The Hard Count

by Ginger Scott

  My mom’s expression remains staid, and as her hater continues to yell, pointing and gesturing toward me first, then Noah, my mom calmly opens the snap on her purse and reaches in, pulling out the thin, silver bottle of leftover party paint she had in her purse from when she and Linda met to make posters for the first game. Without a second of warning, my mom takes one step forward and sprays it at the Tiger logo embroidered on the center of the woman’s sweater, causing her to fall backward and scream.

  “Oh…shit!” I say, scrambling up the steps, leaving our things and reaching my mom just as others around her are holding her down, several calling the police.

  “Let her go!” I yell, trying to pry their grip from my mom’s arm.

  “That’s assault! That…that was assault!” one woman yells.

  My mom doesn’t fight them, eventually sitting down calmly on the edge of the bleacher row and waiting. I sit next to her while clutching her purse in my arms to protect it from the circling booster wolves. The sounds of their yelling, their disparaging comments and cruel names—they’re careful not to call my mom a bitch, but they come as close as they can without doing so—it all fades to background noise. They keep bickering, pointing and accusing, even when the police officer working the game comes up to take everyone’s statement.

  My mom calmly watches the field, her eyes transfixed on the scoreboard as the clock ticks down. She looks on as our defense completely falls apart under someone else’s direction, Nico never getting a chance to touch the ball again. She watches The Tradition lose, and then a slow smile creeps across her face, and her eyes shift to mine before the officer kneels in front of her to get her version of the story.

  “I suppose spray-painting a pair of fake tits looks better on your record than smoking pot and driving through the garage,” she says to me, not whispering enough.

  The cop, thankfully, doesn’t seem to care all that much. He likely has to deal with yuppie, ticky-tack reports all day, working around Cornwall. How petty and stupid his report must look when turned in next to the guy from West End.

  Dad had been escorted from the field, and waited for us on one of the few picnic tables in the grassy area between the football field and the locker rooms. I find him, after the woman—Penny Schmidtt, a friend of Tori O’Donahue’s—decides not to press charges against Mom. Linda caught the entire thing on video with her phone, including the part where Penny called my mom some torrid names and tried to conceal the vodka she snuck in her enormous snakeskin purse.

  “What was that all about?” he asks, gesturing to the stands, where my mom still weaves her way down through the crowd. I’m still holding her purse, which no longer conceals the can of paint. The police officer did take that off her hands.

  “Mom sort of…” I stop, wanting to rephrase this. “She stood up for herself.”

  “She did, huh?” my dad says, looking from me back to the metal steps where my mom climbs down and tugs down her shirt, straightening her sleeves and pants to make sure she looks as if nothing happened at all. Polished and perfect—the Lauren Prescott way.

  Her eyes meet my father’s as she walks up to join us, and there’s a slight sway to her hips, her own feminine brand of swagger. Her lips are puckered in a smile, and I’m sure if she could get away with it at night, she’d slide her enormous round sunglasses on just to prove how little she’s bothered by everyone else right now. I know most of it is all an act, but the fact that my mother is finally acting like she doesn’t give a shit is downright refreshing.

  “You have a little…something happen up there?” my father asks, his right brow about two inches higher than his left.

  My mom’s lip ticks up to match it. She opens her mouth to speak, but stops at the cackling sound of the women walking down the steps a dozen feet behind us, one pulling a sweater out from her chest, some of the paint on her arms and hands.

  “Those women are real bitches, Chad. What did I ever see in them?” she says, leaving her gaze on the ladies as they march to the center of the parking lot to the large Cadillac Escalade with a plate that reads JIMSGAL.

  While my mother looks on, my dad’s eyes never leave his wife, his mouth curving up sinisterly. My mom looks back to catch his stare.

  “What?” she says.

  “Absolutely nothing,” my dad says slowly, shaking his head, stepping toward her and kissing her hard on the mouth, just like he did that morning in the kitchen.

