by Ginger Scott
I don’t leave right away. I stare at him until he looks at me, his eyes empty, but sad, until he purses his lips and raises his brow in warning letting me know he means it.
“It’s just a broken leg, Noah. It happens a lot in sports, and the best always stay the best. You’ll be fine,” I say as I step away from his bed, wanting to bring a little of that light back into his face. I actually miss my cocky twin.
“I know I will; now get the fuck out,” he says, sighing and returning to his phone. I don’t linger, or push buttons. I know this version of Noah. I don’t like him, but I understand him.
I go back to my room and slouch on the edge of my bed, dragging my laptop closer and flipping the screen open, Nico’s smirk is dead center. The video is paused on the high five he’s giving his friend Sasha after that perfect pass. Slowly dragging the PLAY icon back, I let the video play through again on the scene I’ve watched more than a dozen times now, zooming in on the footwork that I’ve come to recognize as perfection. It’s better than Noah’s. My only worry is can he do it more than once?
I shut the screen again and pull my backpack close, tucking my computer inside. After shoving my feet into a pair of running shoes, I grab my keys and twist my hair into a messy knot as I stop to kiss my mom on the cheek and let her know I’m leaving. She smiles, briefly, but never asks where I’m going. I’m not the child she’s worried about right now; I rarely am. I’m okay with that role. I like being the easy one. My brother takes work.
I toss my bag into the passenger seat when I get in and buckle my seatbelt, taking a deep breath while I stare at myself in the rearview mirror. I blink at my reflection, sniffing once and crinkling my nose, running my fist over it like a boxer about to step inside the ring. I feel like that’s exactly what I’m about to do. Convincing my father of things is impossible, but as his daughter, I’ve learned that the trick is making it all feel like his idea.
With one more deep breath and reassurance from the blue eyes looking back at me in the mirror, I turn my attention to the road over my shoulder, back out of our driveway, and make my way to my high school. I pull into the far lot, by the film room, taking the spot next to my dad’s car. It’s Sunday, and I know the rest of his staff will be showing up this afternoon to put their two cents in on the best game plan moving forward. That’s why I had to come now.
I grab my bag, slam the door and hop up the curb to the heavy metal door, pulling it open rather than knocking. I can see my dad’s feet up on his desk at the end of the long hallway. He has a small office, and it’s where he goes to think. He spent most of the summer here after the team’s big loss.
“You hiding?” I ask. His feet slide down to the ground, but his chair doesn’t move.
“When am I not?” he chuckles.
I step through the doorway and he spins forward, his forearms on his desk that’s covered in papers, data sheets, recruitment letters and empty coffee cups. I take the orange chair opposite him, letting the wheels glide back while I lift my feet up. My dad smiles, but only on one side.
“You’ll always be that little girl,” he says, his hands shuffling his strewn-about pile of papers into one sloppy stack. I scooch forward in my rolling chair to help him.
“I always did love coming to work with you,” I say.
“You like looking at the boys,” he says through a single punctuated laugh.
“Uhh, no thank you. No offense, Dad, but these are not my kind of boys,” I say, my eyebrows raised.
My dad’s gaze meets mine and he puffs out one more chuckle.
“Thank God,” he says.
His hands rake over the smooth desktop, his mess all pushed to the sides, and he grips at the edge of the desk before scooting himself in close, folding his hands in front of his face, and leaning his unshaven cheek against his dry and cracked knuckles.
“I’m afraid I’m not much to watch at work today, kiddo,” he says.
Kiddo. May I never stop being kiddo. Noah’s never been kiddo. He’s been sport, or a number, or QB-One and young man. Never kiddo. Sometimes it’s easier being the girl.
“I actually came to help,” I say, leaning forward where my bag rests between my knees. I slide the zipper open and slip out my computer, setting it on the desk in front of me and turning it sideways so my dad can see, too.
He pulls his hand from his head and rubs his weary eyes.
