by Ginger Scott
“I have not had a big head,” Mrs. Mendoza says, which only ignites a round of laughter from every woman in the kitchen other than her, me, and my mom. My mom eventually bites her lip and giggles because it’s contagious.
“Let me just show you,” Valerie says, pulling open a drawer and taking out something that looks like a poster. She walks over to the table and unrolls a laminated copy of the magazine spread, holding the ends down so it doesn’t curl up. The main photo is of Mrs. Mendoza in her front yard with a pair of shears and a bright-green watering can. “Just look. It’s laminated. She made one…for all of us!”
“I only thought you would be proud of your friend,” Mrs. Mendoza says as she begins to get up. I can tell her feelings are a little genuinely hurt, but I also get the sense that she’s not about to get great sympathy from this group.
“Oh, Maria…stop. Sit down and just autograph it for me already,” Valerie says, holding out a marker, her other hand on her hip.
Mrs. Mendoza stops only a step or two away from her chair, her lips pursed and her perfect lipstick slightly smeared by her pouting.
“Are you just going to sell it?” she asks, holding a serious expression in her face-off with Valerie. The quiet lasts for a few seconds before they both finally break into a laugh.
“Absolutely,” Valerie says. “I’ll put it on eBay, become a millionaire, and hire my own damn gardener for my house in Malibu.”
“Pssshhh, Malibu is overrated. You want to go to Santa Fe,” Maria says, taking the marker and actually signing the copy of her magazine article. “That’s where all of the new rich people are going.”
Valerie takes it and pins it to the front of the refrigerator with four mismatched magnets.
“Reagan, have you heard about Nico and the roses?” Maria says, taking her seat again at the table.
“No,” I smirk, my mouth twitching in curiosity. I scoot my chair closer to hear her better.
“When he was a little boy, he used to sneak into my front yard with his kiddie scissors, the kind that barely cut paper, you know?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I answer.
“Well, he would cut a rose on his way to school. Only, I didn’t know he was doing this. And every morning I would inspect my roses, feeding them and watering them, and always there would be one or two missing, almost ripped from the bush. It was the ugliest cut, and the petals would be sprinkled around the yard. I thought maybe it was someone’s puppy, or a cat. So one morning, I got up extra early, and I lay down by my back fence, real low so no one could see me. And here comes little Nico with his school bag over his shoulder. He pulls out his sad pair of scissors and cuts a red one from the bush, sawing at it and eventually ripping it free, and I jump out and scream, ‘Aha!’”
I jump a little in my chair, and the women laugh at me.
“You know what he was doing?” she says.
“No,” I smile, shaking my head.
She leans forward in her chair, her arms folded on the table.
“That little stinker was taking the flowers to school to give to some girl he liked. He would bring her one every day. Of course, after stuffing it in his backpack and dehydrating it for most of his trip to school, it was always sad and pathetic-looking by the time he handed it to the poor girl, I’m sure. But he still did it.”
“That’s…” I sit back. “That’s…really sweet.”
The rest of the women all have the same expression, even my mom.
“It is,” she says, closing her eyes briefly at the memory. “I started meeting him out front every morning after that. I would cut the rose for him, trim it up and wrap the stem in a paper towel. He’d always say, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Mendoza.’ He’d head off to school with a flower to deliver. This went on for a few weeks, and then finally I had to ask him, ‘Nico, what does your girl think of all these flowers? Is she your girlfriend yet?’”
She stands, pushing in her chair and moving toward the kitchen, and we all turn, engrossed by her story.
“You know what he told me?” she asks.
I shake my head no again.
“He said she told him she thought he was ugly, and he should stop bringing her flowers,” she chuckles.
My mouth drops to a frown fast, and my mom gasps a sad noise.
“That’s horrible,” I say, imagining a heartbroken Nico being told he’s ugly by a girl he liked enough to bring flowers to.
