by Ginger Scott
I open my mouth and close it just as promptly, my eyes pulling in, my heart starting to sound. “Shoot,” I say, letting my head fall against his chest as I stare at our feet, my toe kicking at his. “Damn you, Nico Medina. That shut me up fast.”
His lips come down on the top of my head as he wraps his arms around my head. I love life here in his small homemade cocoon.
“Good,” he hums.
My skin tingles, and my heart races even faster. I’m nervous, something I haven’t been with him in a long time.
“I love you, too,” I say, my face buried into his chest, burrowing further.
Nico steps away enough that I can’t hide, bending down and pulling my chin up, looking me in the eyes.
“Yeah?” he asks, his eyes hopeful and golden—so golden.
“Yeah,” I say, my nod small, but my pounding heart heavy.
“You love me?” he asks again, quirking a brow to question, now teasing me. I push against his chest.
“Yes, you big nerd! I love you!”
His smirk grows, and his dimple deepens, so I push him again. This time, though, he catches my hands and pulls me into him, moving his hands to my face and kissing me softly, saying the words again against my mouth.
“I love you,” he whispers, his mouth caught between kiss and smile.
My cheeks sore from smiling and my lips raw from kissing; I finally go to work on my film, wanting to make the deadline to deliver it to Prestige for consideration. Nico stays, pulling up a chair and sitting so one leg is behind me and one next to me. His kisses along my neck distract me at first, but once I get into my zone, I’m able to focus, even with my muse so close, tempting me.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve boiled down my footage to just enough. I need twenty minutes, so I have more editing and trimming to do—especially if I want to add the state championship game into the storyline, which…I do.
The Tradition steamrolled over everyone, and Nico is poised to break the state’s passing record in the championship game. He’s a hundred and ten yards shy, and the team—his team—wants him to get there.
The offer from USC hasn’t come yet, and I can tell it’s weighing on him. I know he wants it, but he hasn’t brought it up since the game the scouts were at. I think because that night is too painful to relive. I believe it’s coming, though. I know it, just as much as I know I’m in love with him.
I’m running through close-up shots from some of the earlier practices and games, forwarding and rewinding, finding just the right clip to cut, when Nico slides his chair back from me, scratching along the tiled floor.
“Sorry,” he winces.
“It’s okay. I’m not picking up any sound in here. It’s all…” I tap on the computer screen.
“Oh, yeah…right,” he says.
He leans over and kisses me, then pulls his bag up his arm and kicks his board up to his hand from the ground.
“You have to leave already?” I ask, wanting him to stay, but knowing he can’t.
“My chariot awaits new tires…and a radiator,” he says.
Nico’s been taking extra hours when he can at Hungry Hill. He’s already fixed up his car quite a bit, but there are a few…unexpected expenses that have put off driving a little longer than he had hoped.
“Will you make it to Charlie’s later? To celebrate?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he smiles, leaning in to kiss me one last time.
I watch the door, catching every last glimpse of his form the second the wheels of his board hit the hallway floor and he rolls down the hall. When the door falls closed completely, I stare at it a little while longer, smiling, because Nico loves me.
I never bothered to go home from the editing bay. It’s our bye week before the championship, and Charlie’s has a tradition of hosting our pep rallies during the playoffs. It’s strange coming here without my dad, but he didn’t want to make this night about him. He wanted this for the boys, because he said they earned the right to this memory.
Noah is coming. Despite Jimmy O’Donahue’s complete lack of morals and empathy, he did do right by Noah. My brother has been on the field, on the sidelines, for every playoff game, and Jimmy told the team last night that he’d like Noah to lead them on the field for State. Everyone agreed.
I know that most of the players won’t get here until late. That’s the thing about the pep rally—they all pretend they’re too cool for it, but they still really want to be here. They just think they should be in someone’s basement, getting lit on cheap beer like they do in the movies. They’ll do that, too—after they leave Charlie’s. But for a few hours, around midnight, boys will be boys, and football will bring us all together, and we will just be a bunch of teenagers…living.
Izzy pulls into the spot next to mine, and I hand her a frozen hot chocolate as she steps up to our favorite table, sitting on the top with me, our feet on the bench.
“So Noah and Katie…they haven’t gotten back together,” I say, doing my best to sound nonchalant, failing at it miserably.
“Knock it off, Reagan. Seriously…me and Noah are fine. We’re just what we are, and who knows, maybe,” she says, stopping to take a long sip of her sugary drink.
“I know, but you like him, and I could totally hook you up…”
“Stop,” she says, this time turning and raising a brow.
I huff and let my lips fall to my own straw, drinking my root beer float while I pout.
“Fine, but if you two end up getting married one day, and you regret missing out on all of these years you could have been a couple, I don’t want to hear it,” I say.
“Sounds good. Deal,” Izzy says, her answer clipped.
I give up my matchmaking mission, and my friend pulls a bottle of gold nail polish from her purse, nodding to me to lay my hand flat on the table so she can paint my nails.
“Why would you bother doing that? You know I’m just going to peel it all off,” I say.
She looks up at me, her hand poised with the brush above my knuckles, my hand still balled in a fist.
