The Hard Count

by Ginger Scott

  I sink back in my chair, not wanting to catch his periphery. His jaw is working, and his eyes flit up to our teacher briefly before coming back to his hands, his knuckles bent with his hard grip around the front of his desk.

  “Beyond the obvious, Nico…what do you mean?” Mr. Huffman asks.

  Nico breathes in deeply through his nose, pushing his mouth into a hard line.

  “Grimm’s stories aren’t really fairy tales. They’re more like…folk tales. They’re allegories, reflections of how terrible things were for the common and poor at the time. You can draw more comparisons to the front page of the Daily Press than you can to the typical fairy tales. I mean, like today, the news has this story about two bodies found sixty miles away from the nearest highway, buried in shallow graves by drug lords who weren’t paid what they were owed. That…” Nico pauses to laugh out once, a punctuated sound that matches the way his head lifts and his shoulders raise. “Stories like that are Grimm stories. Fairy tales, though—those are like the way people want to think the world works.”

  “It’s true,” Mr. Huffman adds. “If you look at the evolution of the stories, each edition becomes more mystical, religious undertones are added and good always wins in the end.”

  “Good never wins in a Grimm tale,” Nico says. “They just…they just are what they are. Life happens, and people make choices, and then life goes on.”

  I hold my breath because he tilts his head enough that his eyes find mine and his hair slides forward. The disappointment in his expression levels me, and I’m reminded that all I could say was “I’m sorry.”

  “But we want the prince and the princess, and maybe wanting something better is enough,” I say, not realizing I’ve interjected myself until my first words leave my mouth. I lean forward and hold Nico’s gaze, but I feel the rest of the classroom’s eyes on me. I turn slightly to see Izzy’s face, and she smiles faintly, knowing enough of the hole I’ve dug for myself to understand that this is me, trying to claw my way out of it.

  “You can be a toad in love with a beautiful girl all you want, but in the end, you’re still a toad. That’s how everyone is going to see you, and you know what? That’s how the beautiful girl sees you, too—when other people are looking,” Nico says.

  My lips part to protest, but another student interjects, moving the topic to class systems and comparing fairy tales to Plato’s Republic, which is probably what Mr. Huffman really wants to hear from us today. I let him talk, but I keep my eyes on Nico’s. He looks at me for nearly a minute, and his sad expression hurts my chest. It hurts to watch him think, to know every word he just said was about me—about us. I see him, but I see everyone else’s prejudices, too.

  When the bell rings, Nico grabs his bag and board in a swift movement, slipping through the door the second it opens. I fumble with my things, perhaps not really wanting to catch him just yet. All this time, and I still haven’t worked out the right things to say.

  “Your dad…not real hip on you going out with Nico?” Izzy asks, hooking her arm through one of my bags and carrying it for me.

  “We really haven’t discussed it,” I say.

  “Even after you and I talked? You said your dad walked in and saw you guys almost kissing. That’s not so bad,” she says, and I twist my head and mash my lips. “Yeah, well…maybe it’s bad. But more like awkward bad.”

  “My dad didn’t say a single word to me at dinner. He actually talked to my brother, which—I’ll admit—it was nice to see them talking, but then we drove home, and he went right into his room, and he acted like I was invisible Sunday.”

  Izzy nods in understanding, and we push through the main doors toward the locker rooms and parking lot. My friend slides my bag back to my arm, then squeezes her fingers around my wrist.

  “I’m about to quote my mother, and I don’t like that I’m doing this,” she says, and I laugh lightly through my nose.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Sometimes, Reagan, you just need to rip off the damn Band-Aid,” she says. “And it always hurts more when you do it slow.”

  “That’s…I’m pretty sure your mother didn’t come up with that,” I say, squinting one eye and smiling on one side of my mouth.

  “Yeah, I know. She repeats a lot of things like that. But still…she says it, and it’s a good saying. Kinda applies here,” she says, jiggling my hand in her hold.

  I nod in agreement.

  “Yeah, it does. Rip it, huh?” I say.

