The Hard Count (18 page)

“
S
o are
you going to tell me he asked you to the dance? Or are you just planning on showing up with him and bobbing between me and your hot new boyfriend all night, hoping I won’t put things together?” Izzy asks.

I’m trying out a new lens on my still camera outside the gym. I asked Izzy to pose for me, so I could use her as my test subject. She’s meeting the rest of the cheerleaders here so they can all pile into the van for the game tonight on the north side of town. Her question comes out of the blue. Izzy and I haven’t talked much this week, and I haven’t seen Nico other than at practice or in class, so I haven’t had to contend with the two of them being in the same place yet. I was going to tell her, but I was also afraid.

“Uhm,” I say, my eye still flat against the viewer while my fingers delicately twist the lens in and out, repeatedly bringing the paint smudges on my friend’s arm in and out of focus.

“Nico told me,” she says, looking at me through the lens, her eyes direct. I suck in my lips and back away, looking at her for real. My chest thumps wildly. If I’m this nervous talking about Nico with Izzy, I’m pretty sure I’ll vomit when I have to tell my dad.

“Reagan?” she says, standing then sitting close to me, no longer in my camera’s view. I unclip it, giving up and putting it away.

“I was afraid you’d be mad,” I admit.

Izzy laughs, but when she realizes I’m not kidding, the sound falls away and her mouth slopes into a look of sympathy.

“Reagan, I think a lot of boys are cute. I don’t run around putting MINE stamps on them. If you liked him, which…clearly you do! You could have just said something,” she says, leaning into me while I pull the camera bag to my lap, sliding the mini tripod in place and pushing in the various camera parts.

“Yeah, but you never dated Travis, and I felt kind of like a hypocrite, so…”

“First of all, I never went out with Travis because he’s an immature ass-head without a plan,” she says, her mouth a hard line that eventually twists into a grimace while her eyes look off to the side. “He is hot, though, so it wasn’t easy. Still…loser. No plan!”

I giggle, feeling some of the pressure I put on myself this week leave my shoulders.

“I’m sorry. And it’s just the dance. He’ll probably go with me and realize what a boring wallflower I am, especially when I’m more interested in how the guy lines up the tracks for the music than actually
dancing
with Nico,” I say, laughing at myself. I’m a terrible dancer, even when it’s nothing more than slow swaying in a circular pattern. My feet find the tops of other people’s.

“He asked me about you,” she says, and I look from my lap to her in an instant. “Yeah, I thought that would get you. I knew he wasn’t into me. That night at Charlie’s, after I left you in the bathroom, I ran into Nico. His very first question was if you were all right.”

“He was probably just worried because Noah was being…
Noah,
” I say, still not ready to admit that Nico feels remotely the same way for me as I do for him.

“He asked about you several times, Reagan. And when he saw you talking to Sasha? On that bench? He did not like that…
at all!”

I smile with her last few words, looking down at my hands, which are nervously zipping and unzipping the camera bag, then looking back at my friend, meeting her eyes.

“He didn’t?” I bite my lip.

“Nope,” she says, pushing up straight and wiggling her head in a triumphant display.

“Are you still going to the dance?” I ask, hoping that my friend will be there. I can’t rely on Nico alone. I need allies, people to stand awkwardly with me on the sidelines, to dance badly to pop songs and to sneak out balloons meant to be decorations. This is what Izzy and I did at last year’s homecoming. I was looking forward to the repeat, and I don’t want a boy to get in the way.

“Of course I’m going. Uhm, hello…someone gets a crown!” I roll my eyes because Izzy won’t win, but every time there’s a dance with pretend royalty, she acts like she has it all sewn up. My brother and his girlfriend Katie were the frontrunners, last I heard, but I haven’t seen them together in days. I’m not sure if that matters to the voting student body, but maybe…just
maybe
it will play in Izzy’s favor.

I chew at the inside of my cheek and glance from my friend to my lap a few times before squinting and looking up at her again.

“He really asked about me?”

She closes her eyes and laughs.

“Yes, he
really
asked about you,” she says, grinning through her words, but cocking her head to the side the second she finishes, her smile falling. “But…what’s his deal today?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my brow pinched.

