by Ginger Scott
My eyes tear up, and I spin to let my hand fly at his face, but before I can, Nico’s stepped up to him, their faces only inches apart.
“Apologize,” Nico says.
His eyes don’t blink. He’s the boy who’s always right, and he’s delivered my brother one single expectation. As much as I should be honored, instead I’m mortified. My brother doesn’t call me names. Sometimes we don’t talk, and lately he’s been distant. We haven’t talked in days, really. But we don’t go to dark places with each other. We compete, but at the end of the day, I’m always in his corner.
Always.
My head tilts, and I look to him, his eyes hard on Nico’s, his posture rigid—not wanting to say he’s sorry, but only because he doesn’t want to give Nico the satisfaction. Well, what about me? Who gives a shit about his pissing match with Nico. This is about me!
“I hate you!”
My lips quiver when the words fall away, and my hand covers my mouth quickly, my breath a short tremble and my eyes stinging with the red I know has filled them up.
“Reagan,” Travis says, stepping closer to me, his voice suddenly sweet. Decorum matters now, because I got my feelings hurt. Now they’ll be kind.
Travis reaches for my arm, and Izzy tosses what’s left of her shake at him, the lid popping free and light brown frozen sugar spilling in heavy drops across Travis’s neck, chest, and arms.
“Shit, Izz!” he says, looking down with his arms stretched out.
My eyes grow wide while my young crush and brother’s best friend wipes away large swipes of milk-chocolate shake, letting it fling from his fingertips to the ground. I begin to giggle, and Izzy looks at me.
“Izzy, I love you,” I say, my laughter somewhere between the kind that precedes crying and genuine giddiness.
“I love you, too, Reagan. What do you say we leave the boys in the sandbox?”
My friend loops her arm with mine, tugging me along the main walkway into the small restaurant and through the throngs of people in line, waiting to place their order. She drags me all the way to the bathroom, and I laugh the entire way until we make it to the large stall in the end of the ladies’ room, where I fall into her hug and weep heavy tears against her chest.
I cry for a solid ten minutes, and my friend strokes my hair, which I kept down because Nico said it looked nicer that way. She doesn’t ask questions, and when I’m finally able to breathe, she walks me to the sink and runs cold water, dampening paper towels and wiping away any remains on my face that I was ever sad at all. When she’s done, she looks me in the eyes and smiles until I can’t help but do it back.
“Your brother didn’t mean it,” she says, and I nod lightly, not so sure, but wanting to believe it. “He’s upset. His identity has been shaken, and he just doesn’t know how to cope with it all. He took it out on you, and he shouldn’t have.”
“You’re right,” I sigh, my throat sore and my body a little tired from the instant emotional drain.
“And Travis…he’s just an asshole,” she says, her mouth twisted into a disgusted expression that makes me laugh. “Seriously, Reagan. I hope you’re over him, because that guy’s a loser. Oh my God you deserve someone so much better.”
“I’ve been over him for years, Izzy. You know that,” I say.
“Yeah, but I just want to be sure,” she says, holding a pinky out for me to link with my own. We lock fingers and shake once, our forever promise that we save for things we really need to mean and believe in.
“Good,” she says. “You should like a guy like Nico. When he stood up for you, Reagan? Oh my God…”
My mouth hangs open, my soul desperate for it to form the words—I do like Nico. Instead, I watch my best friend hold her hand over her heart, smitten by a guy she never noticed before, a guy who stood up to defend my honor, a boy I talked into taking this risk. A boy I never noticed this way either, except for the years he was pushing my buttons and making me angry—making me think. Nico was always there, but I never knew him.
“You take as much time as you need. If your brother asks, I’m going to probably tell him to fuck off, if that’s okay,” my friend says, leaving me by the mirror as she steps closer to the door. Another girl walks through, one I don’t really know very well, so I grow shy and my heart flutters.
I don’t want strangers to think I cry.
