by Ginger Scott
“I’ll quit sir,” Nico says.
My dad straightens instantly, turning to face Nico as he runs his thumbs under his damp eyes.
“No,” my dad says, shaking his head. “No. Absolutely no, you will not.”
“I won’t play for someone else,” Nico says.
My father takes in a deep breath, his eyes at Nico’s feet at first, then gliding up to look his prodigy in the eyes. My dad lifts his hand and rests it on Nico’s shoulder, squeezing and forcing a hint of a smile to cross his lips.
“Nico, you play for you. You…you have never played for anyone but you. And…Jesus Christ, son, you frustrate me. Frustrated me, but hell if it didn’t work. It was the right way to coach you. To let you fly. You play for you, and you will continue to play for you. You’ve got six games—six! You win that championship, and you go play for some big school that you deserve. And then you give those fuckers the middle finger, because they’ll still be right here. Without you, Nico? They’ve got nothin’.”
Nico’s silent, and I can read him more than I’ve ever been able to before. His jaw works, and his brow pulls in as he stares at my father, breathing in and out through his nose until he finally nods.
“I’ll play, Coach. But I can’t be quiet out there. I can’t just pretend any of this is okay. I’ll play, but I won’t keep my mouth shut,” he says.
“I wouldn’t expect you to, son. I wouldn’t expect you to,” my dad says, his mouth curving a hint more, this smile born from pride.
My father’s eyes move to me, and he holds them there for a beat before they drift back to the ground, his hand falling limp at his side.
“Reagan, go check on your mom and brother, would you? I’m…” he chuckles. “I’m going to go have a drink. A hard one. A few hard ones.”
“Dad,” I start, but he holds up a hand.
“Alone,” he says. “I’m all right, and I’ll figure this out, but right now, I just need to go be mad as hell, all right?”
I pull my lips in tight and my eyes flit to Nico. He nods to me, but I can tell from his face that he’s still processing, too.
“All right,” I say.
My dad moves into the kitchen, and I hear the back sliding door open and close a second or two later. He likes to sit at the edge of our property, where it’s dark and he can hide. It’s where he goes when he loses, usually. At least, after he’s done stewing in his office…which…isn’t his office anymore.
I’m hit with dozens of tiny realizations. My dad’s office, his job, his life and identity—gone. I turn to Nico, and he steps toward me, pulling me in his arms and pressing his lips on the top of my head. He’s still dressed in his perfect shirt, his collar loosened, but only a little, his tie the same. I hold it in my hand, righting the knot to face the front.
“I’m going to go talk to Noah. You…you don’t have to stay. Really, it’s…”
“I want to,” Nico says, cutting me off. His eyes level me, and I breathe in and out hard.
“I can’t believe they fired him,” I say.
Nico shakes his head, his gaze never leaving mine alone.
I lead him down the hallway, and we step cautiously through my brother’s doorway. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his leg out in front of him, his crutches on the floor. My mom is sitting next to him rubbing circles in his back. He’s twice her size, yet she’s still Mom, and he’s still a little boy, all of eighteen.
His head is in his hands, his fingers pushing deep into his forehead. My mom steps up, running her thumbs under her eyes as she stands.
“Where’s your dad?” she asks. Noah looks up, his eyes taking in me and Nico.
“He’s in his spot,” I say, looking from her to my brother.
She nods, then steps past me.
“I’ll go join him,” she says.
“He said he wants to be alone,” I say as she leaves the room.
“He always says that. Stubborn man has been wanting to be alone for years,” she says, her voice trailing off. I hear her open the fridge in the distance, the sound of a bottle clanking into glass, and I chuckle.
“Back to the wine, it seems,” my brother says. I look him in the eyes and offer a pathetic smile. “I ruined her pot access,” he chuckles.
I move to sit next to him, and we both lean forward with our elbows on our hands. We used to sit like this when we were kids and both were in trouble. I can remember every time—the spaghetti we stuck on the ceiling…the Kool-Aid we poured on the white carpet…the dog we tried to keep hidden in Noah’s closet…the party we tried to throw our sophomore year.
