The Hard Count (36 page)

By about eleven, most of the team has showed up, and Charlie’s parking lot is buzzing with a mix of music from competing car stereos, squeals from girls, laughter from guys, and a few quiet conversations tucked in corners. I sit back and watch it all, my phone turning over and over again in my hand anxiously. I’m waiting for my guy.

Nico texted about half an hour ago that he had gotten off work and was going to head home to change and have Sasha pick him up. I couldn’t wait to see them both, actually. The night wouldn’t feel right until then.

Somehow, Izzy has worked her magic and gotten another large shake, which I know she didn’t pay for. She slides up to sit next to me again after making her rounds and talking with every group here.

“You’re like the ultimate politician, I swear,” I say, leaning into her.

“Yeah, except I’m only in it for the ice cream,” she says, sliding the straw free and sucking out the milkshake from the bottom, her head tilted back. She shifts to look at me and winks while she slurps.

“You’re like a milkshake hooker,” I say, making her snort laugh.

“Oh my God, I am,” she says, pausing briefly, then shrugging and diving back in to scoop out more.

I’m laughing at my friend, watching her try not to make a mess, and I don’t see Sasha’s car squeal into the parking lot. I don’t see him park in the middle of the drive-thru, and I don’t notice him kick the door open and leave his car running. I don’t see anything at all until I follow Izzy’s gaze and turn to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t have to speak the second I do. I cover my mouth and run to the car with him, tears streaming down my face the second my foot lands inside his car.

Nico!

* * *

T
he blue car
is always waiting. It’s the only thing I’m afraid of. I’m not even sure I’m really afraid of the smoking man inside as much as I’m afraid of his car.

That car is on the corner now, and I don’t have my bike. I should have waited for the other boys, should have walked home with Sasha and had his mom drive me here. I shouldn’t be alone. But Momma needed me. She said she wanted me to help her shop for Vincent’s birthday. Vincent is coming home for his birthday—he always does, and Momma wants to be ready, to make his favorite food and a cake.

My watch said four thirty. Momma’s leaving at five. I had to go, even though my friends were staying to play more football. I always do as Momma says. Only…I wasn’t supposed to go to the park that far away. It’s my fault that he’s here, my fault that I’m so far from home. If he gets me, it’s because I was careless and didn’t follow the rules.

I crouch behind the concrete block on the West End side of the bridge, and I watch the man in the blue car. His lips curl around a pipe, and his hands hold fire in his palms, burning the poison. His lips puff out white fog, and his head falls back against his seat. I have to go now. If I run now, he won’t see me go, and I’ll have a head start.

I’m faster than he is. I’m faster than his car. I’m not filled with poison.

My feet are numb, and I’m afraid my legs won’t work, so I run in place for a second, watching the man to make sure his head is still back. I think his eyes are closed, and I know I have to go, but my body feels too weak.

I glance around, hoping to see someone I know, but the streets are all quiet and empty. The corner market is closed for the day. They don’t stay open very late any more—not since the shootings started.

I hate that blue car. I hate the smoking man. I promised Vincent and Momma I would always run, and my brother is coming home. He’s coming home for his birthday, and I need to help Momma make him a cake.

I take a deep breath and form fists, bending my elbows and pushing the back of my heel against the concrete to push off. I must be fast.

I count down, my eyes watching him the whole time. Three. His head is still back. Two. His car’s engine is quiet. One…

My feet pound the pavement, and my legs work to turn what is normally one step into two, pushing fast and hard down the middle of the street, my head to the side, my eyes locked on my enemy as I run toward the houses, toward the alleyway that leads to my home. If I can make it there, he’ll never see me. He just needs to keep his eyes closed.

Run faster, Nico. Run faster.

My heart is pounding, and my fists are turning red, I’m squeezing so hard. I grit my teeth and push harder, breathing out with my right foot, in with my left.

I can see the alleyway. I can see the shadow of the house on the corner. I’m almost there. I’m going to make it.

