The Hard Count

by Ginger Scott

  “You need me to help you with that?” he asks.

  I lift it up and down a few times to show how light it is, then chuckle.

  “I’m not that weak,” I say.

  “Oh, I know you’re not. I’ve carried your school bag,” he laughs, standing and stretching toward the rooftop gutters. His fingers grip the edge lightly, and his shirt raises enough that his stomach shows. I turn to face my car quickly.

  “I should probably go,” I say, not wanting to leave at all, but very much out of excuses to stay. “Tell your mom I said hi.”

  “I will,” he says, following me to my car. “She’ll be bummed she missed you. She wants to get to know you more. Mom likes to keep up on all of my stalkers.”

  My eyes flash wide, and I laugh awkwardly.

  “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll ask before I come,” I say, glancing in his direction, my eyes not making it all the way.

  I fumble with my keys and unlock the car, dropping my equipment in the seat. I reach to unwrap my shirt from my waist, but instead of covering things, I just toss it on top, not wanting Nico to see me have such a low opinion of his neighborhood. When I turn to face him again, his hands are in his pockets, and his eyes are down.

  “Do you want my number?” he asks, gazing up with a brow raised.

  “Yes,” I answer quickly, my chest expanding fast and my inner voice reminding me to be cool. “That’d be nice.”

  I pull out my phone and swipe it on to type, but Nico reaches and takes it from me, typing in his contact info. He hands it back, but doesn’t meet my eyes.

  “Your friend…Izzy…” he says, and my heart sinks. “She said something about some dance or something? Right after next week’s home game.”

  “Homecoming,” I say. The word comes out flat—like I said a password.

  “Yeah, that. I’ve never been…you?” He brings his hand to his neck, rubbing the back of it, and eventually bringing it over his face.

  “I went last year…” I say, remembering how Travis took me out of pity. My brother put him up to it, and Izzy encouraged it. I was really over him by then, and the entire night felt like a forced babysitting event. I didn’t even like my dress.

  “You think you’ll go again? Like…with your friends or whatever?” he asks. His hands have fallen deeper in his pockets, and he looks up at me in short glances.

  My friends.

  My…friend.

  He wants to know if Izzy will go.

  “I don’t know, maybe. I’ll have to talk to Izzy about it,” I say, positioning my key in my hand so I’m ready to leave.

  I step around my car, and Nico backs up a few steps to give me space.

  “Well…let me know…if you guys go. Maybe I’ll make Sasha come,” he says.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, pulling my door open wide.

  My fingers automatically pick at the dry skin on the side of my thumb, a nervous habit I’ve had since I was a small child, and I look at it, knowing that I’m doing this because I want out of this trap—I don’t want to set Nico up with Izzy, and if he dances with her, I don’t want to watch. I open my mouth to give myself an out, to lie and say I probably won’t go because of something I have to do, and I probably won’t be back in time. I’m instantly distracted though by the heavy thumping from a car stereo, and both Nico and I turn to see a dark red car stop at the end of the driveway.

  Nico steps a little closer to me as a guy gets out, a black flat-brimmed hat shadowing his eyes and a long-sleeved black shirt hanging low enough to meet the line where his jeans sag, far below the waist.

  “Hey, Nicooooo,” he says, dragging the name out long and slow. His eyes are heavy, and his expression is amused. He flicks a lit butt onto the driveway and steps on it. It looks like a joint.

  Nico walks over toward him, meeting him near the back of my car.

  “Pick your shit up. You know my mom doesn’t want to see that stuff,” Nico says, meeting the guy’s gaze. His visitor laughs through clenched teeth.

  “Fuck that. You pick it up,” he says, his lips snarled to carry his threat. Nico doesn’t flinch, and I shift closer to my car, one foot inside, my keys in my hand.

  After a few seconds, Nico walks to the butt on the ground and snags it between two fingers, walking over to his friend and holding it out. The man in the hat only continues to laugh, and eventually Nico lets his hand fall down to his side.