“I won homecoming king,” Noah says, reaching toward his pillow. He picks up a plastic crown and tosses it to Nico. “Here you go, man.”
Nico rolls it in his hands and lifts a brow at my brother.
“Just figured you usually end up with everything that’s mine,” my brother says.
“Noah!” I scold him.
“I’m kidding,” my brother says, but I think part of him still isn’t.
“Don’t be a prick. Not now,” I say.
“Sorry,” he says, looking up to Nico and holding up a hand. “For real, man. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Nico says, spinning the crown in his hand and placing it on his head. His eyes look up at it, and I chuckle because he looks ridiculous. “Hey, maybe I can wear this at the Hungry Hill.”
“You working there?” my brother asks.
Nico tosses his crown back to him.
“Yeah, on Sundays,” he says.
“Isn’t that place, like…where truckers get blow jobs and stuff?” Noah says, and Nico and I both laugh at the inside joke.
“That’s,” Nico pauses, pushing his laughter down, “that’s not what I’ll be doing.”
Noah nods, then joins our quiet laughter. Soon, it’s silent again in his room. We all stare at the space on the floor between us. I’m searching my mind for something to say, something that will make the last few hours disappear, only leaving behind the good parts with Nico. But I can’t. I can’t just have the good and leave out the bad in life. I have to take it all, for what it’s worth. It’s how people learn, I guess. Those bad things, they teach us stuff. My dad’s job, and the loss of it? That taught me a hell of a lot about people, and the kind of people I want to be around.
“If Cornwall were in West End, they wouldn’t treat people like this,” I say.
My brother and Nico are quiet for a few seconds, then Nico breaks the silence with a laugh.
“If Cornwall were in West End, you wouldn’t go there,” he says.
“Not true,” I lie.
Nico tilts his head and purses his lips.
“Fine, but still. You know what I mean,” I say.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. People are allowed to make mistakes where I’m from. We have forgiveness,” he says.
I hear Noah swallow next to me, so I move my hand over to his leg, nudging him.
“You all right?” I ask.
He’s looking down, his hands folded over his knees. His face is more somber than I’ve ever seen it.
“It’s my fault,” he says, pulling his top lip in and sucking, letting it snap free with a pop before looking me in the eyes. “All of this…Dad’s job? It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t fucked up. If I wasn’t so damn angry that I was blind to what was really going on. Reagan, this is all my fault.”
“Noah, no. It’s not,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Your problems…they don’t bleed into the school’s politics. The board didn’t look at you having a hard time and decide to fire Dad because of it.”
“No? You really think they didn’t look at Chad Prescott’s fucked-up son and make a judgment on him? You think Mom crashing her car through our house…because of something I did…didn’t reflect on Dad? They were worried his fucked-up personal life was going to bleed out onto the field.”
“Noah, you don’t believe that,” I say, standing in front of him and pulling his chin up, forcing hi
m to look at me. “They’ve been dying to fire Dad the second Jimmy O’Donahue said he was interested in the job. And it’s not about Brandon, because we all know he’s a shit quarterback, Noah. It’s about Jimmy, and Jimmy’s pedigree, and the fact that his family name is on a dozen gold plates at the front of the school. The O’Donahues may as well have built Cornwall, Noah. It’s about money. You cut them and they bleed goddamned gold! Dad didn’t have a shot in hell.”
Nico’s head falls back against the wall and he sighs. I turn to face him, and his head comes up enough to look at me.
“You know I’m right,” I say. “Tell him it’s not his fault, Nico.”
Our eyes meet and agree, and I can tell Nico believes every word I just said. He knows it to be true.