“Is it one of those funny late-night videos where they make people lip-sync to random songs? Because I could use a laugh right now,” he says, looking on.
“No, but just…wait…” I say, my concentration on my video prompt.
I run the player back to the beginning, when I started recording Nico and his friends without them realizing it. It gets to the part where Sasha waves and my dad exhales heavily through his nose.
“Is this some artsy kid you have a crush on or something?” he says.
“Shhhhh,” I hush him. “And no, just watch.”
The video plays on, and Sasha turns his focus back over to the game. I’m so glad I zoomed in on Nico at this point, because this…this is what I want my father to see. Nico steps back, feet crossing perfectly, out of the pocket, twisting, juking. He’s so balanced it’s impossible, yet we’re both watching it. My dad notices, and I can tell he’s interested by the way his hands have fallen to the desk and his eyes have squinted to study the screen more closely.
Nico sprints to the other side, his long strides impossible to keep up with. He could easily take the ball himself. Nobody would catch him. But he doesn’t. I watched it Friday night live, and I’ve watched it nearly fifty times since. The ball releases, and the distance is the kind that gets people’s attention—like, recruiter-type people with clipboards and cellphones that dial right into head coach’s pockets for schools that play in bowl games. It’s what happens when Noah throws, only…it’s better.
My dad sees it. I know it. We won’t say it, but it’s better. Nico—he’s better.
“Stop there. Play…rewind…or, how do you work this?” My dad is fumbling with the trackpad on my computer, and I giggle.
“Let me do it,” I say, dragging back to the beginning of Nico’s play. I pause on his footwork. I know what my dad wants.
He’s quiet for several seconds, then nods and twirls his finger for me to play it forward again. The video goes and he jukes his friend, and my dad holds up a hand. I pause. He studies until he signals for me to continue. We watch it play out, and this time, without asking, I pause on his release—Nico’s body strong, posture straight, shoulders square at his target, feet set. He’s a poster child for proper technique.
My father lets out another heavy breath and pushes back from the desk, his hands folded behind his head and his eyes on the screen. I let it play through, all the way to the catch, through the celebration and then I cut it off before we get to Noah’s injury.
I close the computer and slip it back in my bag, hugging it on my lap as I face my father. I look more like him. His eyes are blue like mine. Noah has his eyes too, but his features mirror my mom’s. My dad and I are the ones cut from the same cloth.
His hand comes up to cup his mouth, and he scratches at his whiskers.
“What’s his name?” he asks.
“Nico Medina,” I say.
“Scholarship kid,” my dad nods.
I nod back.
“Soccer?” my dad asks, his head tilted to one side.
I pause, a little thrown by his question. My brow pinched, I shake my head no.
“He’s in honors. He’s probably going to be our valedictorian,” I say.
My dad nods, still lost to his thoughts before answering.
“Wow, good for him,” he says.
My chest starts to tighten, but I don’t let the words come out that I’m thinking. My dad isn’t a racist, but I feel a little ashamed right now. My lips twitch with that defensive mechanism I feel in debate, and after a few more seconds of silence, I can’t help myself.
“He’s really smart. And n
ot all Mexicans play soccer,” I say, my heart thumping wildly. My dad laughs at my retort, but my breathing is still heavy.
“I know. You’re right,” my dad says finally. His eyes are soft when they meet mine, and I take his words and expression as an apology.
“His friend is pretty good, too,” I say, shifting the focus back to the entire reason I came here.
My dad nods, but it’s clear his focus is on Nico.
“Medina, huh?” he says, turning to the computer table behind him and logging into the school’s database. It takes him a few minutes to pull up Nico’s profile, and I wait patiently while my father’s fingers drum on the desktop as he reads.
“He lives in West End,” my dad says, not really to anyone. I don’t respond.
After a few minutes of studying Nico’s file, my dad flips the computer off and turns his chair back to face me. His expression appears conflicted.
“They want me to start Brandon,” he says.