  In an instant, our attention is swung to the locker-room entrance on the other side of us. Valerie Medina has stopped Coach O’Donahue right outside the locker room. She timed it perfectly, letting all of the players filter in first and cutting him off just after his coaching staff stepped inside to safety. She isn’t touching him, but with the way he’s backed off into the dark corner, one would think she was wielding a sword and fists of fury.

  “You will apologize sir, right now. You will apologize to me. To my family. And most importantly, you will apologize to my son. You do not touch him like that!”

  We can only hear bits and pieces of her rampage, but that part rings out clear. My father hears and steps up to join her, crossing his arms just as her brother, Nico’s uncle, has, which only inflames Coach O’Donahue more.

  “Oh, come on! What the hell…did you put her up to this, Prescott?” I hear him say as my dad moves in closer.

  My father only shakes his head. I draw in when I see my brother walking out from the locker room along with Travis and Colton.

  “Listen…ma’am,” Coach O’Donahue begins. His reference to her only makes her grow more stiff, and I can tell he’s not scoring any points.

  “It’s clear you don’t understand how things work out here. This sport is a tough sport, and I need these young men to be able to stand up to a lot of things. Now, if he can’t handle me being tough with him, then maybe this team isn’t for your boy…”

  The underlying smile as he speaks says volumes. Jimmy O’Donahue needs Nico Medina to be anywhere close to successful for the rest of the season. But if Nico quits? If his mom pulls him? Well, that’s out of his hands.

  What he didn’t bargain on, however, was Valerie Medina’s spirt—and her coaching brother. And the rest of us, who remain here, all watching.

  Valerie steps in close, her hair still flawless from her day at work, her blouse an exact match to her silky pants, her purse gripped tightly at the straps in her hand at her side. Her heels click against the concrete as she steps toward him, and she holds her finger in front of his face. Her words are so soft they’re kept between her and the coach who tried to strong-arm her son. But he never speaks back when she’s done. She backs away slowly, leaning in to say something to my dad, then turning to her brother and nodding for him to join her as they both move to the parking lot at a steady pace, her feet pounding into the ground with force in every step.

  I move up and slide my hand under my dad’s arm; Jimmy O’Donahue cracks his neck, spits on the ground, and steps into the locker room barking at Travis and Colton, “Get your asses in there,” as the door closes behind him. The boys do, leaving my brother with me and my father.

  “What did she say?” I ask my dad.

  “She told him…he had a lot to learn about being a human, and that if he ever belittled her again—assuming she didn’t understand football or the law—she would have her brother shove a helmet on his head so she could jerk his neck around and see how he liked it,” my dad says, blinking, almost in amazement.

  “Wow,” I say, the word slow and round as it escapes.

  “Then she told him she planned on getting the game tape, and she’s still not sure if she wants to send it to the media or not,” my dad says.

  His words spark my urgency in an instant. I squeeze his arm and dash off to the bleachers, rushing up the steps to the press box, tripping on the last few metal rows and racking my knee against the corner so hard that I’m sure it’s bleeding under my jeans. The press box door is still open, but the lights inside are off. I feel my
way to the ladder and push up on the ceiling hatch to climb out onto the roof.

  My camera is lying on its side, and I know before I even get to it that it’s likely turned off. I pull it into my hands and switch it on, then sink back, my body resting against the small half wall that lines the roof. The film was turned off after three minutes. I filmed nothing more than a few warm-ups. Those bastards thought of everything.

  I sulk back to my parents, my camera packed away in the bag, and my father nods to me as I get closer, questioning if I got it on film without really asking. I shake my head no, and his eyes close slowly, his arm stretching out for me to fall into his side.

  My dad eventually sends my mom home with Noah, and he stays with me while every player leaves the locker room. One by one, they walk up to him and shake his hand. It wasn’t something planned, which makes it all the more beautiful. My father’s eyes tear at one point, when players that rarely get a chance to even step on the field walk up, some of them hugging him and telling him they’ll always be playing for him, even if they’re not.