  The man’s eyes move to me, and his lip raises again as he nods to acknowledge me. He’s in his thirties, maybe a little older, and his hands are covered in black symbol tattoos.

  “You get yourself a white girl?”

  My balance gives a little, and my heartbeat picks up fast. I look to Nico, who glances from me back to his visitor.

  “What do you want, Cruz?”

  Nico doesn’t even acknowledge his question about me.

  The guy’s eyes linger on me for a few seconds, but eventually he turns his focus back to Nico, leaning forward and spitting on the ground between them.

  “Your brother around?” he asks.

  “No,” Nico’s response comes fast.

  The two stare into each other for several seconds, until the man Nico called Cruz leans forward to spit one more time. He nods when his face comes back up and his eyes meet Nico’s, then he glances to me and back to his car.

  “Vincent’s been gone a long time. You see him, you tell him I’m looking for him,” Cruz says, running the back of his palm over his chin as he takes a few steps backward.

  Nico never agrees, but he nods enough to let the man know he heard him. Cruz walks back to his car, the engine still running and the music pounding so hard that it’s drawn Alyssa’s attention to the screen door. My eyes move to the little girl, and I want to tell her to say inside. I don’t have to, though. She stops with her hands flat on the screen, watching.

  “White girl’s pretty,” Cruz says over the roof of his car. “Hey, baby. Don’t waste your time with a punk bitch.”

  He stares at me for a beat, and though it’s only a second or two, it feels longer. Eventually, his attention moves back to Nico, who still doesn’t give him any reaction at all other than the hard line his mouth has been in for the last minute.

  Cruz’s mouth curves again, and his chest shakes with a sinister laugh as he climbs back into his car and drives away.

  I wait while Nico looks on, as if he’s making sure his visitor is gone, and then he turns and walks back up his driveway, stopping next to me, but never meeting me in the eyes.

  “You should go,” he says, looking down at the joint held in his fingers. He gazes up to see his niece at the door. “Alyssa, get inside,” he says, his tone stern as he walks toward the house. The little girl disappears, and Nico pulls the screen open, steps inside and lets it fall to a close behind him.

  I wait for a few seconds, wondering if I should go back inside and offer to help, though I don’t know what with. I wonder about that man—who he is. My stomach twitches with the beating of my heart, a rhythm that hasn’t stopped since the moment that man looked at me like I was his to take.

  Eventually, I get in my car and do what Nico asked. I drive home, running through stop signs and turning right instead of waiting at the stop light on the way out of West End. I go two miles out of my way on the freeway just to leave faster. And when I get home, I bring my things inside, ignoring my mom and her party book at the table on my way. My brother’s room is still empty.

  I collapse on my bed and let my equipment rest at my feet, then I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at Nico’s name, still up on the contact screen. My finger runs over the CALL icon, hovering without touching, until I let the phone slip from my hold completely, watching the screen while it fades and Nico’s name goes away.

  10

  I let my film consume me for the rest of the weekend; I even convinced myself there were too many shots in the can I needed to work on editing for me to spend time at practice today.

  I was avoiding Nico, was the h
onest truth.

  We’d sparred in class, which was nothing unusual, but for some reason, I couldn’t seem to pause long enough to even hear his perspective out. I resorted to name-calling.

  I got kicked out of class.

  That…that’s the real reason I am at home. My mother will never hear about it, unless someone whispers to someone else in a long chain of socialite telephone. Even then, the likelihood that each link in the chain would get the story right is incredibly low. I’ll take that gamble. My father, however, has probably already heard that his daughter called his new star quarterback an ego-driven dickhead.

  Dickhead.

  That’s the word. I probably could have said just about anything else and been all right. In fact, I have said just about everything in Mr. Huffman’s class before. I’ve pushed the boundaries, and he’s never even flinched. Dickhead is the line, I guess.

  It just slipped out.