“Skaggs?” I say, my face twisted as if I’ve tasted something bitter. Brandon Skaggs is an asshole. He’s also Coach O’Donahue’s nephew.
My father nods.
“What would it take?” I ask.
My dad quirks his brow.
“For Nico? How does this work? Does he have to try out? Does the board have to accept him? Do you just have to invite him? Tell me what needs to happen,” I say.
My father sucks in his top lip, leaning over his hands at his desk. He pulls in a paper from his stack and a pen from the cup on the other side and begins to draw swirls in the margin.
“If this Nico kid were to come out this week, preferably tomorrow, and ask for a walk-on tryout based on the open position on our roster, then I have the authority to grant him the time,” my dad says, pen stopping abruptly as his eyes meet mine. “But he’s going to have to impress more than just me, Reagan. If he’s really this good, as good as that video you’ve got there, then I’ll press for him. But I’m out of benefits of the doubt with everyone. And he’s at-risk. They’re not going to want to put someone like him on the team. They need to be convinced and want to let me take this shot.”
I swallow, because I’ve known my dad was on a thin line, but hearing him hint at it makes me worry for him…and us.
“Okay,” I nod.
“How well do you know this kid?”
I breathe in deeply through my nose because the truth won’t give my dad that sense of relief he desperately needs, but I also don’t want to lie and give him completely false expectations.
“Well enough,” I say, standing and clutching my keys in my hands.
My dad nods, and looks back down at his doodle. He adds a few features and turns it into a smiley face, then spins it around for me to see.
“Maybe if this coaching thing falls through, they’ll let me teach art,” he jokes.
“I think you have a better shot at music,” I laugh, “and I’ve heard you sing.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder and blow my dad a kiss. He does the same, letting his hand fall to a slap on the desk. I watch him and walk backward a few steps before turning and exiting through the big metal door, skipping to my car, and tossing my things inside. I slump into the seat and smile at the possibility of seeing Nico out there on that field. I don’t know why that thought makes me so happy, and I don’t know why I want to see it happen so badly, but I can’t deny that I do. It’s more than making my documentary good. It’s seeing something good happen for my dad and for Nico, and when the irony hits me, I laugh hard and start my car.
Damned Nico and Ayn Rand are right again.
I didn’t want my dad to know I had no idea where I was going, but I’ve been driving through West End for ten minutes, and I’ve regretted not getting Nico’s address for about nine and a half. The neighborhood is buzzing with activity, more than I thought it would. I’m not sure what I expected, really. Honestly, I’ve only driven through the area as a passenger during freeway closures and wrong turns when I was a kid. When I got my license, though, this was one of the places I was lectured about “not driving at night.”
I’m out of place. My blonde hair, my freckles, my barely four-month-old sporty two-door—a glance around the streets I’m passing through shows how much I don’t belong here.
I don’t belong here.
I feel guilty thinking it.
I slow to a stop sign and wait several extra seconds while a small dog passes into the intersection, but grows frightened and backtracks twice before committing and sprinting to the other side of the road. He stops around a front gate of a house, the yard dirt except for a large tin water bowl and a few dog toys lying on a yellowed patch of grass, and I comfort myself with the thought that he probably lives there. I don’t want him to get hit by a car.
With a heavy sigh, I turn down the last street. Just like the others, people are out on porches, and homes seem open, even as far as front doors propped wide open, welcoming strangers inside. The first thing we do in my neighborhood is lock the door when we step inside, yet here, in West End, where life is supposed to be scary, nobody seems to lock a thing, at least not during the middle of the day on Sunday.
I slow near the end of the street and take in the scene at one house where several kids are playing in the yard, splashing in one of those plastic baby pools. The lawn is immaculate—the edge of the grass trimmed perfectly, the color a deep green, the dirt freshly raked as if it’s a Disney landscape. Rose bushes are trimmed back for the fall, but their color remains green and they’re accented by seasonal flowers. I’m struck by the scene so much that I don’t realize I’m blocking a car behind me while I idle in the middle of the road. The abrasive blaring of the horn shakes me back to life, though.