  “Give it a good rip! Like, pull out the hair and shit,” my friend says, and I wince at the color she adds to the visual. “Girl, your arms are hairy. That Band-Aid’s gonna leave a mark.”

  I laugh as she walks away and rub my arm instinctively.

  I don’t bother going to my father’s office. I know he won’t talk to me, and I’m not ready to do the ripping just yet. But soon—I’ll rip soon. I move out toward the field where the team is stretching, and I set up my things on the bench the cheer squad usually takes up during games. They practice inside during the week.

  My eyes work to find Nico while my hands begin to unpack my equipment. It doesn’t take me long to catch his familiar frame. He has a certain profile that I gravitate to, and he stands an inch or two taller than everyone else. I sit down with my tripod standing between my knees, pulling down the legs to click them in place.

  “Seat taken?”

  I heard my brother’s familiar new gait scraping along the track. He’s gotten faster on his crutches, and he’s begun to put pressure on his cast from time to time. I’m not really glad he’s come close to me. We haven’t spoken much since our blowout. I am glad he’s at practice, though. I look for positive signs in everything. This…it’s a positive sign…I think.

  “You thinking of joining the cheer squad, too?” I say, squinting as I look up to Noah, the sun bright behind him. I’m trying to be normal with him, even though I don’t really want to.

  “I do think I could probably up their game in the dance department,” my brother says, pushing his tongue in his cheek and ultimately chuckling.

  “They are pretty awful, aren’t they,” I say, sliding my bag closer to my hip so my brother has a place to sit.

  “Nobody cares if cheerleaders can dance, Reagan. We watch them because their skirts are short and we like to look at their asses,” he says, leaning his crutches along the metal bench and sliding down to sit, working to keep his leg straight.

  “Keep it classy, Noah,” I say.

  “Always do,” he says back quickly. He leans forward and pulls a bag of sunflower seeds from his pocket, pouring a handful into his palm and tipping his head back to dump them in his mouth. He holds the bag out for me, and I scrunch my nose at it.

  “You’ve got something against sunflower seeds now, too?”

  “I just don’t like spitting,” I say.

  Noah leans forward and spits out three or four shell pieces at once, sending them to the ground like darts.

  “That’s the best part,” my brother says, leaning back with his arms stretched out on either side. Even injured, my brother is larger than life. His build came with little effort, probably thanks to our dad’s genetics. He’s broad-chested and his arms have always bulged with muscles, from the time he hit puberty. He looks like a college man now, even if his maturity level says otherwise.

  My dad walks through the center of the field, and his eyes settle on me and my brother, his mouth a hard line under the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. We both sit up a little straighter, holding our positions until he looks away.

  “I hate it when you can’t see his eyes,” my brother says.

  I chuckle, then turn my attention to my camera, focusing and recording some basic footage I might be able to use for B-roll. I fight my instincts to zoom in on Nico, spending extra time on Sasha and Zach and a few of the other guys until one of the coaches whistles for the players to pair up. I’m focusing on Travis when that happens, and I follow him through my lens as he stands up and walks t
o the other end of the field—to Nico.

  “Wha…” I begin to say, catching myself, my mouth hanging open. I glance over to Noah, but he’s still sitting in his upright position, maybe a little forward so he can spit out more shells. His eyes see it, too, though. I follow his line of sight, and I know he’s watching them as they eventually shake hands. Nico lies down first, and Travis takes his leg and walks it forward in a stretch. I no longer care about the B-roll—I’ve moved on to voyeurism. I watch it all through my lens, and I see their mouths move, Travis smiling, maybe even laughing.

  “Nico tell you that A&M is sending people out to watch homecoming?” Noah says, pouring a new handful of seeds into his palm, tilting, then chewing.

  “No,” I say.

  “They are,” Noah says, spitting again before leaning back into a relaxed position. He pulls his sunglasses from his hat and slides them over his eyes. “Specifically to watch those two.”