“Yeah, I’ll tell him, too,” I say through forced laughter. I plaster a smile on my face, and Izzy blows me a kiss, flinging the door open and disappearing—probably to find my hero, who I don’t really know all that well either, but know better than she does.
The door comes to a close, and the intruder in the bathroom shuts her stall, so I let my smile slip away, my mouth tired of pretending. I turn the water on and fill my hands with soap, to give myself a reason to be here. I don’t carry a purse. The only things on me are my phone and small wallet stuffed in the back pocket of my jean shorts. I take in my reflection, looking for that confidence—some sign that says I’m a girl that’s going to walk out of here and turn heads. My hair is straight and flat, tucked behind my ears on both sides, a small sweeping of bangs that are too short to fit into a ponytail anyhow stick to my forehead.
I rinse my hands free of soap, and pat them dry on my legs and white T-shirt because there are never paper towels in this bathroom. I head to the exit the second the only other girl in here with me opens her stall door. I’m gone before she can see me.
The small hallway by the restrooms is quiet, but just four steps away, into the main part of the restaurant, people are packed in, standing room only. It’s always this way when we win. My family came here, to Charlie’s, after the big loss. We were the only people in the joint. My father wanted to come because it was ironic. It was the first time the owner didn’t tell him “good game.” My dad hasn’t been back since.
I don’t really like crowds. My circle of friends is small—it’s Izzy, really. I know people, but I don’t know anybody well, so I usually stand off to a side until I can slip away unnoticed, back to the dark of my room with my computer and camera equipment.
I want to escape now, but I don’t want people to think it’s because of what happened with my brother. I wonder who else saw? I hate that Travis did. I hate that he was a jerk. Travis has always been nice to me, but maybe that was before—when we were kids. Things are different now that we all graduate in a few months. It’s like we had to choose a side—a type—that we were going to be. My type falls on the outside and my brother and Travis—they live in the center.
My thumbnail lodged between my teeth, I scan through the windows as best I can, but am unable to find my friend. I know she wouldn’t wait in line. Izzy doesn’t have to—people deliver her things. I bet someone handed her the chocolate shake the minute she walked up.
Giving up, I walk through a side exit and make my way back to my favorite picnic table, drips of chocolate still there as evidence of everything that went down. I step up on the bench and sit on the tabletop, taking in a long breath and brushing my hair from my bare arms, the humidity making everything feel sticky. I tap my feet in a haphazard rhythm, my feet hot in my white shoes. I wish I’d worn socks.
When a heavy black Nike kicks one foot out of place, I jerk my head up, ready to be defensive, tired of being pushed around tonight by my brother and his friends, but Sasha’s smile disarms me. He steps up on the seat, and I move over a few inches to make room so he can sit next to me. When I look him in the eyes, I see a boy just as out of place as I am.
“So are these things always this crowded?” he asks, leaning back and looking out at the sea of people gathered in bunches around the parking lot. Car doors hang open to play music. People sit on the backs of pickup trucks. Girls giggle while boys try to throw ice at them. Guys play catch with a football while family cars try to make their way into the drive-thru line.
“Yeah, pretty much. It’s been like this here since I was a kid…after game night,” I say, thinking about the times I came here in the
back seat of my parents’ car, my face pressed to the window wanting—waiting—for my time to come. And here I am. My time.
What a disappointment.
“We have things like this…in West End.” Sasha looks up at me with one brow cocked.
“I thought you didn’t live there anymore?” I ask.
“Psshhh, I don’t. I hate that place, yo. But…I don’t know. Not all of it, ya know? It has good parts. And when I got my license, I started going back to visit,” he says, a smile playing out over his lips while he speaks, his eyes flitting up to the night sky. “Ah damn, so many people are exactly the same. It’s crazy. We have this mini-mart kind of place, and that’s what this reminds me of. On Sundays, after church, that parking lot is crazy full. The food there is so good, and everyone races out of service to get in line. And the drinks are always colder there. I don’t know how, but they just are.”