“He wasn’t here at all. He missed the entire day, and word on the street is Brandon might get the start tonight,” my friend says.

I pull my phone from my pocket, hoping for some message. There isn’t one, though. I haven’t given Nico my number yet, and the only person who ever calls me is sitting next to me right now.

“I knew he missed humanities, but I just figured he was excused, or maybe left early with the team,” I say, looking around the quickly-emptying student lot. Sasha’s car is in its place, and Travis’s Jeep is here, which means they’re accounted for. I stand, lifting my camera bag with me, and I start to wonder if Nico made it on the bus or not.

“I guess we’ll find out. You’re going to the game, right?”

I nod in response, my mind now lost to wondering where Nico is and if he’s okay. A few of the other cheerleaders walk up, nodding hello to me, so I excuse myself and walk to the film room to tug on the door. It opens easily; I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the darkness until I can find the switch to flip on the lights.

“Hello? Anyone still here?”

My voice echoes, and I don’t expect anyone to respond. My dad travels with the team, and most of his coaching staff does, too. I yell out a few more times, testing the room before walking to my dad’s office near the back. My dad doesn’t keep secrets in this building, so I know it’s safe to inspect his office. The only clue I get is the list of ineligibles on his desk, and there’s only one name listed under truancy—Noah Prescott.

Maybe Izzy’s wrong. Or maybe she only has half the story. I decide the latter is probably the most likely, and I close up the office and film room, flipping down the lights as I exit the building just in time to see the cheer squad pulling out of the lot.

I walk to my car with a little more speed than normal, anxious to get to Metahill to see if Nico’s warming up or Brandon. When my hand hits my car door handle, I pause, something catching my eye on Sasha’s silver car parked only a few spaces away. I let go of the handle of my car and move to his, realizing the closer I get that the blue thing flapping against his window is actually paper.

Pulling up the windshield wiper, I tug the paper clear and unfold it so I can read whatever message is scribed on it in black marker.

Your boy ain’t playing tonight. And you’re going to get your ass flattened.

I look in both directions, the lot empty and the building behind me now completely quiet. I crumple the note up, knowing Sasha probably never saw it before the bus left, and not wanting to leave it behind for him to find later. I drop it in a trash bin near one of the parking lot light poles between our two cars, and I get into mine, backing out so quickly my tires squeal. I pull away from the school fast, and by the time I make it to Metahill, my dad and his team are just taking the field for warm-ups.

My mother came along with Linda, Travis’s mom. They almost always ride together. Travis’s parents are divorced, but his mom kept the house. Our mothers grew close when that happened, and they both serve on the booster board together. Sometimes, I wonder if Mom talks to her about leaving Dad. Football, when it’s played like this? It has a way of tearing up families.

I pared my equipment down for tonight’s game. I have my small video camera that I’ll set up on top of the press box, but I left the heavier one that I use for interviews at home. Tonight, I want to focus on still photos. Bob, the team trainer, set me up with one of the state certified press passes, so I should be able to get on the field—at least for a little while.

I stop at the front of the bleachers, where my mom is setting up her bleacher pad along with Travis’s mom. My mom and I aren’t close. It’s not that we fight or that I resent her or harbor any angst. We just aren’t close. I’ve always been more interested in the things my dad does. My mom has always been more interested in doting after Noah. My father rides Noah hard, and he’s soft and sweet with me. Such is the Prescott family circle, I suppose.

“You planning to take some nice shots of the team tonight sweetheart?”

My mom is probably pointing out my access to the field to show off to the few other parents who are setting up their seats around her. Travis’s mom is used to it, and she smiles at me amiably then busies herself with her phone. A few of the others
oooh and ahhh
at my camera, asking me questions about my project, my plans after high school, and what my angle for the film will be.

“I needed some still shots to fill in some of the voiceover, and I just kind of like the effect,” I say, my mom’s smile outlined with bright-red lipstick and wide eyes. Her ears didn’t hear a single thing I just said.

“Sure hope this film has a happy ending, unlike last season,” one of the older men, sitting a few rows up, says.

