Authors: Ginger Scott
I don’t want strangers to think I cry.
“Yeah, I’ll tell him, too,” I say through forced laughter. I plaster a smile on my face, and Izzy blows me a kiss, flinging the door open and disappearing—probably to find my hero, who I don’t really know all that well either, but know better than she does.
The door comes to a close, and the intruder in the bathroom shuts her stall, so I let my smile slip away, my mouth tired of pretending. I turn the water on and fill my hands with soap, to give myself a reason to be here. I don’t carry a purse. The only things on me are my phone and small wallet stuffed in the back pocket of my jean shorts. I take in my reflection, looking for that confidence—some sign that says I’m a girl that’s going to walk out of here and turn heads. My hair is straight and flat, tucked behind my ears on both sides, a small sweeping of bangs that are too short to fit into a ponytail anyhow stick to my forehead.
I rinse my hands free of soap, and pat them dry on my legs and white T-shirt because there are never paper towels in this bathroom. I head to the exit the second the only other girl in here with me opens her stall door. I’m gone before she can see me.
The small hallway by the restrooms is quiet, but just four steps away, into the main part of the restaurant, people are packed in, standing room only. It’s always this way when we win. My family came here, to Charlie’s, after the big loss. We were the only people in the joint. My father wanted to come because it was ironic. It was the first time the owner didn’t tell him “good game.” My dad hasn’t been back since.
I don’t really like crowds. My circle of friends is small—it’s Izzy, really. I know people, but I don’t know anybody well, so I usually stand off to a side until I can slip away unnoticed, back to the dark of my room with my computer and camera equipment.
I want to escape now, but I don’t want people to think it’s because of what happened with my brother. I wonder who else saw? I hate that Travis did. I hate that he was a jerk. Travis has always been nice to me, but maybe that was before—when we were kids. Things are different now that we all graduate in a few months. It’s like we had to choose a side—a type—that we were going to be. My type falls on the outside and my brother and Travis—they live in the center.
My thumbnail lodged between my teeth, I scan through the windows as best I can, but am unable to find my friend. I know she wouldn’t wait in line. Izzy doesn’t have to—people deliver her things. I bet someone handed her the chocolate shake the minute she walked up.
Giving up, I walk through a side exit and make my way back to my favorite picnic table, drips of chocolate still there as evidence of everything that went down. I step up on the bench and sit on the tabletop, taking in a long breath and brushing my hair from my bare arms, the humidity making everything feel sticky. I tap my feet in a haphazard rhythm, my feet hot in my white shoes. I wish I’d worn socks.
When a heavy black Nike kicks one foot out of place, I jerk my head up, ready to be defensive, tired of being pushed around tonight by my brother and his friends, but Sasha’s smile disarms me. He steps up on the seat, and I move over a few inches to make room so he can sit next to me. When I look him in the eyes, I see a boy just as out of place as I am.
“So are these things always this crowded?” he asks, leaning back and looking out at the sea of people gathered in bunches around the parking lot. Car doors hang open to play music. People sit on the backs of pickup trucks. Girls giggle while boys try to throw ice at them. Guys play catch with a football while family cars try to make their way into the drive-thru line.
“Yeah, pretty much. It’s been like this here since I was a kid…after game night,” I say, thinking about the times I came here in the back seat of my parents’ car, my face pressed to the window wanting—waiting—for
my
time to come. And here I am. My time.
What a disappointment.
“We have things like this…in West End.” Sasha looks up at me with one brow cocked.
“I thought you didn’t live there anymore?” I ask.
“Psshhh, I don’t. I hate that place, yo. But…I don’t know. Not all of it, ya know? It has good parts. And when I got my license, I started going back to visit,” he says, a smile playing out over his lips while he speaks, his eyes flitting up to the night sky. “Ah damn, so many people are exactly the same. It’s crazy. We have this mini-mart kind of place, and that’s what this reminds me of. On Sundays, after church, that parking lot is crazy full. The food there is so good, and everyone races out of service to get in line. And the drinks are always colder there. I don’t know how, but they just are.”
“You go there for church then?”
Sasha nods.
“My mom goes to a place by our apartment, near St. Augustine’s, and I went there with her after we moved. But as soon as I could drive, I started going with the Medinas,” he says, his eyes coming to me briefly before falling to his hands on his knees. He’s nervous, and it’s sweet. When he’s with Nico and their friends, Sasha is the loud one.
“You must love his family,” I say, inviting his eyes back to mine. When our gazes meet, he smiles, his lip raising higher on one side.
“I do,” he says. “Nico…he’s…”
He stops without finishing, and after a few seconds, his eyes move from mine back out to the crowd. He doesn’t have to say the word. There really isn’t a single one that fits everything Nico Medina is.
Special.
Loyal.
Smart.
Mysterious.
Important.
My stomach sinks again at the thought of trying to define him. I want more words for him. I need to know more of his story, but right now, my best friend is laughing at his jokes, both of their backs to me while they talk with Colton and a few other members of the team. I could walk over there and insert myself. My friend would welcome me. Nico would involve me. But I’m still not so sure I belong—not right there.
Not right now.
This isn’t my shot. And our stories are too different.
I
pull
up to the stoplight above the freeway right before crossing over into West End, my camera equipment piled in the seat next to me, covered by my pink-flannel shirt. My mom used to tell me stories about people getting carjacked in West End, but now that I’m older, and watch the news and read the paper, I never hear of it
really
happening. I think she made it up—a fear tactic—to keep me from driving into an “bad neighborhood.” But that thought crept in about a block ago, so I pulled my shirt from around my waist, and spread it over my things as if that actually conceals everything.
