The Hard Count

by Ginger Scott

  Home.

  7

  Friday pep rallies at Cornwall are kind of a big deal. We pack the gym, and parents and boosters come; so seating is always tight. Certain people get a special section with padded leather seats lined up behind the podium. I always sit on the floor, next to the cheerleaders, but in the far corner. I usually walk in carrying Izzy’s extra pom-poms, but since I’ve started my film project, I haven’t had to lean on my best-friend’s cheer connection to get a good reserved spot. I just go wherever I need to go—carrying a camera gets me an odd pass into a lot of places.

  “The football team is lame. You should change your subject to cheer,” Izzy says, leaning into me to talk louder than the deafening blast from the marching band. Izzy is literally the perfect girl. She’s a genius in math and science; she’s built like an Olympic swimmer, and has auburn hair that always curls in one giant wave as if she’s a cartoon and her hair is just drawn that way. I’d hate her, except she’s an exceptional friend. She never dated Travis when I had a crush on him, and she put him off limits when I was over him, simply on principle. She also let me hide at her house during most of the summer, when the Cornwall football spotlight-and-gossip mill was in overdrive around and about our household.

  “Your cheer team would make a really boring movie. Not enough drama. You need to be one of those cheer squads where moms plot murder and bribe competition judges with sexual favors to warrant a documentary. You guys don’t even really dance,” I say, offering half a smile.

  “Are you saying this…is not a dance?” Izzy drops her pom-poms on the floor, and begins to twist her feet and pump her arms in a pattern I think is supposed to be the running man. She stops the minute I hold up my camera, wrapping her palm over my lens.

  “My bad—you’re right. We can’t dance. Don’t you dare film me doing that,” she says, her hand still on my camera, but her mouth laughing.

  I move to my normal spot, resting my back against the wall and sliding my gear bag from my shoulder. Most of the students are slowly making their way in now, so I scoot to the side just enough to get a wide-angled shot along the floor, but showing the expanse of the gym. I zoom in when the big spenders show up, including Brian Hawthorne, the guy who wrote an eight-thousand-dollar check to the team at last year’s awards ceremony so they wouldn’t have to wear the losing uniforms this season. Brian owns several carwashes across seven states, and apparently there’s a lot of money to be made in dirty rims and windshields.

  I let my frame capture the high kicks Izzy and the other cheerleaders are doing while the drums pound behind me, but I keep my focus on their feet, fading them to the forefront and bringing the background in crisp and clear when the team starts to walk in.

  Nico isn’t first. He isn’t even second, third, or fourth. He walks in with Colton and the rest of the line—in the middle. He doesn’t sit up front. Brandon does. My stomach sinks.

  My dad isn’t going to start him.

  I let my video continue to roll while I sit up to my knees and lean back on my heels. The cheer squad spreads out, and as the final few students filter in, the doors shut and Izzy flips her way across the gym floor. One at a time, each member of the squad goes until they all meet in the middle and shout words nobody can really hear or understand other than the occasional over enunciated “Go!” and “Fight to Win!”

  “Thank you, guys! Thank you, Tiger Cheer!” Principal Locket says, his voice squealing the mic. He turns it to the side as if there’s something he can do with the volume. It squeals every time we have one of these.

  “So, what’s up with Nico sitting in the middle?” Izzy whispers as she slides down the wall until she’s sitting next to me, carefully pushing her short skirt under her straight legs, palms on her lap. There are a good twenty minutes of announcements and thank-yous to major donors before the real pep part starts for tonight’s game, so Izzy always comes to sit by me.

  “I don’t know. I was so sure my dad was settled on starting him,” I say, and just saying it out loud makes my stomach tighten again. I’m invested in Nico’s success, and part of that is the fact that this documentary on the team is a whole lot more interesting with Nico at quarterback. But I also want this for him. He wants it. Badly. I can tell.