“I thought so, too. But then I thought, he’s still taking the flowers. So, I asked him what he was doing with the flowers now, and he said he was bringing them to new girls. He said he was going to give a flower to a new girl every day instead, to make them feel nice. And we kept up our deal, every morning. He took flowers to teachers, to the woman that ran the cafeteria, to the principal, to girls in his class. It didn’t matter who they were, he said. They all deserved flowers. And one day, there would be a girl that he thought deserved them all.”
My breath is gone when she lifts a vase from the sink, blooms of purple, pink, orange, white and red stuffed inside, each hand-cut carefully, stuffed and fit together in a clear-blue vase with a ribbon tied around the center. My eyes mist as she brings the vase close to me, and I rub my thumbs to blot away the tears. My mom does the same.
“Thanks, Mrs. Mendoza,” Nico says from behind me, his hands stuffed in his pockets, pushing them down deep, his shoulders hunched in a shrug, his smile crooked. The sweetest boy I’ve ever known.
“You’re welcome, Mijo,” she says. I stand and take them from her, breathing in their scent before turning slowly and walking over to him.
“You’re something, you know that?” I say, shaking my head and setting my flowers down on the corner of the table. I push my hands beneath his arms, wrapping them around his waist until he finally lets his free from his pockets and pulls me close to him, squeezing me against his chest and kissing the top of my head.
“They’re beautiful,” I say.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, letting out a small breath with his shrug and crooked smile.
“What’s going on in here?” my father asks, a little looser after what I’m guessing is his third beer. He steps in through the back door and Nico lets go of his hold on me out of habit.
“Not much, Chad. Your daughter’s boyfriend is just raising the bar really high, making all you men look bad,” my mom says.
My father’s brow wrinkles, and the entire table of women laugh, some reaching across to high-five my mom.
My dad turns his focus to Nico next.
“I just gave her flowers sir,” he shrugs, keeping his shoulders high like he’s waiting for the punch.
My dad looks to the table, leaning forward to smell them, then stepping back.
“Flowers, huh?” he says.
He pulls one out from center, holding it out in a gesture as if to ask if he can have it. Nico nods with a smile, and my dad walks around the table and hands it to my mom. She takes it in her delicate hand, her head falling to the side as she looks up to meet my father’s gaze.
“You romantic fool,” she teases, moving to her feet and then her tiptoes as she kisses my dad softly on the lips, blushing under his gaze as she sits again.
“Awe.” Nico’s Uncle Danny puts on a feminine voice to break the mood and tease my dad, and soon the kitchen is buzzing with laughter and music.
Valerie begins serving food, handing plates around and encouraging everyone to come in from outside, inviting more neighbors over to eat. My brother has found a spot on the sofa next to Nico, and they’re both sitting with plates on their laps and the USC game on the TV. I stay in the kitchen, watching them talk, and pound fists over good plays.
“I love their game,” my brother says.
“Oh my God, I know. They never huddle. But everyone knows exactly what the play is, where to go, and they hit it—every freakin’ time!” Nico says loudly.
“Nicolas Medina, your tongue!” Valerie shouts from the kitchen.
“I said freakin
’ Mom,” he shouts.
“Yeah, don’t act like I don’t know what freakin’ means. Beat your freakin’ head next time you think you can use that word here,” she says, moving her attention back to her plate, reaching for a pitcher of lemonade in the center of the table.
Nico laughs her off, chuckling with my brother, and the scene of them both seems so perfect, I don’t know why it’s taken so long to happen.
“You like Southern Cal then, huh?” my dad says from the easy chair he’s commandeered on the opposite end of the living room.
“Hell yeah…I mean…heck yeah,” Nico says, quieting down, but still getting a glare from his mom.
They all turn their attention back to the TV, and my brother pushes himself up to his feet awkwardly, having to use Nico’s shoulder for a lift so he can stand, his arm pumping as he shouts, “Go, go, go!”
“Wooo whoo!” There’s a collective scream from the living room, and Alyssa runs through waving a homemade golden pom-pom in her hand, doing her best to do a cartwheel in the small space between the living room and kitchen.