  Jimmy O’Donahue’s coaching staff exits, too, but they stand against the far wall together, watching the display of affection for the man that should still be at the helm. My father was the victim of gross private-school politics, and they know it could happen to them at any moment. I don’t fault them for holding on to their jobs. I know as they stand there together—away from Jimmy, who still hides inside—they feel the same as every player giving Chad Prescott their allegiance.

  Nico is the last to step out, and he walks up to my father without even wavering, his gear slung over his back, his board tucked under his arm. My father takes his bag from him without exchanging words, then puts his arm around him just as silently.

  “I told your mom I would take you home,” he says, surprising me, because I didn’t know that was part of their exchange.

  “Yes, sir,” Nico says.

  “It’s just Chad now, son. Just Chad,” my dad says.

  “Yes, sir,” Nico says again.

  My father chuckles, and I follow them both a few steps behind. When we get to the car, my dad looks over to mine, then his eyes come to me.

  “I’ll bring you back to get your car when we’re done. Come on,” my dad says.

  I climb inside, letting Nico take the front seat next to my father, and we drive the eleven miles to West End in silence, Nico only speaking after we cross the freeway and my dad needs directions. We pull up to the house, and Valerie is waiting just outside the door with a bouncing Alyssa at her side. Uncle Danny’s car is still out front, so I’m sure he’s still inside.

  I linger in the back seat of the car as Nico steps out, and I watch as my father helps him with his bag, walking him up to his house, and shaking hands with Nico’s mom. She grips my dad’s hand in both of hers, and my father doesn’t look up from their touch for the longest time while she just speaks. Nico turns in the doorway, his eyes meeting mine, and he pulls his phone from his pocket, waving it to let me know he’ll call. I pull mine in my hands and climb to the front seat as my father walks back to the car.

  He gets in and shifts the car into reverse, exhaling heavily and checking his mirrors before finally pulling out into the roadway. We get to the stoplight at the freeway, and I feel my phone buzz in my hands. I’m about to look when my dad finally speaks.

  “That kid is something special, and I’m not going to let what happened to me ruin it for him, Reagan. You tell him I promise, okay?”

  My dad’s face is serious; the red glow shines over his skin at the light, reflected against the way his jaw works and his lips frown in frustration.

  A few sprinkles hit the windshield, and as the signal switches to green, my dad flicks on the wipers, the car now filled with the low hum of some sports-radio station and the squeal of the rubber blade along the window. The sound is comforting and pulls a dozen memories to the front of my mind, remembering the smell, the feel, every little sensation that went along with so many games that I rode home from in this very seat with my dad. It makes me smile.

  “Okay,” I say, finally responding to his question.

  “Okay, then,” he says back, his heavy hand patting my knee twice.

  His face seems to soften with our agreement, as if making this promise out loud to me somehow eases my dad’s pain. Maybe it does.

  When his attention is completely given back to the roadway, I flip my phone in my palm and swipe open the message from Nico. It’s nothing more than a picture of a heart. I send the same thing back, and then I hold it tightly in my hands, and I believe that my father will do what he says.

  20

  “Mom, really…your dress is fine,” I say as my mom fusses with the tie belt around her waist, hiding behind my dad’s car in Nico’s driveway.

  Valerie invited us over for Saturday lunch with her family. She insisted, and my father couldn’t refuse. For the last fifteen hours, my mom has been panicking about making a good impression, and my father has been pouting over giving up his first free Saturday in years. Mostly, my dad doesn’t like to be social. The parties were always my mom’s thing, while dad had the built-in excuse to leave and go talk football in the backyard with the other coaches or with my brother. He avoided. But when she asked him to come today while he stood at her doorstep last night with her son, he couldn’t refuse.