  It started when I saw Nico talking to Izzy when I walked into class. I acknowledged that my gut was sinking, and that I was being petty by pretending not to hear my friend say “hi” when I walked in and sat at my desk near her. I pulled out a notebook and began manically flipping pages, as if I was looking for something that I needed quickly, which therefore must be why I didn’t hear her. I flipped pages until Mr. Huffman began taking attendance, and I didn’t look up until he started talking about the last reading we did from an excerpt of Plato’s Republic.

  I was content to do nothing but listen today. The reading wasn’t anything earth-shattering. Of Plato’s concept of a perfect world, the idea that those with the highest intellect and understanding of thought should lead isn’t really controversial. Frankly, it’s sound judgment. But then Nico argued that Plato was right to believe the philosophers of the world should lead and be kings. I dug in to take the opposite side, no other reason than the fact that every word out of Nico’s mouth was exactly the point of view I had written out in my notes. Behind the scenes—in my head—I agreed with him. Out loud—different story. He said everything first. And then everyone looked to me—waiting…expecting me to have some amazing counterpoint.

  After a few starts, eventually my arguments fell thin.

  I had nothing.

  I rattled on about how the philosophers lacked specialization and focus, a bunch of crap I’d read in the counter-opinions at the back of our book, and Nico called me out on it by the time I was done.

  That’s when dickhead happened.

  The closer I get to home, the more embarrassed I am about getting kicked out. I know it looks like I ran away, on top of it. I did run away.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket, but I don’t pull it out until I park in our driveway, my car lined up directly behind my brother’s. He can’t drive in his condition, so the car has sat unused for two weeks. He wasn’t in school either, a fact that my father noted, but in the midst of pressure to win this week’s matchup against the giant Division I school Metahill, my brother playing hooky sort of fell off the radar.

  I yank my bag over my shoulder and leave my equipment in my car, pulling my phone out from my pocket while I march up my driveway. It’s a message from Izzy, asking if I’m okay. I write back that I am, just embarrassed, and consider adding that I have cramps to give myself an excuse, but she types a response too quickly.

  IZZY: Nico was asking about you. I think he feels badly that he pushed you so much.

  He didn’t push me. Not comparatively. I’ve had three and a half years of classes with Nico, and we’ve gone rounds before. Today was mild in comparison, at least on his part. I push on the handle for my front door and let my back fall against it to close it, my phone gripped in my hand while I think before typing.

  ME: He didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just having a bad day. Noah ditched today, and things with my brother have just been weird.

  It’s not entirely a lie, but it’s also not the reason for my behavior. I use Noah and his crap as an excuse. When my best friend sends me back a heart, I sigh in relief and head to my room, grateful that my brother’s drama can buy me this. I let my bag fall to the floor when I enter the hallway, and I’m dragging it behind me when I catch a scent that I instantly recognize.

  My brother’s door is closed, but I can tell his light is on. I rest my ear against the wood paneling, waiting for some clue that doesn’t come. My mom’s car is gone, so I know we’re home alone, which is the only reason I break the boundary rule Noah and I set for each other. We’re supposed to knock, but the second I push down on the door handle to his room and meet the resistance of a lock, I know that what I smell is marijuana.

  “One second,” he says, and I hear a shuffling sound on the other side of the door.

  “Don’t bother. It’s just me,” I say.

  A few seconds pass before my brother opens his door, balanced on one leg in the small space between the frame to block me from seeing more in his room. I don’t need to see more, and I don’t know why he thinks he’ll get away with this.

  “What are you thinking?” I lean my head to the side, my eyes meeting his glazed and red ones.

  Noah’s lids flutter, and he laughs once.

  “Why don’t you go back to your books and movies and computers and whatever other shit you do,” he says in a tone that I’m sure is meant to intimidate me. All it does is incite.

  “How many times do you think you can fuck up and dad will make it go away, Noah? Jesus…Mom is totally going to know you’re smoking that shit in here,” I say, pushing his door open from his loose grip. When I do, I see Travis sitting on my brother’s bed, his eyes just as puffy and red. “Oh, and you’re going to fuck his life up, too?”