“Bitch, show some school spirit,” she teases, her face mean, but pretend.
I purse my lips and roll my eyes, but flatten my hand for her, because she would end up winning anyway. I sip my drink while my best friend paints glitter on my fingertips, and when she’s done, I spend the next ten minutes waving my hands, fingers sprawled, to make sure it all dries.
Colton shows up first, but Travis pulls in a second or two after with my brother. I show them my new manicure, and Noah laughs. “How long before you chew that shit off?” he asks, letting go of my hand after inspecting it.
“Careful, Noah. You’re out of the house on good behavior,” I say with a smirk.
“Pshh,” he says, rolling his shoulders and walking away from me.
My brother’s cast is off, and he’s wearing a giant plastic boot device with a long splint until he gets stronger. He walks like the Frankenstein monster in it, but I won’t make fun of him. He’s healing about two weeks ahead of schedule, and he’s hoping to make a few trips this week with our dad to some schools still interested in seeing what he can do. The scope of Noah’s dreams has been narrowed, but when he found out some of them were still viable, he started to act a little more like himself. I can’t take shots at something so important to him, no matter what kind of digs he’s taken at me.
Noah’s actually helped more with my film over the last weeks. He’s taken my camera on the field for me, and he talked Jimmy O’Donahue into sitting down for an interview, which he did…reluctantly. I didn’t pull any punches, and I asked him about working in an environment where everyone is always gunning for his job—especially since he took out my dad just to get the gig. He said it was a matter of knowing his enemies and keeping them happy. He’s right.
I suppose my dad will be playing the same game in the fall, only on a bigger scale. At least he’ll be the guy bucking for the job, for a little while, rather than the one fending off the att
acks.
By about eleven, most of the team has showed up, and Charlie’s parking lot is buzzing with a mix of music from competing car stereos, squeals from girls, laughter from guys, and a few quiet conversations tucked in corners. I sit back and watch it all, my phone turning over and over again in my hand anxiously. I’m waiting for my guy.
Nico texted about half an hour ago that he had gotten off work and was going to head home to change and have Sasha pick him up. I couldn’t wait to see them both, actually. The night wouldn’t feel right until then.
Somehow, Izzy has worked her magic and gotten another large shake, which I know she didn’t pay for. She slides up to sit next to me again after making her rounds and talking with every group here.
“You’re like the ultimate politician, I swear,” I say, leaning into her.
“Yeah, except I’m only in it for the ice cream,” she says, sliding the straw free and sucking out the milkshake from the bottom, her head tilted back. She shifts to look at me and winks while she slurps.
“You’re like a milkshake hooker,” I say, making her snort laugh.
“Oh my God, I am,” she says, pausing briefly, then shrugging and diving back in to scoop out more.
I’m laughing at my friend, watching her try not to make a mess, and I don’t see Sasha’s car squeal into the parking lot. I don’t see him park in the middle of the drive-thru, and I don’t notice him kick the door open and leave his car running. I don’t see anything at all until I follow Izzy’s gaze and turn to meet his eyes.
He doesn’t have to speak the second I do. I cover my mouth and run to the car with him, tears streaming down my face the second my foot lands inside his car.
Nico!
The blue car is always waiting. It’s the only thing I’m afraid of. I’m not even sure I’m really afraid of the smoking man inside as much as I’m afraid of his car.
That car is on the corner now, and I don’t have my bike. I should have waited for the other boys, should have walked home with Sasha and had his mom drive me here. I shouldn’t be alone. But Momma needed me. She said she wanted me to help her shop for Vincent’s birthday. Vincent is coming home for his birthday—he always does, and Momma wants to be ready, to make his favorite food and a cake.
My watch said four thirty. Momma’s leaving at five. I had to go, even though my friends were staying to play more football. I always do as Momma says. Only…I wasn’t supposed to go to the park that far away. It’s my fault that he’s here, my fault that I’m so far from home. If he gets me, it’s because I was careless and didn’t follow the rules.
I crouch behind the concrete block on the West End side of the bridge, and I watch the man in the blue car. His lips curl around a pipe, and his hands hold fire in his palms, burning the poison. His lips puff out white fog, and his head falls back against his seat. I have to go now. If I run now, he won’t see me go, and I’ll have a head start.
I’m faster than he is. I’m faster than his car. I’m not filled with poison.
My feet are numb, and I’m afraid my legs won’t work, so I run in place for a second, watching the man to make sure his head is still back. I think his eyes are closed, and I know I have to go, but my body feels too weak.
I glance around, hoping to see someone I know, but the streets are all quiet and empty. The corner market is closed for the day. They don’t stay open very late any more—not since the shootings started.
I hate that blue car. I hate the smoking man. I promised Vincent and Momma I would always run, and my brother is coming home. He’s coming home for his birthday, and I need to help Momma make him a cake.
I take a deep breath and form fists, bending my elbows and pushing the back of my heel against the concrete to push off. I must be fast.