  Noah points his finger to the field, to the far end, where my camera is focused. I look into my lens, watching Travis help Nico to stand and trading positions with him.

  “Is that why Travis is playing nice?” I ask, my stomach sinking because what a second ago I found hopeful has soured into pretend.

  “Sorta,” Noah says with a shrug.

  My shoulders sag as my breath leaves my chest and I deflate. I blink slowly, taking in the view of my father walking over to the two boys, talking to them. Travis responds while Nico looks out in the distance. My dad stares at him, stepping in closer until Nico turns to make eye contact, finally nodding. The grudge, or chip, or whatever it is—it’s still there.

  “Why sorta?” I say finally.

  Noah’s quiet and doesn’t answer for almost a minute. When he speaks, I think he’s changing the subject.

  “Mom found my pot,” he says.

  I burst out a laugh, then stop the recording on my camera.

  “I’m pretty sure you don’t want that on my video,” I say.

  “Whatever,” Noah shrugs.

  “I’ll delete it,” I say, glaring at him until he turns to look at me. I can’t see his eyes, only my reflection in his sunglasses, but he gives me a nod of thanks.

  He turns his gaze back to the field, and there’s more chewing and spitting, and I start to think that’s all he’s going to tell me. I form my question in my head, dying to know how Mom found out, when Noah begins to share.

  “I made Travis take me Saturday night. We buy from this guy in West End, and I guess he lives near Nico or whatever. I don’t know; we always meet him at this small park on one of the corners. Anyhow, we walk up to the car, and the guy rolls down the window, and I give him my money, but he holds his hand out like he’s waiting for more,” Noah says.

  His voice is even, and his eyes remain out on the field—the story coming out emotionless. My arms start to tingle with anxiety, so I tuck my thumbs in my fists and press them against my hips, frozen and rapt, hanging on his breath and waiting for the next word.

  “I was like, ‘dude, that’s what I always pay you,’ and the guy went on about how prices are going up, and he did me a favor last time. He said I owed him that from before, and he wasn’t going to give me the bag. I started to get a little pissed off, but I could tell Travis was getting nervous, so I didn’t get physical or nothing. I just sort of…maybe yelled at the guy a bit, called him a few names. He rolled the window down more, and I saw the piece sitting on the seat next to him.”

  “Jesus, Noah…” I hum, my lips tingling and my mind picturing every word he says.

  “Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing to me, but only briefly. “The guy was high on something. I could tell, and I don’t think he was going to let us go without getting way more than we gave him. Especially since I’m on crutches; it’s not like I could make a break for it.”

  “Oh my God, Noah. Why didn’t you tell me about this? We need to file a police report, or do something, or…”

  Noah chuckles and pulls his glasses down, turning to look me in the eyes.

  “Reagan, I don’t need to file a public document that says I was out buying drugs in West End,” Noah says, his mouth set in a hard, serious line.

  I pull my lips in on one side and nod.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just…Noah, if Mom knew all of this…”

  “Nico saw us,” he interrupts.

  I look up to find my brother’s eyes still waiting for me, his expression unchanged.

  “He…saw you?” I hold my breath, pushing my hands into my thighs harder, my shoulder tense and arms flexed.

  “He walked up and got in the middle of shit that was going down. He told the guy that we were connected to someone that could bust him, third strike or something like that. The guy stared at him for a long time, and I was waiting for him to call bullshit, but eventually he just nodded and threw a bag at me. That’s how Mom found it…”

  “I don’t understand,” I say, my focus on him intense.

  “I was so freaked out, I left it in Travis’s Jeep. His mom got the call from your dad, about A&M, last night. He came over to tell me, and grabbed it on his way. He didn’t want any of it near him, kind of freaked out about testing or shit I guess, and then I got distracted with his news, and then Dad came in to tell me that Texas was pulling their interest in me…”

  “Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “Texas is pulling out?”

  “Yeah, well…it’s not like I’m putting up numbers this year, and other guys are so…”

  “Noah,” I say, my face falling in sympathy.