It quiets again after the celebration, and for some reason, my eyes move to my father. He’s stopped eating, and eventually he leans forward enough to set his half-full plate on the small coffee table in the center of the room. He rests back in the chair again and rubs his hands together, his eyes eventually settling on Nico.
“They’re interested,” my dad says.
Nico glances to him briefly, but looks back at the television, not realizing what my father means. My eyes grow wide, and I step from my seat, moving to the living room. My quick movement catches Valerie’s attention, and she slides up next to me, looking at me, about to ask if something’s wrong, when my dad continues.
“Nico,” he says, getting his attention. Nico’s laughing at something with Noah, but he turns to my dad, quieting down. “USC…they’re…they’re interested.”
The only sound now is the announcer on the TV. Nico reaches forward and clicks the mute button, dropping the remote back to the table and folding his arms over his knees, leaning toward my dad. He looks stunned, and maybe a little frightened.
“I’m sure there are more, but I don’t get all of the calls now. USC called before I was fired, and I sent them game tape. They followed up last week, and they’re coming. They didn’t say for sure, but I’d be ready to have the game of your life Friday.”
“You’re serious,” Nico says, his voice almost a panic.
“I don’t joke about football, son,” my dad says.
Nico lets out a heavy breath, his hands moving to his hair, pushing his hat from his head and letting it fall against the wall while his fingers thread through the dark-brown strands on his head. His eyebrows lift high, and his eyes are glued wide.
“Nico, baby,” his mom says, moving to sit on the arm of the sofa. He twists and hugs her, and she kisses the top of his head, looking to my dad as she does, mouthing, “Thank you.”
My father smiles and nods, a look of pride on his face, but also pain. He wants to guide him through it all, but he has walls in his way now. He hates that he can’t hold his hand completely. My father—he loves Nico. Just like I thought he would.
The lunch party lasted well into the dinner hour with neighbors, church members, family, and friends dropping in and out of the Medina house until the sun began to fall. My parents left, my mom rounding up my drunken sleepy father by about six. Colton and Sasha ended up coming over, and my brother stood in the middle of the road throwing a child-size football to them and Nico while they all made bets over who could catch the best pass.
Watching them made me wish we’d all grown up together—more than we already have.
Eventually, Sasha, Colton and my brother leave, each offering to give me a ride that I don’t take because I want to stay here, with Nico. Our time alone is mostly non-existent. We see each other at school, under my dad’s watchful eye, in busy hallways, or at Charlie’s with the rest of the school. I think we’ve both been counting on the time when the sun went down, and as his mother sits at the kitchen table with her girlfriends playing cards, his niece asleep on the sofa, a cartoon on the TV, Nico takes my fingers in his, leading me down the hallway to his room.
He leaves his door open a crack at first, but it falls more and more closed each time he passes. He turns on his stereo, then pushes the door in more. He pulls his blinds closed, and nudges the door. He spreads his blanket out nicely over his rumpled bed; the door clicks to a close.
“You are a bad boy, Nico Medina,” I say, suddenly very aware of the loose shirt I wore over my favorite leggings, my feet in only socks as I left my Vans by the front door. My hair, of course, is down.
His eyes narrow on me as his chin falls toward his chest, his back against his door, and he reaches his finger forward, hooking it in the neck of my shirt, tugging me toward him. My feet obey, my hands feeling the softness of his gray Tradition football T-shirt, the ridges of his abs hard underneath. I breathe in and out once quickly in anticipation, catching just enough of his scent, the mix of him and whatever it is he showers in. I dream that scent.
Nico shakes his head slowly, his eyes watching as his right hand slides my hair from my shoulder first, then his left does the same. He swallows hard, his finger again hooked in the collar of my shirt, above my shoulder. He drags it over the crest of my arm gently, his head falling forward until his lips rest on my bare skin. As he tilts his head up again, his finger traces the line of my black bra strap, and a shiver runs down my spine.
