He got a new car, and this one’s not really worth enough to sell,” Nico says, turning to nudge the tire with his toe. “This sucker’s twenty-seven years old, two-hundred-thousand miles and counting.”

“Wow, I don’t think we’ve ever had a car hit six digits,” I say.

“Anything will last if you give it enough love,” he says, shooting me a quick, crooked smile.

“You’re corny,” I say.

Nico swings the passenger door open, then steps close enough to me that his lips find my neck. I get a peek at the smirk on his face as he slides his mouth closer, eventually dusting my skin with a soft kiss while he tucks my hair out of the way.

“Just this once,” he says.

He pulls back, and our eyes meet, my arms dotted with goosebumps and my neck and chest warm from his touch.

“I wanted to take you to school. If that’s all right,” he says.

I peer over his shoulder and squint, studying the seat, then bring my hand to my chin, as if I’m considering my options. He tilts his head to the side and sighs, so I give in.

“My chariot awaits,” I say.

“Well, it’ll be chariot-worthy one day, but for now, it’s a Toyota Camry without a working heater,” he says, grimacing.

I pull the hoodie up from my sweatshirt and show him my hands inside my sleeves.

“I think I’ll be fine,” I say.

Nico smiles crooked, then takes my bags and puts them in the back seat while I slide into the front. He gets in with me, and we drive to school in a tense sort of quiet. His radio isn’t on, so I’m assuming it probably doesn’t work, and the heater does work—periodically—the blowers blasting air one second and completely cutting out the next. We idle at the last light before school, and Nico leans between us, touching the vent in the middle, and just as his finger reaches it, it sends a shot of air into his face that blows the hair from his eyes.

I suck in my lips trying not to laugh, but when he turns to face me, his hair spread haphazardly around his forehead, until he blows it out of his way, I lose it and laugh hard and loud.

“All chariots have glitches,” he says.

I smile, and he moves his hand into mine, threading our fingers. I look at them, locked together, for the last block to school. Nico pulls into an open space in the last row for visitors, and I kick myself for not grabbing my parking pass for him to use.

“I’m sorry you have to park so far; I didn’t think…”

Nico stops me, leaning forward and pressing his lips to mine. He pulls away, and his lips stretch into a wide grin.

“I wanted to park down here. I need to talk to your dad,” he says, and for some reason, he’s still smiling instead of scowling.

“You…want to talk to my dad?” I repeat it like a question.

“Uh huh,” he says, pushing his door open with his foot, hopping out and jogging around the front before I have a chance to open my side.

“You…I don’t know…want me to come with you?” I ask. My stomach twists. I’m still reeling from ripping the first Band-Aid off. I’m not so sure I’m keen to go ripping again so early.

“Nah, I got this. I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

Taking my hand, he lifts me up to him, his fingers catching my chin softly and his head falling against mine.

“Mmmmm, okay,” I say, letting my eyes fall closed.

We stand like this for a few seconds, until I feel him take a deep breath and step away. I load up my bags on my arms and give him one last glance, my eyebrow raised on one side in question. He nods with a smile and squeezes his eyes shut, letting me know he’s sure and it will be okay. I believe him for about ten seconds. I start to worry again when I get to the main door for the school, and I turn around just in time to see him standing in front of the film-room door. He’s jumping and swiveling his head from side to side, like a boxer about to get the shit kicked out of him by the heavyweight champion of the world.

* * *

W
hen I was
a freshman here at Cornwall, there was a girl—a senior—whose parents went through a very public, and very hostile divorce. It wasn’t the kind of separation that played out behind closed doors, or in courtrooms. It was the kind where cars were spray-painted with words like BITCH or MANWHORE when they were left unattended in the school parking lot for any longer than a minute. The girl, Jill, ended up dropping out over the holiday break, unable to cope with the whispers and stares from the rest of the student body.

My mother drove her car through our house.

I have become Jill.

I was ready for it, for the most part. I navigated the questions from curious people in my first period. With Izzy’s help, we managed to answer all of the inquiries from the rest of the cheerleaders without ever divulging that my mom was high and that it was because of my brother’s pot. Third period is advanced chemistry, and the people in that class with me are so hardcore about academics, they couldn’t give a rip about the gossip I stirred.

By noon, I’d made it through the first half of the day with only a few things shouted in the hallway and some laughs behind my back. I was head and shoulders above Jill, and so far ahead of my brother, who was now also forced to eat lunch with our father in his office—daily.