“Sorry,” I mouth, waving in my mirror and pulling forward.
I’m about to double back to the beginning, not ready to give up, but a little less hopeful that I’ll find Nico by randomly circling his neighborhood, when a woman catches my attention. She’s stepping from an old, copper-colored Buick in the driveway of a house a few down from the one with the perfect yard, and she looks so familiar that I pull over and watch her in my mirror.
She’s wearing a bright red blouse and black pants, her hair piled high on her head in a bun. She flips open the back-seat door and bends down, a little girl climbing out soon and grabbing her hand. The young girl is wearing a fluffy pink dress, and her hair is split into two ponytails. It’s Sunday, and I’m sure they’ve just returned from church. My hunch is so strong that I wait for a few cars to pass and turn around, driving back into the neighborhood. I arrive at the house just in time for Nico to step from the passenger seat and walk toward the back of the car where he pulls open the trunk.
The woman eyes me as I slow my car, and she says something I can’t hear, but it gets Nico’s attention. He’s holding a paper bag to his chest, but he sets it back inside the trunk, brushing his hands on his gray dress pants and saying something over his shoulder.
I kill the engine, and instantly begin to sweat.
Say something. Something smart. Be nice. Please don’t be mad that I’m here.
“Hi,” I say, bright and cheery as if they’ve been waiting for me to arrive. The woman, who I am pretty sure I recognize as Nico’s mom from the few school activities I’ve seen her at, bunches her brow and smirks at me. She’s pitying me. Because I’m an idiot. And I just took that whole looking-out-of-place thing to an entirely new level.
“Uh, hi,” Nico says, his hand on his neck, one eye squinting more than the other as he looks at me sideways. “Are you…lost?”
“No,” I answer quickly.
My heart is beating so hard that I feel it in my fingertips, so I flex one hand then switch my grip on my keys and flex the other. I step completely from my car, shutting the door, then walk up to the end of the driveway where Nico is standing with his hands in his pockets, a light-gray shirt on, and a thin black tie loosened around the neck.
I open my mouth to try to fix my first impr
ession, but then quickly realize that this is more like my hundredth impression, and none of it is going to matter if he doesn’t like the idea I’m about to throw out there on a prayer.
I exhale quickly and the rapid passage of air flaps my lips which makes the little girl still standing with Nico’s mom giggle. Nico turns to look at her, and when he faces me again, his smile is less sympathetic and more amused.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t really expect to find you, I guess,” I say, shaking my hands before folding my arms over my chest.
“Mijo, we’ll be inside. You talk to your friend, okay?” the woman says, leading the little girl through the front door, which she leaves open behind the screen. I laugh lightly at my thought about it, but shake it off quickly and step closer to the car trunk, which has several bags of produce inside.
“There’s a farmer’s market once a month, after church. My mom…she goes kind of nuts,” Nico says. I catch how he runs his hand through his hair and his cheek reddens as if a trunkful of groceries is something to be ashamed of. I can’t remember the last time my mom or dad brought a bag of any kind of food into the house that wasn’t from a fast-food joint.
“She must cook a lot, huh?” I say, bending in and lifting a bag.
“She does, and you don’t have to carry that. I’ve got them,” he says. I hold up a hand quickly though and cock my brow.
“Don’t make me argue with you over this, too,” I say.
He breathes out a short laugh, then gives in, lifting two bags to my one before guiding me up the driveway into his house.
The difference between our two worlds is impossible not to notice the second my feet step onto the bare concrete floors of Nico’s home. I look down to confirm, my eyes scanning the deep-gray floor still marred with marks from where carpet probably once stuck to the edges. This isn’t some designer feature Nico’s family decided to try after watching one of those home shows on cable. This is just what it is—a bare floor, cold and cracked, but swept immaculately clean.
I’m caught sliding my foot over one of the foundation cracks when Nico clears his throat, reaching for the bag in my arms.