My mom’s eyes flinch, and her smile shifts at his words, but she keeps her appearance up—as always. Coach’s wife is the ultimate cheerleader. She’s also the ultimate liar.

“Oh, now…last season was old news. I think this year is shaping up to be pretty exciting. Chad says the boys are really gelling,” my mom lies. I know it’s a lie, and most of the people listening do, too, but nobody seems to want to call her on it. Or at least, I don’t think they do, until I lean forward to hug my mom and hear the same older man contradict her.

“That’s not what I’m hearing,” he says. My mom’s hands grab at my sides, so I squeeze back, then rub my hand in a circle on her shoulder, signaling that I heard him, too.

“I hear that new kid from West End is a show boat. That’s what my grandson says, anyway. Such a shame Noah got hurt the way he did. I bet he really could have used a good season to prove last year wasn’t all his fault,” the old man says, clearing his throat with a harsh cough that rattles something deep in his chest. He chuckles to himself while he stands and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. “Hell, I bet you
all
could have used Noah to have a good run. But maybe this will end up working out. What do I know. I’m gonna go get a smoke. You wanna come, Bern?”

The old man nods to the heavier man sitting next to him, but he just waves him on, uninterested. My mom’s smile has shifted to the restrained kind, and she responds only with shrugs and head tilts. It’s her way of dealing with it, pretending she doesn’t understand the intricacies of the game. I know better. Lauren Prescott was a University of Alabama cheerleader, which is where she met my father. He was a receiver—second string. When I was little, she was very involved in my dad’s game-day plan. It was the talk of the dinner table, and I loved every second of it. Somewhere along the way, though, an invisible line was drawn, and our dinner table became quiet—except for bitter quips and digs about alienating us from the boosters or planning expensive parties to ignore real problems.

“Well, I know Chad’s really excited to see what Nicolas can do,” my mom says. Nobody is really listening any more, but I have to correct her anyway.

“He goes by Nico,” I say.

“Oh, like a nickname. How nice,” she says.

Yes. How nice. And you’ll get to meet him, after he takes me to the dance next Friday, and you can pretend you knew his name all along, or worse—be all of those things that Noah says you are. Be…racist.

I did not inherit my mom’s ability to pretend, so I leave before I have to, excusing myself to the press box where I set up my camera and begin to scan the field in search of Nico’s profile. I find him quickly—up front—between Sasha and Colton. I’m not sure what happened to him today, or where he went, but he seems to be cleared to play. At the very least, he was allowed to dress.

Once my video camera is set, I power it down to save space for the game film, then take the bleachers two steps at a time until I get to the field. The air is crisp tonight, the slight breeze enough to turn my fingers pink. I tug my Cornwall sweatshirt from around my waist and slip it on over my long-sleeved black T-shirt that hangs below the sweatshirt’s bottom. I’m grateful for the extra fabric when the wind picks up, cutting through my thin leggings and sending shivers over my body despite my attempt to dress warm.

I decide to move around the field to get my heartrate up, so I jog to the far end and lie on the grass, taking shots of the team stretching, of my father talking with his staff—of him having a more private and stern conversation with Coach O’Donahue. I zoom in, thinking I might just be able to read their lips, but my view isn’t clear enough. My father holds up a hand, turning his back on Coach O’Donahue, who stands still for several long seconds before shaking his head and slipping out a swear word on his way to the sidelines.

When the cheerleaders begin to trail onto the track, I walk the long way around the field up to Izzy, nodding toward Nico so she sees he’s here.

“Huh, he must have had a really good excuse for missing,” she says, shrugging it off.

“Yeah,” I say, pulling the camera up to my eye, focusing on Nico’s face while the team gathers in two halves—defense and offense.

My father and Nico talk, and it’s off-to-the-side and quiet, away from the others. There’s a moment where my dad puts his hand on Nico’s shoulder, their heads coming in close—a beautiful display of mutual respect. My brother never had that.

My brother never had that.

I scan the sidelines, finally seeing Noah. He’s alone, balanced on his crutches, a water bottle in his hands, his eyes watching Nico take his place. My brother is so broken and bitter. I would be, too. If only he knew Nico more, I think it would help. I think he would root for him. But then…maybe not.