Run faster, Nico.

I look ahead, counting the steps. Maybe twenty. Maybe fifteen. Maybe ten.

I hear the engine. The car starts to move. I start to cry.

Run faster, Nico!

I don’t want him to catch me. He’ll never catch me. I will always be too fast for him.

Always…too fast.

“
Y
our portfolio
of work is certainly impressive, Miss Prescott. I feel confident that you’ll be getting a call from our admissions office.”

Michael Buschwell is the dean of Prestige’s Film Academy. When he called to set up my interview for his program last week, I promptly turned him down. He offered to come to my house, and so I agreed, not knowing how any of this would end. I mostly wanted to put it off, so I could deal with the day—survive it and get answers and see if they would destroy me or make me whole.

“This story…your documentary? It all feels unbelievable. But…I mean that as a compliment. What you captured—the backstabbing in private schools, the pressure of running a program like this, what it did to your family—
to Nico’s.”
He stops there, pushing my laptop closed and sliding it back to me.

“It’s people’s lives. Sometimes, good people live in dangerous places, and selfish people live in safe havens. It’s kind of messed up…” I say, not knowing what should come next. I tuck my hands under my legs, my pulse reminding me just how important this is.

“When we set this up, you mentioned in your email to me that your film…it isn’t done,” Michael says, his head slightly to the side. His eyes sweep from me to my computer as he pulls his hand away.

“It’s not,” I say, breathing in deeply through my nose, my back falling into the wood of our kitchen chair. “There’s one more interview I need to do.”

Michael nods, his eyes flitting to mine as he offers a courteous smile.

“Okay, then,” he says, standing and pulling his jacket from the back of his chair. I stand, too, and wait for him to slip his arms through and straighten his tie. He reaches out a hand, and I shake it, hoping my palms aren’t sweating too badly.

“I very much hope you’ll share the final version with me then…when it’s done?” His eyes look at me expectantly, and I nod quickly.

“Of course,” I say.

He smiles.

“Good. Perhaps we can slip this in just in time for the winter awards ceremony then,” he says over his shoulder as I follow him to our front door. My knees quake at his remark.

“That’d…be amazing,” I say, managing to smile and remain calm.

“Wonderful,” he says, as I open the door and hold it as he steps to our front walkway. “Well…I’ll be in touch.”

“I look forward to it,” I say, battling in my own head as he walks toward his car, wondering just how long I need to leave the doorway open to look at him. I decide to close it before he reaches his door.

“Well?” my mom asks, sliding from her hiding spot around the corner.

She sat in the living room, quietly, while I talked with him. My brother and dad left early for the championship. I wished I could have shipped her off, too, because I just don’t know about any of it. But now that she’s here, I’m glad. I hug her and she pulls me in tight, her hands making soothing circles on my back.

“I think it went really well. I just…I don’t know what to do now,” I say.

“I know,” she says, stepping back and squeezing my shoulder, her eyes meeting mine. “You’ll do what’s right for you, and you’ll know when it hits you.”

I nod.

I ride with my mom to the stadium, and she drops me off at the side entrance so I can carry in my camera and gear. I slip my press badge over my neck and show it to the security guard who pushes the door wide for me to rush through. There aren’t many rooms open, so I quickly find the one where Valerie is waiting for me.

The stadium is starting to fill, but I know our seats are saved.

“Thank you for doing this, especially today,” I say, pulling out the small mic and unraveling the cord. I plug it into my camera and hand it to Valerie to weave through her blouse and pin it near her neck.

“Anything for you, Reagan. Really,” she says, her smile nervous.

I wait for her to finish clipping her mic and then squeeze her hand in mine, bringing her eyes to me.

“We can start over as many times as you’d like,” I say. “Just…talk from your heart, and I’ll edit it together.”

She nods slightly, sitting up tall in her chair and brushing her soft curls over her shoulders.

“Tell me about your son,” I say.