His gaze come to mine, and he steps into me, spinning me so my back is flush against his door and his chest is touching me, mine aching for more as his hands move from my shoulders to my neck until they cup my face. Nico leans slightly to the right, as do I, and our lips come together softly at first. I can feel his shake when he holds my bottom lip between his.
“You’re nervous,” I tease, breathing the words against his mouth.
“I am,” he says.
I kiss him again, mine trembling, too, but I don’t care, because I can’t stop the reaction my body has with him.
“Why?” I ask, trailing kisses down his jaw to his neck.
Nico sweeps my hair in one hand, lifting it so he can do the same, kissing along my collar bone, up my jaw and finding my ear, his teeth dragging along my sensitive skin.
“Because I want to touch you,” he whispers, his words buckling my knees.
He sucks the lobe of my ear and leans his weight into me more, his head dragging along mine until our lips meet to kiss again. We kiss without breathing for almost a minute, and when Nico finally breaks away to look at me, I’m panting.
“You can,” I say, feeling the heat rush up my chest, choking me.
He shakes his head, leaning in just enough to touch his nose softly against mine.
“Please,” I whisper, and he stops moving. “Touch me. If…only if you want to.”
Nico takes a sharp breath, and his eyes close as his fingers run along my cheeks to my shoulders. His lids open and our eyes lock briefly before he nods, his gaze moving to my neck and then following the path of his hands as he slides them along my ribs, down to my hips, reaching the bottom of my shirt and gathering the material in his palms.
He looks to me for approval, and I nod slowly, biting my lip and listening nervously to the sounds on the other side of the door. The women still giggle at the table, the television still plays lightly—everything is the same. And for once, for a rare moment, Nico and I are alone.
His hands continue to gather my shirt until his fingertips find my skin, the edge of my bra against my ribs, my stomach clenched tight with my held breath. Nico continues to move upward, the back of his knuckles dragging over my breasts slowly, against the silk and lace, against my chest and neck until he lifts my shirt over my head, leaving my arms up against the door, bound by the fabric.
His right hand traces my face as he leans in to kiss me, his lips tasting mine while his left hand comes down now t
o join the other, both moving along my sides in sync, stopping when his thumbs find the edge of my bra. My body arches into him, aching for him to cross the boundary I know he’s hesitating at. I can’t seem to ask him, so I breathe in, arching again, my breath falling away in a stutter against his mouth.
Nico steps back enough to let his head fall against mine, his eyes looking down at the movement of his hands. I close mine, waiting—anticipating. He traces the lace edge of my bra, the only nice one I really own, slowly, passing several times before running once over each breast. His fingers trail behind, and each small meeting of his hand…there…leaves me wanting more until his thumbs slip under each cup and rub against the hardest parts.
“Ah,” I let out a small pant, and Nico nips at my lips, his hands caressing me even more, fully cupping each breast and bringing his fingers together to put pressure where it feels so sweet.
Reaching up, he grabs my shirt, tossing it to the floor next to us, and when I look at him nervously, he holds his finger to his mouth, reminding me to stay silent—grinning.
My head falls back to rest on the door, and he slides my bra straps slowly down my arms until they fall loose around my biceps. His hands move back to my breasts again, slipping inside the material, wriggling it down as I pull my arms free until I’m completely exposed, my chest heaving with my quick breaths.
His kiss begins at my bottom lip, but trails lower without hesitation as he drags his mouth along my chin, his fingertips pushing gently, forcing my gaze up as he leaves small kisses along my neck, sucking over the rise of my right breast until he stops in the center, his tongue passing over my hard peak, his teeth closing with light pressure that makes me want to moan. I move my arms around him, squeezing his head against me as he sucks so hard it hurts. I only want more, though.
Nico moves to my other breast, doing the same, his hands running up the back of my legs until they hold me from behind, pulling me tight against him. I can feel his arousal, and my body pushes back, wanting to feel it more. Lifting me up, he turns the knob on his door, locking it, and I look at him, questioning.