“Your sister is right, man. It’s how that place operates. The cream rises to the top with dollars for stairs,” he says. “The rest of us…shit, man. We have to grip and claw and fight and battle. And it ain’t right. None of it. But I need this school. I can’t come out of West End and get somewhere—somewhere better—without it. And as much as I want to quit on principle, your dad’s right, Reagan. I can’t do that either. I can’t quit because the only person who would care is me, and the only person I would hurt is me. It wouldn’t teach them anything. It would be removing a problem for them, because me, and my scholarship, and my background…it makes problems.”
Noah and I look at Nico, his gaze lost somewhere over our heads, his eyes serious—the reflection of someone who is driven to make his point.
“You are not a problem,” I say.
He lowers his gaze to meet mine, his lip ticking up just enough to dent his cheek.
“No?” he says.
I shake my head to confirm it.
“What do you think happens when some kid from the Barrio lifts up the state championship trophy at the most prestigious school in the state?” he asks.
“It makes headlines,” my brother answers, a little more confidence in his words, more strength.
“It. Makes. Headlines,” Nico says, his smirk growing. “And it means more kids from my neighborhood, and neighborhoods like mine, start to think they can do it, too.”
“And that makes people like the ones who came here to fire my dad nervous,” Noah says, lifting himself to his feet and dragging himself toward Nico on one leg.
“It sure does,” Nico smiles. “Nothing fucks with legacies like opening up the talent pool to competition.”
“Suck it, Jimmy O’Donahue!” Noah shouts.
I watch them both slap hands, holding onto one another for a few seconds, their forearms both flexing with their renewed passion. They’re both on the same side, finally. United in the injustice that took out my dad, and while seeing that feels good in my chest, my heart is also breaking because just outside, my father’s is lost and broken.
19
The disorder on the field all week was evident now. The Tradition found themselves down by a touchdown—against a team, that under normal circumstances, they should trounce. I was kept out of practice on Monday, told my filming privileges were now relegated to the press box only, and field access was not allowed.
I fought it. I went to the principal, asked Bob to try to help, pleaded with Mrs. O’Donahue, the new chair of the social committee—I asked and begged anyone who would listen. They all said no.
There was no real reason given. Coach O’Donahue made reference to some theory that I was becoming a distraction, but I knew that was bullshit. The only person I was distracting was him. But I had run into a wall. My film has hundreds of hours of footage and B-roll already; I know I can make something great from what I already have, but I need the last games of the season on tape, so I can’t risk losing the press box, too.
I got to the game early, watching warm-ups play out on the field while I set up my camera on the roof of the box. I decided to sit by my mom for the game, so I staked out our spots near the front of the bleachers, laying down an extra cushion in case my dad decided to come. He flip-flopped on the decision all week, sometimes hell-bent on proving to them they didn’t break him, then surrendering to the fact that they really had.
My father was now nothing more than a physical education teacher at Cornwall. His lifting classes were taken over by Jimmy. He went in on Sunday to pile up his things from the office under the watchful eye of Robert O’Donahue, Jimmy’s uncle—the board member who started these dominoes by pushing the first one over a year ago when he forced the board to hire his nephew.
My dad was able to sneak a few important books out without them getting their hands on them, and I showed him how to log into his computer system remotely so he could extract and delete things that might be helpful to Jimmy’s success. My dad also saved all of Nico’s game-play clips. His new mission was to act as Nico’s agent, voluntarily, of course, and make sure the A&Ms and Ohio States and Brown Universities—all interested in the quarterback from West End—continued to be.
Of course, if the rest of the season played out like tonight’s game, those opportunities might dry up on their own.
My dad showed up at halftime, and I felt the stare from most of the people in the stands instantly. Even now, minutes left in the game, I can feel them looking at us. Some of them are waiting for my dad to do something, to fix what’s happening down on the field. But that…that isn’t his job any more.
He’s reminded me of that every few seconds all night long. Nico gets hit on the blind side; my dad mumbles about Zach’s blown coverage, poor positioning. Sasha misses a catch; my dad mutters out something about play calling, and not reading the defense correctly. Every word from him, though, has been under his breath, until now.