  I want it for him…more…

  I’ve kept Izzy up to date on most of the football drama. She came to our house to visit Noah as soon as she got back into town on Wednesday. Her family believes in life experiences more than school attendance, so she misses a lot of class for trips. Her grandparents took her with them to visit a new exhibit opening in L.A., and Izzy paints, so this trip held a little more academic relevancy than most. Her dad is on the board, though, so she’s almost always excused, and her assignments are done on the road.

  The mic is passed to a few different people. Everyone thinks they want to hear their voice at one of these things, but then they don’t really know what to say. It’s a lot of the same stuff—“I love this team!” Every single one of them has been a member of The Tradition. Now bald, fat, divorced, but usually rich, they all relive their best moments right here in the middle of our gym they helped pay for.

  They all want to see Brandon. They don’t want to see some “scholarship kid.” That’s why my dad isn’t going to go through with it. He’s bending…caving.

  “I’ve never noticed how hot Nico is,” Izzy whispers. I stiffen, half because I’d gotten lost in the background noise of the presentation, and half because of the words she just said.

  “Yeah?” I say, my lips barely parting. They’re so dry. My throat…dry.

  “Maybe because he’s usually so…I don’t know, argumentative? You know how he is in our class. And you don’t have calculus with him, but he’s that way in there, too. He’s always sighing—frustrated when Mr. Talbot has to go through a formula again. But I don’t know, there’s something about him in that jersey…”

  “You’re just smitten with football players,” I say, smiling on one side of my face—the side she can see.

  “Maybe,” she giggles. “But I don’t know…”

  Izzy winks at me as she stands with her bright-gold pom-poms. For the first time ever, I hate her perfect legs when they walk by me in the deep-blue skirt, her white shoes topped with blue bows, glitter on her cheeks, and the perfect swirl of her ponytail resting on her bare shoulders. I stretch my own legs out, tugging the roll of my denim shorts down my thighs, but the fit still so snug that my leg indents where the fold rests. Freckles spill out down my knees and all the way to my ankles, where my feet slip into my Vans without socks. Everyone always says they love my freckles. They say they’re like stars—like a map to the universe. The people who say that are all old. Boys here want curvy, smooth, golden—they want the fantasy because there are so many of them. I move to my knees and tug my shorts down one more time, pulling so hard that they slide down my hips a little. I decide that as uncomfortable as this is, it’s better than the tight fit around my thighs. There isn’t anything I can do about the freckles.

  “I think we’d all like to get a report on how Noah Prescott is doing, right?”

  I stand as Principal Locket begins to rile the crowd up about my brother. I know Noah is here. I saw him outside the gym when I walked over with Izzy. It was the first time I’d seen him smile since the break.

  My brother’s leg is bound in a cast that covers his knee, so walking on crutches is slow, but he ambles to the mic with the help of his girlfriend, Katie, who takes one crutch from him so he can lean into the other as she moves to the background.

  I move to the small space between both sections of bleachers so I’m centered in front of the team and my brother. I want to get the best view of everything, and as much as I don’t like people watching me work, I also don’t give a damn if it makes my video better. Folding my legs up, I rest the camera on the small tripod stand and lean forward to watch my brother through my screen.

  Everyone around me has stood by now, screaming and cheering for the sam
e guy they were ready to hang for not doing enough to win a playoff game last year. My brother thrives off their fickle love, though. His cheeks are red—the same way mine turn—and he clutches the mic in his hand while he rests it on the top of his head. Sometimes I can’t tell if his humility is earnest or well-rehearsed. I think both forms are okay today, though.

  He brings both hands forward, his left arm unable to stretch completely due to the crutch, and gestures downward, urging everyone to quiet and take their seats. Everyone ignores him, though, still cheering until he turns to his team with laughter—his smile real this time for certain. The crowd finally settles when his voice booms in the mic. Of the two of us—Noah is the loud one.

  “Seriously, thank you guys!” he says, garnering a few more chants of his name and whistles. “Thank you, so much. That means a lot!”