For the first time in days, maybe even weeks, I was feeling comfortable…almost relaxed. I think that’s why I didn’t see it coming.

I entered the cafeteria and slid into line easily, spotting Nico at a table in the center, waiting for me. I balanced my tray carefully in one hand, gripping the side while my arm shook with the weight of it and my equipment bag. I held my tripod under my other arm, and was nearly through the line and on my way to Nico when a girl with long brown hair flipped my tray into my chest. She pounded the tray with her palm so hard that I lost my balance and fell back hard on my ass. The impact forced the air from my lungs, and I let out a gasp, catching the attention of anyone who may have possibly missed what went down.

I had no idea who the girl was, but she called me a bitch and told me to stay away from Nico. All I could do was sit there and blink. I’m still blinking, but now my arms are tingling with anger and my mind is racing through all of the things I should have said.

“I can’t believe I didn’t hit her back,” I say to Izzy.

She’s holding my shirt out over the sink, soaking it with water from a wad of paper towels. I spilled pizza and Coke down the front of my favorite T-shirt—a white V-neck with lyrics from my favorite song written on the front. My brother bought it for me two Christmases ago, and I know he had it made special, because my favorite band isn’t big, and they most definitely don’t have swag items.

“Hold still,” Izzy says, jerking my shirt forward more.

“You’re going to stretch it out,” I huff.

She stops scrubbing and puts her hand on her hip, her lips pursed while she looks at me.

“Your shirt is covered in today’s lunch special. Do you really think a little stretching is going to be the worst thing left behind?”

“Sorry,” I shrug.

She rolls her eyes and continues scrubbing, and after a few minutes, I notice the smirk on her face.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“You…Nico,” she says.

“We’re funny?”

“Yeah…kind of.”

I stare at her eyelids while she looks down at my shirt, her fingers working away the last remnants of the stain. She flits her eyes to mine eventually, then tosses the wet towel into the trash and takes a step back.

“That’s as good as it’s going to get,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, standing and straightening my shirt with one hand and rubbing my tailbone with the other. I catch my friend’s reflection in the mirror, and raise my eyebrows at her when I notice she’s still smirking.

“You know what that girl said when she marched out of the cafeteria with her friends behind her?” Izzy says.

“No, what?” I ask, not sure I really want to know.

“She said she couldn’t believe Nico Medina was hitting it with some skinny white girl,” Izzy says, laughing out the last three words.

My brow pinched, I turn my attention back to my reflection, my hands around my waist, measuring. I guess I’m skinny. And I know I’m white. I’m practically freaking clear, my arms and legs are so pale.

“Quit judging yourself, Reagan. That’s not why I told you that,” she says, and I glance back to her in the mirror. She shakes her head and breathes out a small laugh. “It just made me think. There is always going to be someone who doesn’t like the idea of two people together. Black, white, Latino, gay, rich, poor—it’s all just shit we make a big deal out of, Reagan. Shit…I don’t like the idea of your brother dating Katie Loftgrin.”

My eyebrows shoot up to my forehead because—my brother? Izzy?

“Yeah, well…so what. I have a crush on your brother. I don’t
really
want to date him, but it doesn’t mean I want someone like Katie dating him,” she says, her eyes darting around the bathroom as she realizes just how much her voice echoes in here. Her cheeks redden.

“Izzy?” I whisper, turning to face her for real.

“I’ve kind of liked him since we were kids. And maybe that’s the only reason, really. And it’s stupid, my beef with Katie, but you know what? I don’t think your brother should be with a girl whose family is so rich that they
literally
own a jet. I don’t think he should date a girl who has no concept of the game of football.”

“Izzy, you don’t really understand football…”

“Oh, I understand it enough!” she interrupts me.

I pull my lips in tight and try not to laugh at her, at how ridiculous she’s being, but I can’t hold it in, and when I finally do laugh, she rolls her eyes and starts to pick up her things.

“I didn’t tell you so you’d make fun of me,” she says.

I grab her arm to stop her.

“I’m sorry,” I say, still smirking, but slowly regaining control. “I know…I know you didn’t. Why did you tell me?”

“I told you because people are prejudiced for a lot of stupid reasons. That girl? Her name is Lexie, and she thinks you’re too white to deserve the boy she likes. She’s from West End.
He’s
from West End. You’re…not. How could you even begin to get their world?” my friend says.

“I know…” I begin, set to agree with her, but she shakes her head, cutting me off.