Nico misses another pass, throwing the ball deep, just out of Travis’s reach. As he runs in, the punting team heading out, Coach O’Donahue pulls on Nico’s face mask, jerking his head square with his, his finger pointing in his quarterback’s face, his large body able to overpower Nico’s. Eventually, Nico pushes himself free and throws his hands out, fighting back.
“You do not touch your players like that!” my dad yells, getting to his feet quickly. Within a blink, my dad has hopped over the front of the bleachers, his feet landing in a crunch on the track below, and he’s on the field.
“Oh…shit,” my mom says next to me. I look at her, her eyes wide and her hands clutching her purse against her chest. “We better get ready to go.”
“He has to do something, Mom. That…you saw that, right?” I say.
“I did, but Reagan, I don’t know. Oh God, oh God, oh God,” my mom begins to mumble. She’s uncomfortable with the attention, and I get it. My mom doesn’t like to be the one who isn’t liked, and right now—for whatever reason—we aren’t.
On the field, my dad has reached Coach O’Donahue, and both of their hands are flying in all directions. I hear faint swear words from the distance, and the referees are whistling, calling their own timeout to sort the scene now unfolding on the field.
“I can’t believe he’s doing this,” I say, a smile spreading on my face. My mom’s face, meanwhile, grows more worried.
The other team has taken a knee, as if someone on our side has been injured, which I sort of feel is seconds away from happening. My dad is turning red—the kind of red I used to see when he would yell at my brother for being out too late…for smashing the side door of his Jeep into our dad’s car…for smoking pot. Jimmy O’Donahue takes steps backward, and one of the referees steps between them both, grabbing the collar of my father’s shirt. There are boos coming from the stands, and my mom keeps glancing over her shoulder, as if they could be happening for any reason other than the spectacle her husband just made.
She turns back to the field to watch my dad talk—more rationally—with the referee, a guy named Jeff Munds. We’ve known Jeff for years. He handles most of the big games in the state, and ends up doing a lot of ours because of that. My father seems to calm down thanks to Jeff, and as he starts to walk with him to the exit from the
field, I watch my mom carefully, her nails in between her teeth and her eyes not blinking, but never focusing in one place for too long. She flits from the exit, to the field, to the score, to my knees, to the place down the bleachers where my brother is sitting with a few friends. It’s like I can read her mind, and the way it’s working out what every person here must be thinking about her.
And then, with a few words, everything about her shifts.
“What’s the matter, Lauren? Can’t handle the spotlight? Thinking of driving the car through Jimmy’s house now?”
I don’t even know where the shouting is coming from, but the words ring through clear, and my mother hears them. I watch her demeanor change, her chest fills with air slowly and her shoulders rise.
“Just ignore them,” I say, my hand finding her arm. My mom reaches into her purse, probably for her keys, ready to leave. I assume she’s going to go find my dad and make him go home. Her hand pauses, though, with one more shout from behind us.
“Tori O’Donahue’s parties are better than yours ever were!” the voice shouts.
Of everything that’s ever been thrown at us as a family, the one thing that has always been off limits is Lauren Prescott’s ability to put together an event of any kind. My mother’s degree is in hospitality, and before my father was making good money, my mom ran a five-star resort. Her events are perfection—always on time, always under budget, and enjoyed by all. To throw stones at her over that, especially now, is a bigger insult than I think anyone could ever realize.
My mom turns to me, and when our eyes meet, I see a glimpse of the woman she used to be before the stress of being the coach’s wife started to tear her down. Her pupils dilate, just enough, and her head tilts a fraction. I imagine the sound of her neck cracking, though I think perhaps it really did. She stands, delicately folding the sweater that was keeping her lap warm, laying it down on her seat pad and walking, her arm looped through her purse, up the steps to the place where the voice came from.
I turn in my seat, leaving the chaos still being sorted out on the field and watch as my mom questions the rows of boosters sitting near the press box until a woman finally stands up and puts her hands on her hips, yelling more at my mother—probably about her party planning.