“You go there for church then?”
Sasha nods.
“My mom goes to a place by our apartment, near St. Augustine’s, and I went there with her after we moved. But as soon as I could drive, I started going with the Medinas,” he says, his eyes coming to me briefly before falling to his hands on his knees. He’s nervous, and it’s sweet. When he’s with Nico and their friends, Sasha is the loud one.
“You must love his family,” I say, inviting his eyes back to mine. When our gazes meet, he smiles, his lip raising higher on one side.
“I do,” he says. “Nico…he’s…”
He stops without finishing, and after a few seconds, his eyes move from mine back out to the crowd. He doesn’t have to say the word. There really isn’t a single one that fits everything Nico Medina is.
Special.
Loyal.
Smart.
Mysterious.
Important.
My stomach sinks again at the thought of trying to define him. I want more words for him. I need to know more of his story, but right now, my best friend is laughing at his jokes, both of their backs to me while they talk with Colton and a few other members of the team. I could walk over there and insert myself. My friend would welcome me. Nico would involve me. But I’m still not so sure I belong—not right there.
Not right now.
This isn’t my shot. And our stories are too different.
9
I pull up to the stoplight above the freeway right before crossing over into West End, my camera equipment piled in the seat next to me, covered by my pink-flannel shirt. My mom used to tell me stories about people getting carjacked in West End, but now that I’m older, and watch the news and read the paper, I never hear of it really happening. I think she made it up—a fear tactic—to keep me from driving into an “bad neighborhood.” But that thought crept in about a block ago, so I pulled my shirt from around my waist, and spread it over my things as if that actually conceals everything.
My father held an early-morning practice today, just as he promised the guys he would. And he worked the team hard. By the time I arrived, everyone was accounted for. Everyone, but my brother. I suppose he wasn’t expected, but after the speech he made—about how he would support the team in his new role—I would have thought he would have shown up. Noah actually never came home. He told my mom he was staying at Travis’s for the night. Neither he, nor Travis—who lives next door—came home, though. My mom was aware of this when I came home at eleven. She was aware of it when I was still awake and creeping down to the fridge for a glass of milk at two o’clock, and she was aware of it this morning, when she sat at the breakfast table with her head barely held up on her arm, the coffee in her cup cold long ago.
My mom is a worrier. She also has terrible anxiety. She medicates—upping the dosage against doctor’s orders—and my brother’s self-destructive behavior is not helping things. I knew I didn’t want to be around when he showed up. Not that my mom would discipline him. She’ll do just the opposite, actually, because that’s what we do with problems in the Prescott family—we cover them up in happy paint, put on sunshine smiles and pretend everything is fine. When boosters started writing op-ed pieces in the local newspaper calling for my dad’s resignation after last year’s season, my mom began forcing our family to go to the art shows and plays in the city. We needed to be “more well-rounded” she said.
More like we needed to show off how upscale and pedigreed we were, why even though he lost, my father was still the right coach for Cornwall, because he attended theater. This is also why the PTA would never find a more perfect and qualified president for their social committee than my mom. Sometimes, I wonder about all of the work that happens in her head, the strain she puts on herself to make sure everything in our lives looks perfect. I catch her talking to herself sometimes. Other times, she falls apart. I don’t see the tears, only the remnants. She always has an excuse—“allergies” or “something in my eye.”
I pretend, too, I suppose. I pretend I don’t notice, or that I believe her. We’re a house of flipping posers.
When I left her at the kitchen table, the sun barely up, she was already pulling out her calendar to plan the next function. By the time I get home, I’m sure some major fall dinner party will be planned for our house—all coordinated on zero hours of sleep and a nice cocktail of chardonnay and Xanax.