She laughs lightly to herself, letting her eyes fall closed and her red lips stretch into a proud smile. I watch her through the lens, letting her take her time. There’s power in her silence.

“A mother should not outlive her children,” she says. “When the marines came to our door, when they handed me the flag and told me that my oldest boy was gone from this world, I thought I would never recover.”

“But you did,” I say, leading her to keep going.

She smiles again, tilting her head slightly, one side of her mouth higher than the other as she stares right into the camera.

“I did,” she says, “because of Nico.”

I swallow, and force myself to hold my breath.

“When the police department called me and told me what my youngest son had done at that truck stop he worked at, my heart sank again. It was a stabbing pain, just like I had when I opened the door to two marines a few months ago. I only survived the first time because of Nico…I didn’t know how I was going to survive losing him.”

She stops to pull the tissue from her lap and dab it on the corners of her eyes.

“I knew I’d need these,” she chuckles. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say, pushing my palms into my eyes behind the camera.

“What did the police tell you?” I ask, not wanting to hear the story again, but knowing I need it for the film. It’s important, perhaps more than the outcome of the game tonight.

“I was getting ready for bed. Alyssa was asleep, and my phone rang. I knew Nico was coming home to change before Sasha came to pick him up, so I figured it was him, telling me he forgot his key. I knew something was wrong the second I heard a man’s voice and not my sweet boy,” she says, stopping to dab her eyes again. I reach forward and squeeze her hand. “He said my son had pushed a homeless man out of the way when a drunk driver was careening into the truck stop parking lot. Nico had apparently heard the car’s tires and saw the man in its path, and he rushed to stand in the way. He was able to move the man, but Nico…wasn’t fast enough. The car hit him, but the officer didn’t know how bad. He had already been taken to the hospital before the officer was on scene.”

“Sasha showed up while I was on the phone; I sent him to find out, so I could get Alyssa up and take her to my brother’s. I sped so fast, and I kept practicing my speech to any police officer that might have pulled me over,” she says, laughing lightly. “I felt like I could talk my way out of a ticket that day, you know?”

“I agree,” I smile.

“When I got to the hospital, I just remember this feeling that hit me…” she says, stopping, her eyes drifting from the camera to something beyond my shoulder. Her mouth curves into a smile, and mine follows suit. “I felt Nico. In that hallway, leading up to the desk, to the room in the trauma center—there was this feeling that just embraced me.”

“Like a miracle,” I say.

She nods.

“Yes,” she says. “Exactly like a miracle. I slowed down, and I walked past the desk, somehow not even needing to ask the nurse’s station which room was my son’s. I knew…my heart…it knew. I put my hand on the door and closed my eyes, and when I stepped inside…”

“I walked over to her and hugged her,” Nico says from behind me.

I let my eyes water, watching his mom fight through her own tears through my lens.

“Yes, you did. You only had some scratches. They said you were fast, maybe the fastest, crazy kid they’d ever seen,” she says, half laughing and half crying.

Nico walks into the frame, his legs covered in pads but his chest and arms still only wearing his Tradition T-shirt. His mom stands and moves her hands to his face, holding him and looking at him—admiring her brave boy.

“You’re going to do great today,” she says.

“You think so?” he asks, his mouth a lopsided smile, showing his youth despite his frame and muscles.

His mom straightens his shirt and pats her hands on his chest.

“I know so,” she says. “And if that coach tells you to do something, and you think it’s not right…” she glances at me, and I smirk, clicking my camera off. She leans in to her son, whispering loud enough that I hear. “You do what your gut tells you. It’s never done you wrong.”

“Okay, Momma,” he says, bending down to kiss her cheek.

I move close to them both, helping Valerie to unclip the mic from her shirt, catching the cord as she lets it fall through the front of her blouse.

“I’ll see you at our seats, Mija,” she says, squeezing my arm.

I love her.

I nod okay.