  After several more seconds, the chatter grows more manageable. I zoom in close on Noah’s face, and my chest fills because he looks like himself—the smile in the right place, and real. The scowl he’s worn for the last week as he’s kept us all out of his room is as if it never was. I miss this Noah—and I realize now that I see him this way—I was worried he wouldn’t come back.

  “This team…you guys,” Noah says, turning enough to look at the boys he’s known for years—his brotherhood. “Being a part of The Tradition has been everything to me. Last week…”

  My brother stops midsentence, bringing the mic down along his leg, his eyes falling forward with his swallow. The clapping begins again, and the crowd cheers for him to go on. He nods.

  “Last week was both one of my greatest moments on that field…and my lowest.”

  Everyone is rapt, and silence comes fast and evident. I force myself to notice just how quiet it is—so much so that I can hear the crackles of the heavy air conditioning units pushing cold air through the ductwork. The only other time I can hear that is when I’m in here alone.

  “Winning with these guys…it’s…it’s everything. And getting to lead them on that field is an honor I don’t know that I will ever know the equal to again. You know, a lot of people like to gun for us. We’re easy targets—private school…amazing fans…”

  Noah pauses for another round of loud cheers. He’s planned this—thought it out. My brother is an inspiring speaker, and if I could push him, I’d make him love politics. But I know that I can’t, and I know his heart is in sports and an environment just like this.

  “We’re winners. Just look up there! Look at that wall!” He turns enough to point with the mic to the several banners that hang above the rows of stands where our team currently sits. The display is impressive, and the succession in recent years is even more so. But I wonder about the glaring banner missing from that display.

  “I wanted to put one up there for you. I wanted it,” he pauses to rap the mic against his heart twice. His head hangs low, and fewer whistles pull him out of it this time. “I want it this year. And I would like to think I got things started.”

  His head comes up again, his eyes determined and his face matching as his bottom lip tucks in his teeth while he nods yes. Yes. This year, yes. I scoot forward so I can pan to the faces nearby, everyone sitting on edge. Boosters nodding. Their poster boy is doing good.

  “I’m not quitting just because of some cast. I’ll be there tonight—on the sidelines. I’ll be there at practice. I’ll be there with these guys—my brothers. I’m not going to stop until I put one more banner on that wall!”

  The gym erupts, and the “No-ah” chants come in quickly. My mouth hurts from my smile, and I look at everyone, all smiling just the same. Everyone except two people.

  When my eyes fall to my father, I notice two things. His eyes are forward, to a spot on the floor somewhere between where the tips of his shoes end and the back of my brother’s heels begin. And his mind is not on the words my brother is saying. My dad is conflicted. I see it, just as I’ve seen in on his face for the last year, since the big loss. I saw it during every cruel prank phone call with threats in the middle of the night, and I see it now. And then it hits me.

  My dad wants to start Nico.

  “I might not be QB-One, but I will always lead this team. That’s what you do when you’re a part of The Tradition! You step up! You step up and lead no matter what your role is, what your jersey says, where you are on the field. I’ll lead! We lead! Whose house is this?”

  “Our house!” The team shouts behind my brother.

  He only does it once, because it will be said a lot today. That chant will echo on through the night. I just hope that it gets said in about five minutes, when the guy who I’ve long thought to be the cockiest person I’ve ever met stands up in front of a team that does not yet trust him and asks them that very question.

  Nico’s legs are bouncing. First it was the right. Then the left. Now both bob with tremors that I see easily between the row of muscular bodies all sitting still and relaxed in front of him. Too nervous to sit any more, I hold my camera steady against my chest, tilting the screen up so I can watch comfortably when I need to. I keep my eyes forward, on Nico’s legs, on my father’s mouth—the hard line still there to match the deep divot above his brow, a wrinkle from fear and what I am guessing was also probably another sleepless night.

  Noah turns to where my father sits, and my dad stands, walking over and taking the mic from him, shaking his hand and squeezing his shoulder. Only a split second passes where their eyes meet, and in that tiny sliver I see how unhappy both of them really are. My brother was supposed to finish this. My dad wanted that for him.