  “Don’t,” he says, pushing his glasses back up and looking back out to the field. He spits the final few seeds from his mouth. “It sucks enough without you pitying me about it.”

  “You’ll go somewhere else,” I say.

  “Maybe,” he sighs.

  I look back out at the field and watch the squads break out to run drills, Nico working with Travis. His movements are rigid, and he’s throwing angrily—forcing the ball instead of letting it work naturally. That’s my fault.

  “How’d Mom find your pot then?” I ask, greedily, wanting my brother’s screwup for a distraction.

  “I left it on the middle of my goddamned desk. Which, ha…I mean come on, I never have homework out on that thing or anything. I might as well have just tossed it to her,” he says, laughing at himself.

  “She probably would have just smoked it,” I deadpan.

  Noah snorts out a laugh.

  “True statement,” he says. “She said she’s not going to tell Dad, so who knows. Maybe she’ll keep it for herself.”

  I chuckle, but eventually my laughter fades. We both sit silently together watching The Tradition run drills. I quit filming several minutes ago, so I lean the tripod and camera back, hugging it to my chest, resting my chin on the top of it. It looks like any other practice, only that our practices never look ordinary. Things are off. The field is quiet, and players look tense. You can see it in their eyes—my dad’s ultimatum. You can see it on my dad, too—the way he walks, hesitates, guards his words. He’s snapping at players and coaches, but without the backup material he usually unleashes on them. Chad Prescott is known for calling players out on their weaknesses, but then he spends thirty minutes teaching them why and how to fix them. Today, he’s just hurling insults.

  “They all hate him,” I say, not really expecting a response.

  “Dad? Or Nico?” Noah responds. I turn and meet his gaze.

  “Both of them,” I shrug.

  My brother looks at me and pulls his lips in tight, filling his chest with a long inhale. He turns to look back out on the field, and eventually pulls his crutches in his hands, lifting himself to stand.

  “They don’t hate Nico,” he says, taking a few strides toward the field before stopping to talk to me over his shoulder. “They resent him. He’s better than they are.”

  My brother swings his cast in long bounds on his crutches, crossing the track and eventually meeting Dad at the sidelin
es. They stand next to one another and watch the plays happen in front of them. Every time, my dad yells something. My brother doesn’t react. He doesn’t know what to say, how to fix things for Dad. He can’t even make the right decisions for himself, but somehow I feel like maybe…maybe he’s trying.

  I watch as the frustration level grows, evident in my father’s face—the red color it turns, the wrinkles deepening on his forehead, the tantrum he throws with his hat and clipboard. It isn’t that any of the guys are making mistakes, it’s just that they aren’t playing with passion.

  The same plays happen over and over, and players take turns running to the water station, drinking and rushing back to the field, almost as if they’re afraid to take a break. Sasha gets too ill to continue eventually, Bob calling my dad over to tell him that he has to let him rest. My dad looks at Sasha, knowing that he isn’t one of the ones he needs to motivate. Sasha will play for Nico, no matter what. My dad’s hand comes down on Sasha’s shoulder, and I watch as he grabs his gear and makes his way to the locker room and eventually his car, pulling out while the rest of the team keeps pushing on.

  Nothing changes, no matter how many times they run through drills. An hour turns into two, and soon the sun is setting, and the field lights are buzzing above our heads—the bulbs warming. This practice is going to happen well into the night. My dad intends to keep them here until he sees a change. I don’t know that he’s going to get one.

  And Nico—he’s going to have to ride his board home eleven miles, in the dark.

  My legs tired from sitting in the same position, I take my camera in my hands and stand, stretching them out and walking onto the field. Coach O’Donahue eyes me, and I acknowledge him with a wave, not wanting him to think he has any power to intimidate me. He doesn’t wave back, but he does look away.

  I move near my dad, behind the line where Nico is taking snap after snap from Colton while Travis sprints down the field, trying to catch up to his ball. Nico’s overthrowing, and even though his arm should be dead tired, somehow his passes seem to get farther and farther out of reach.