  “I’m not sure why we have all of this food,” my dad says, popping his trunk and pulling out a box with a crockpot and two trays of cookies, brownies, and whatever other baked good my mom could buy at the deli counter on her mad dash to the market this morning.

  “What’s in the pot?” I ask, taking it from my dad. I look down and see something boiling through the lid.

  “I made pozole,” my mom says through a beaming smile.

  “Like…from scratch?” I ask, my brow pulled tight.

  “She poured it in from a mix. I watched her,” my brother says over my shoulder as he awkwardly climbs from the car with his crutches that were stretched across our laps for the ride here.

  “Thank God,” I say to him.

  “I know, right?” he chuckles.

  “Hush, both of you. I could cook if I wanted to,” she says.

  Our father lets her walk on to the door, but turns to face us with the trays of cookies in his hands and shakes his head to show how little he agrees with that statement.

  Alyssa has the door held open by the time my mom reaches the porch, and she already has her eyes on the trays of cookies. The laughter spills out of the house, and I can tell from here that several people are inside. I see my family straighten their posture, my dad pausing, probably considering running back to the car. I step in front of them and press my hand on Alyssa’s head, scrunching her hair with my fingers.

  “Hi, princess,” I say.

  “Hi, Reagan,” she says, a small lisp slipping out through the new hole in her top line of teeth.

  “Hey, you lost another one!” I say.

  “I did!” she says, stuffing her hand deep into the pocket of her jeans and pulling out a crumpled dollar. “Toof-fairy!”

  “Awesome!” I say.

  I step inside, urging my family to follow. Nico steps up from a seat at the kitchen table and rushes over to me.

  “I didn’t know you were here, sorry. I would have helped,” he says, leaning in and kissing my cheek chastely, moving quickly to shake my father’s hand.

  “Here,” he says, taking the heavy pot from me. He carries it to the kitchen where his mom clears a place for it, and she pulls the lid off and smells the aroma.

  “Oh, it needs to be stirred,” she says, pulling a large spoon from a door and stirring the soup a few times while my mother walks up next to her.

  “It’s pozole,” my mom says proudly, as if she spent hours slaving over it.

  “Yes, I recognize it. Thank you…you didn’t have to bring anything,” Valerie smiles.

  My mom acts bashful, waving her hand as if what she did was nothing at all, which…
it really wasn’t. I notice a pot on her stove and I step close enough to look inside, where homemade soup is brewing. Valerie’s eyes catch mine, and she winks. I smile. She’s going to keep this secret, and it makes me like her even more to see her spare my mom’s feelings.

  Nico leads my father and brother around the table and into the backyard where more people are gathered, introducing them, always calling my father Coach and saying Noah is his son and a great quarterback. I’m sure Noah thinks this is all Nico kissing up, but I know better. It’s respect, his way of showing it. By the time they’re sitting near a fire pit on a small brick patio in the backyard with Nico’s uncle and a few of the neighbors, I see my father’s comfort level starting to settle in. My brother’s, too. I leave them, staying at my mom’s side and talking in the kitchen with Nico’s mom and aunt and Mrs. Mendoza from across the street.

  While conversation outside seems to have evolved into the easy topic of football and Nico’s potential—inside is another story. The lulls are too many, and I can see my mom struggling to fill them. She’s complimented the house, which I know she thinks is sparse and old, but she’s bluffed well. She’s also praised the scent pouring from the kitchen, not flinching when Mrs. Mendoza said it was the pozole. It’s really coming from Valerie’s soup, but my mom sat up a little taller thinking it was hers.

  “Your yard is beautiful,” I say to Mrs. Mendoza after another long moment of silence. She perks up at my approval, and Valerie and a few other women in the kitchen grumble.

  “Why thank you, Reagan,” she says, turning her head from side to side, looking at the others.

  “Am I…missing something?” I ask.

  “Ugh,” says the woman at the far end of the table. “She was featured in the Southwest Gardener magazine last month and ever since, her head. Oh my God, I mean…I can’t even.”