I count down, my eyes watching him the whole time. Three. His head is still back. Two. His car’s engine is quiet. One…
My feet pound the pavement, and my legs work to turn what is normally one step into two, pushing fast and hard down the middle of the street, my head to the side, my eyes locked on my enemy as I run toward the houses, toward the alleyway that leads to my home. If I can make it there, he’ll never see me. He just needs to keep his eyes closed.
Run faster, Nico. Run faster.
My heart is pounding, and my fists are turning red, I’m squeezing so hard. I grit my teeth and push harder, breathing out with my right foot, in with my left.
I can see the alleyway. I can see the shadow of the house on the corner. I’m almost there. I’m going to make it.
Run faster, Nico.
I look ahead, counting the steps. Maybe twenty. Maybe fifteen. Maybe ten.
I hear the engine. The car starts to move. I start to cry.
Run faster, Nico!
I don’t want him to catch me. He’ll never catch me. I will always be too fast for him.
Always…too fast.
23
“Your portfolio of work is certainly impressive, Miss Prescott. I feel confident that you’ll be getting a call from our admissions office.”
Michael Buschwell is the dean of Prestige’s Film Academy. When he called to set up my interview for his program last week, I promptly turned him down. He offered to come to my house, and so I agreed, not knowing how any of this would end. I mostly wanted to put it off, so I could deal with the day—survive it and get answers and see if they would destroy me or make me whole.
“This story…your documentary? It all feels unbelievable. But…I mean that as a compliment. What you captured—the backstabbing in private schools, the pressure of running a program like this, what it did to your family—to Nico’s.” He stops there, pushing my laptop closed and sliding it back to me.
“It’s people’s lives. Sometimes, good people live in dangerous places, and selfish people live in safe havens. It’s kind of messed up…” I say, not knowing what should come next. I tuck my hands under my legs, my pulse reminding me just how important this is.
“When we set this up, you mentioned in your email to me that your film…it isn’t done,” Michael says, his head slightly to the side. His eyes sweep from me to my computer as he pulls his hand away.
“It’s not,” I say, breathing in deeply through my nose, my back falling into the wood of our kitchen chair. “There’s one more interview I need to do.”
Michael nods, his eyes flitting to mine as he offers a courteous smile.
“Okay, then,” he says, standing and pulling his jacket from the back of his chair. I stand, too, and wait for him to slip his arms through and straighten his tie. He reaches out a hand, and I shake it, hoping my palms aren’t sweating too badly.
“I very much hope you’ll share the final version with me then…when it’s done?” His eyes look at me expectantly, and I nod quickly.
“Of course,” I say.
He smiles.
“Good. Perhaps we can slip this in just in time for the winter awards ceremony then,” he says over his shoulder as I follow him to our front door. My knees quake at his remark.
“That’d…be amazing,” I say, managing to smile and remain calm.
“Wonderful,” he says, as I open the door and hold it as he steps to our front walkway. “Well…I’ll be in touch.”
“I look forward to it,” I say, battling in my own head as he walks toward his car, wondering just how long I need to leave the doorway open to look at him. I decide to close it before he reaches his door.
“Well?” my mom asks, sliding from her hiding spot around the corner.
She sat in the living room, quietly, while I talked with him. My brother and dad left early for the championship. I wished I could have shipped her off, too, because I just don’t know about any of it. But now that she’s here, I’m glad. I hug her and she pulls me in tight, her hands making soothing circles on my back.
“I think it went really well. I just…I don’t know what to do now,” I say.
“I know,” she says, stepping back and squeezing my shoulder, her eyes meet
ing mine. “You’ll do what’s right for you, and you’ll know when it hits you.”
I nod.
I ride with my mom to the stadium, and she drops me off at the side entrance so I can carry in my camera and gear. I slip my press badge over my neck and show it to the security guard who pushes the door wide for me to rush through. There aren’t many rooms open, so I quickly find the one where Valerie is waiting for me.
The stadium is starting to fill, but I know our seats are saved.
“Thank you for doing this, especially today,” I say, pulling out the small mic and unraveling the cord. I plug it into my camera and hand it to Valerie to weave through her blouse and pin it near her neck.
“Anything for you, Reagan. Really,” she says, her smile nervous.
I wait for her to finish clipping her mic and then squeeze her hand in mine, bringing her eyes to me.
“We can start over as many times as you’d like,” I say. “Just…talk from your heart, and I’ll edit it together.”
She nods slightly, sitting up tall in her chair and brushing her soft curls over her shoulders.
“Tell me about your son,” I say.
She laughs lightly to herself, letting her eyes fall closed and her red lips stretch into a proud smile. I watch her through the lens, letting her take her time. There’s power in her silence.
“A mother should not outlive her children,” she says. “When the marines came to our door, when they handed me the flag and told me that my oldest boy was gone from this world, I thought I would never recover.”
“But you did,” I say, leading her to keep going.
She smiles again, tilting her head slightly, one side of her mouth higher than the other as she stares right into the camera.
“I did,” she says, “because of Nico.”
I swallow, and force myself to hold my breath.
“When the police department called me and told me what my youngest son had done at that truck stop he worked at, my heart sank again. It was a stabbing pain, just like I had when I opened the door to two marines a few months ago. I only survived the first time because of Nico…I didn’t know how I was going to survive losing him.”