My dad fixes things the opposite way. He dives head first into the problem, but burrows himself so far in that he becomes manic, losing control. That was evident at this morning’s practice when his unrealistic expectations left three players with heat exhaustion and a handful of others on the verge of pulling muscles. When he called practice for the day, the sun high above everyone’s head, hunger in their bellies if they weren’t sick, he didn’t bother to stay behind while the team cleared the field. If he had, he would have seen one player do an extra set of everything.
Nico.
I watched from my car. In fact, I didn’t bother to film a thing. At the time, I told myself I was just tired—giving myself a break. Every few minutes, I’d convince myself that I was going to go home soon, to help my mom, to go back to bed—to get the enormous stick out of my ass.
My brother’s cruel words were locked in my head, and every time I shut my eyes to sleep last night, they popped right back open at the thought that I was wasting my time with this film business.
Nico changed my mind about that, too, though. I watched him run one more set of bleachers, and then count out on his own for a solid minute of up-downs, his legs weak and barely able to carry him, but his will fighting to make them work just a little longer.
Seeing him want something so badly was beautiful. That’s how I feel about film.
I should have offered to take him home, but instead I let him hitch a ride with Sasha, and then I sat in my car for an extra hour, giving him a head start so I didn’t look like I just followed him.
I realize now exactly how little good that did. His eyes narrow on my windshield as I pull into his driveway. His niece is in the front yard, skipping through a sprinkler, while he sits on the porch in a plastic chair. He’s still wearing the gray T-shirt he wore during practice. In fact, the only difference from the version of him I saw an hour ago is that his shoes are unlaced, and the sweat has dried a little.
He cocks his head to the side and raises a brow, so I raise a hand, curling my fingers up and down in the weirdest wave of my life.
“Nico, come play with me!” Alyssa yells from the yard, her arms swinging wildly through the stream of water, trying to fling it toward me. She’s giggling, and I can tell she’s trying to get me wet.
“Maybe in a little bit. Why don’t you come in; let me make you some lunch?”
Nico stands while he talks to his niece, but he keeps his curious eyes on me. I had no real reason to come here. This is the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done, and I’m rapidly understanding why I’m not the kind of person who makes impulsive decisions. My palms are sweaty, so I wipe them on my denim-covered thighs before tugging the fold on the end of my shorts down
my legs so I can exit the car.
“But I don’t want to stop. Nico, please? Five more minutes?”
Alyssa giggles while she twists, her hands flinging stronger now, a few droplets hitting my arm. I smile at her and wink.
“Oh no, I’m all wet!” I say.
Her giggling picks up, and she cups her hands now, filling them—albeit poorly—with water before skipping closer to me and throwing it at me. I don’t feel a thing from it, but I pretend again while Nico walks closer to us both.
“Ah, you got me wet again…oh no!”
I cover my cheeks and pretend I’m scared, shielding myself from the water. While I’m acting, Nico sneaks up behind her in the yard, and just as she turns around, he lifts her over his shoulder.
“Ah, I’ve got her. She won’t get away with this!” he teases, running in tight circles around the sprinkler in the middle of their small grassy area.
His niece’s hair falls heavy toward the ground while he dangles her upside down, his strong arms holding her easily, swinging her head through the streams of water while the air fills up with the sweet sound of her laughter. I laugh with them, the sound so infectious. And when her cheeks turn pink, he flips her upright again, holding her to his chest while he sits in the damp grass, the water spraying both of their faces and soaking their clothes.
“I’m sorry, Nico!” she giggles. “I’ll dry your friend off. Just let me ess…ess….ex-cape,” she says, the word getting trapped between her tongue and the tooth she’s missing in the front. I want to hear that word said just like that from now on. I think I need to start every day with a water fight with Alyssa. I think I understand why Nico is so strong.
“Okay, if you promise you’ll dry her off,” he says, letting her out of his arms.
I have no time to react before Alyssa wraps her arms around me, hugging my legs with her shivering wet body, her wet hair sticking to me and making me wetter than I would have been had I joined them and skipped through the sprinkler, too.