  “Get out of my room, Reagan. And don’t tell Dad,” my brother says, gripping my arm tightly and pushing me backward the few steps I took into his room. I try to fight back, jerking free and forcing my arm against my brother’s chest, but high or not, he’s still a lot stronger than me. Even in a cast, balanced on a crutch. In a blink, my feet are back out in the hallway, and my brother is pushing his door closed in my face.

  “Dad’s going to cut you from the team if he finds out, Travis. You’ll lose scholarships,” I argue, trying to reason with my brother’s friend.

  I can’t see his face to read his reaction, and he doesn’t speak. My brother’s pushing the door harder, and my window inside is shrinking.

  “You’re going to play ball again, Noah. Think about next year…think about college,” I say, working myself up to continue to argue and give him reasons not to turn himself into a stoned loser, when his pushback stops, and my hand falls forward as the door slings open again. I stumble on my feet a bit, but right myself quickly. When I look up, my brother’s standing with his arms crossed, and as red as his eyes are from smoking, they’re also lit with something else…something angry.

  “I’m not going to Cal,” he says.

  I shake my head and scrunch my eyes, not understanding.

  “Okay, so…you didn’t even really want to go to Cal. You were looking at Florida, and Texas, and…”

  “Dad took a call from Cal,” he interrupts me.

  My mouth hangs open mid-sentence, and I tilt my head, still not following his train of thought. He chuckles, and the sound stays in his chest while his eyes haze with the effects from his joint.

  “He took the call and told them about Nico,” Noah says, emphasizing the name, the word crossing his lips with spite and vile, his mouth sneered with bitterness.

  “Maybe he’s just trying to help. I know Nico has a lot of academic options, so…”

  Noah cuts me off with more laughter, falling a few steps back and then leveling me again with his gaze.

  “He’s played one fucking game, Reagan. One game, and Dad’s feeding him to Cal,” Noah says, his brow pulled in.

  One game is a bit of a gamble; I agree. And I can tell by my brother’s expression that he doesn’t think Nico deserves my father taking a risk like that. But I’ve also seen the potential that I know my fa
ther sees, too.

  “Maybe there’s more to the story, Noah. You don’t know; maybe Dad promised him he’d make some connections…or give him an opening. They do things like that all the time to get players into Cornwall. They lure them,” I begin to explain.

  “They had a quarterback, Reagan. They didn’t need to go reward some scholarship kid with my position. We had Brandon,” Noah says.

  “Noah, don’t pretend you don’t understand what putting Brandon at QB would mean. You know he’s Jimmy’s nephew, you know what Dad’s up against. You know they would have had Dad replaced by midseason,” I say.

  My brother exhales heavily, and his eyes fade off into something beyond me, a nothingness that has his attention. I wave my hand in his sightline, but it doesn’t make a difference, so after a few seconds, I turn to walk back to my room.

  “I would have always been better, though,” he says, and I stop in my tracks. When I turn, Noah’s eyes meet mine. “I will always be a better quarterback than Brandon Skaggs.”

  My mind works to make sense of his words. I don’t want to think them, but no matter how I take what he just said, it always comes out the same. My brother is jealous of Nico’s talent, and he’d rather my dad lose his job than not go out as the best.

  “What about Dad?” I whisper, not wanting this to continue to play out in front of Travis.

  Noah doesn’t respond, though. He doesn’t blink, and his mouth falls into a hard line, his eyes holding mine hostage while his own ego takes over his heart and mind. I fight against accepting it, but eventually I don’t have a choice. I sigh, letting my eyes sag with hurt, letting my brother see my disappointment, hoping he feels how sad his choices are making me.

  “What’s your deal with that guy, anyway?” he says, choking my emotions and putting the rest of my thoughts on hold, my muscles tensing. “You know there’s no way in hell Dad is going to let you go out with a guy from West End, right? And Mom would flip her shit if you brought home a Mexican.”