  Plans fell apart. Plans are shit. A person can’t count on anything except their gut.

  Instincts.

  Those are what my father has always rode—his instincts. I shut my eyes, but hold my body still. I don’t pray often. We aren’t the kind of family that goes to church unless there’s a social reason we’re expected to. But I do pray. I don’t talk about it. I do it for me. I do it when I need to escape being a Prescott. I do it when I need to know I’m not crazy, when I’m worried things aren’t going to be okay. I do it for others.

  I do it now—for my dad and for Nico.

  The cheers are heavy again as I open my eyes to watch my father walk with the mic to stand in front of his team. His coaching staff sits in the first row just behind him—deep-blue shirts, whistles, low-slung hats, and khakis. I could flip through more than two decades of team photos and those men, though different people, would always look the same. Behind them, his team is silent. Their eyes on their coach, all of them waiting to know who to follow. Only a handful of them are truly prepared.

  “With great adversity comes great opportunity,” my father begins as chatter subsides. He glances to his team, looking at them for several long seconds without speaking again. A few of the guys shift their weight under his scrutiny, but most of them hold their position—both feet flat on the floor, hands on their knees, eyes on their coach.

  “Football is a dangerous sport. I’m not saying anything earthshattering or new to any of you. We all know the risks. We’ve all seen the injuries. Hell, this isn’t even the first bone football has broken on Noah’s body. I…” My father’s head falls forward as he chuckles. “I remember when he was eight, the first time he broke his wrist. My wife, Lauren—oh she was pissed. She was ready to pull him.”

  The audience responds with a mix of laughter and “noooooo!” chants.

  My dad holds up a hand.

  “Clearly…I prevailed in that argument,” my dad says, and the laughter grows.

  “Noah has broken his wrist twice. He’s lost a tooth—one permanently—had a few concussions, had some pretty deep bruises, including one that bulged out of his thigh for what…seven weeks?”

  My brother shouts “eight!”

  “Eight, yeah…right,” my dad says, his laughter quieter now. “He’s had more stitches than the clothes I’m wearing. And he’s just one of more than three dozen of our state’s finest gentlemen sitting up there
who can point to countless body parts and spout off injury reports.”

  “Yet they all come back. They show up every summer, for training. They show up for first practice…for second practice…for fiftieth practice. They show up under the hot lights, under our high expectations. And they perform!”

  There’s a wave of cheers for this part, and my dad expected it, so he lets it die out. He’s never been one to take away from the praise his boys earn. But he does not milk it.

  “They show up. And they respect. And they follow. They follow each other because inside of each of them is someone who can lead. These men are all leaders. And they are going to take what they learn out here on the field and bring it forward…into their lives. They are going to lead in life. Through commitment. Through promises they make to each other. Through the strength of their brotherhood.”

  The quiet is back. I’m holding my breath, and I realize how much I’m probably moving so I turn my focus back to my camera, watching the next part play out through the screen.

  “As a father, it breaks my heart to see my son have to miss experiencing this the way I know his heart truly wanted to. I’m devastated for him, but so proud to see him here today. I know Noah is a man of his word, and I know he will continue to do whatever he can to help his brothers be better…stronger. But as a coach, I need to make a decision that will help that spirit flourish out there on that field.”

  My eyes glance from the camera view to real life and back again while my father’s neck muscles tense in preparation.

  “Tigers…I’d like to introduce you to your new QB-One, who I know in my gut will take you to the end this season—who will get that banner, who will take Noah’s direction, who will guide and lead in a way you need right now, in a way you probably need more than ever. Please give me a hoo-rah…for Nicolas Medina.”

  “Hoo-rah!”

  The chant happens fast, because it’s programmed that way. My father requests it and it gets said, no matter if it’s heartfelt. And this time, it is not. The word is loud, but the quiet that follows is suffocating. There are not cheers. There is polite applause, and slow handclaps while elbows rest on knees of expensive slacks in the booster row.