The door falls closed, and for a moment, it’s only Nico and me. He squares to me, and I move my hands to his shirt, gripping it and holding on. Our eyes meet, and he breathes in deep. I can see the weight of the world on his shoulders. I know this look—I’ve seen it on my dad.

“You’re amazing,” I say.

He breathes out a laugh and rolls his eyes, but I shake my hands where they hold his shirt, getting him to look at me again.

“No matter what happens, just remember that. Just know that you’re amazing. You’ve done your very best, and this game—it does not define you,” I say.

His mouth falls to a faint smile, and his chest rises as he takes my words in.

“Okay,” he says.

“There…good,” I say, reaching up on my toes and taking his bottom lip in between mine. It’s soft and salty with sweat, and he smells like a boy who has been wearing the same shirt and pads on the field for hours every night. Yet, I don’t care, because he’s here. I can touch him.

We stand in silence for a few long seconds, and my hands slide down his arms until my fingers tangle in his. I follow my craving and look down to see our touch. Ever since I rushed with Sasha to the hospital, afraid Nico wasn’t going to survive, I’ve been more aware of these simple moments between us. I hold onto them, wanting to store each and every memory because in life there are too many things one just never knows.

“How’d your interview go?” he asks.

I inhale quietly, my eyes studying the look of his hands as I think about his question.

“The dean…he liked me,” I say.

“Of course he did,” Nico says, his fingers still working around each of mine, his eyes low, too.

“I’m pretty sure they’re going to offer me a spot,” I say.

I feel Nico nod, and I know he’s smiling. My eyes close, and I let myself feel his touch. Prestige is all I’ve wanted for so long. I’ve put in hours of my life, logged film in the dark, lost sleep listening to sound—my father had football, and I had this. But now it just seems so empty, my heart…it doesn’t want it quite like it did.

And I think I know why.

“I’m going to go to Southern Cal, though,” I say, and I feel Nico’s fingers freeze against mine instantly. My heart doesn’t pound, and my stomach doesn’t sink. Instead…everything suddenly feels even. My lungs grow as I inhale and open my eyes, my mouth curving into a smile.

My mom said I would know. She said I would be able to choose what I really wanted when I really had to. I want to study film, but I don’t need to do it at Prestige. I want to be near Nico. I want to see my brother play for San Diego, which is where he thinks he’s going to go. I want to be near the boys that I love with all my heart, and I don’t want to give them up because my plan has always been this one solitary thing.

“True story?” Nico asks, and I look up, laughing when my eyes meet his. His smile is crooked, and I move my hands back to his chest, shaking him.

“Oh my God, do not quote Noah. You’re smarter than that,” I say.

Nico bends down and meets my eyes, his wide and still waiting.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes,
true story
. Yes, I want to go to USC. And not just for you. For me, because of Noah, and because that’s what’s right.”

“But mostly me, right?” he says, his eyes hazing.

I push him, and he grabs me and pulls me in to kiss him.

I don’t answer, because I’ve learned what pressure can do to people, and saying I’m making a choice mostly for him is pressure that both he and I don’t need. But my heart feels stronger having made my choice. My head feels clear, and there’s a renewed energy in my step. I’m pretty sure I know what that is, but I won’t label it. I’m just going to enjoy it while it’s here.

There’s a pounding on the door, so I step up to kiss him one last time, letting his fingers slip free of mine as he jogs to the door, the sound of his cleats clicking on the concrete.

“All of West End is here to see you, you know,” I say.

“I know,” he says.

“Hey, Nico?” I stop him as he catches the door in his hand.

“Whose house is this?” I ask.

His lip quirks up.

“Hoorah!” he whispers.

The door falls closed behind him, and I sit back in the metal folding chair and simply breathe. We do things in life to make others happy. We make sacrifices because that feeling—the one I once thought was altruism, but have since learned is just love—it makes us feel good. We give, but it’s never selfless. Nico has given so much. He’s lost more than his share, and he’s sacrificed beyond what is right.

Tonight—
tonight the universe gives back.

It’s not just customary.

It’s tradition.