My father held an early-morning practice today, just as he promised the guys he would. And he worked the team hard. By the time I arrived, everyone was accounted for. Everyone, but my brother. I suppose he wasn’t expected, but after the speech he made—about how he would support the team in his new role—I would have thought he would have shown up. Noah actually never came home. He told my mom he was staying at Travis’s for the night. Neither he, nor Travis—who lives next door—came home, though. My mom was aware of this when I came home at eleven. She was aware of it when I was still awake and creeping down to the fridge for a glass of milk at two o’clock, and she was aware of it this morning, when she sat at the breakfast table with her head barely held up on her arm, the coffee in her cup cold long ago.
My mom is a worrier. She also has terrible anxiety. She medicates—upping the dosage against doctor’s orders—and my brother’s self-destructive behavior is not helping things. I knew I didn’t want to be around when he showed up. Not that my mom would discipline him. She’ll do just the opposite, actually, because that’s what we do with problems in the Prescott family—we cover them up in happy paint, put on sunshine smiles and pretend everything is fine. When boosters started writing op-ed pieces in the local newspaper calling for my dad’s resignation after last year’s season, my mom began forcing our family to go to the art shows and plays in the city. We needed to be “more well-rounded” she said.
More like we needed to show off how upscale and pedigreed we were, why even though he lost, my father was still the right coach for Cornwall, because he attended theater. This is also why the PTA would never find a more perfect and qualified president for their social committee than my mom. Sometimes, I wonder about all of the work that happens in her head, the strain she puts on herself to make sure everything in our lives looks perfect. I catch her talking to herself sometimes. Other times, she falls apart. I don’t see the tears, only the remnants. She always has an excuse—“allergies” or “something in my eye.”
I pretend, too, I suppose. I pretend I don’t notice, or that I believe her. We’re a house of flipping posers.
When I left her at the kitchen table, the sun barely up, she was already pulling out her calendar to plan the next function. By the time I get home, I’m sure some major fall dinner party will be planned for our house—all coordinated on zero hours of sleep and a nice cocktail of chardonnay and Xanax.
My dad fixes things the opposite way. He dives head first into the problem, but burrows himself so far in that he becomes manic, losing control. That was evident at this morning’s practice when his unrealistic expectations left three players with heat exhaustion and a handful of others on the verge of pulling muscles. When he called practice for the day, the sun high above everyone’s head, hunger in their bellies if they weren’t sick, he didn’t bother to stay behind while the team cleared the field. If he had, he would have seen one player do an extra set of everything.
Nico.
I watched from my car. In fact, I didn’t bother to film a thing. At the time, I told myself I was just tired—giving myself a break. Every few minutes, I’d convince myself that I was going to go home soon, to help my mom, to go back to bed—to
get the enormous stick out of my ass.
My brother’s cruel words were locked in my head, and every time I shut my eyes to sleep last night, they popped right back open at the thought that I was wasting my time with this film business.
Nico changed my mind about that, too, though. I watched him run one more set of bleachers, and then count out on his own for a solid minute of up-downs, his legs weak and barely able to carry him, but his will fighting to make them work just a little longer.
Seeing him want something so badly was beautiful. That’s how I feel about film.
I should have offered to take him home, but instead I let him hitch a ride with Sasha, and then I sat in my car for an extra hour, giving him a head start so I didn’t look like I just followed him.
I realize now exactly how little good that did. His eyes narrow on my windshield as I pull into his driveway. His niece is in the front yard, skipping through a sprinkler, while he sits on the porch in a plastic chair. He’s still wearing the gray T-shirt he wore during practice. In fact, the only difference from the version of him I saw an hour ago is that his shoes are unlaced, and the sweat has dried a little.
He cocks his head to the side and raises a brow, so I raise a hand, curling my fingers up and down in the weirdest wave of my life.
“Nico, come play with me!” Alyssa yells from the yard, her arms swinging wildly through the stream of water, trying to fling it toward me. She’s giggling, and I can tell she’s trying to get me wet.
“Maybe in a little bit. Why don’t you come in; let me make you some lunch?”
Nico stands while he talks to his niece, but he keeps his curious eyes on me. I had no real reason to come here. This is the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done, and I’m rapidly understanding why I’m not the kind of person who makes impulsive decisions. My palms are sweaty, so I wipe them on my denim-covered thighs before tugging the fold on the end of my shorts down my legs so I can exit the car.
“But I don’t want to stop. Nico, please? Five more minutes?”
Alyssa giggles while she twists, her hands flinging stronger now, a few droplets hitting my arm. I smile at her and wink.
“Oh no, I’m all wet!” I say.
Her giggling picks up, and she cups her hands now, filling them—albeit poorly—with water before skipping closer to me and throwing it at me. I don’t feel a thing from it, but I pretend again while Nico walks closer to us both.
“Ah, you got me wet again…oh no!”
I cover my cheeks and pretend I’m scared, shielding myself from the water. While I’m acting, Nico sneaks up behind her in the yard, and just as she turns around, he lifts her over his shoulder.
“Ah, I’ve got her. She won’t get away with this!” he teases, running in tight circles around the sprinkler in the middle of their small grassy area.
His niece’s hair falls heavy toward the ground while he dangles her upside down, his strong arms holding her easily, swinging her head through the streams of water while the air fills up with the sweet sound of her laughter. I laugh with them, the sound so infectious. And when her cheeks turn pink, he flips her upright again, holding her to his chest while he sits in the damp grass, the water spraying both of their faces and soaking their clothes.
“I’m sorry, Nico!” she giggles. “I’ll dry your friend off. Just let me ess…ess….ex-cape,” she says, the word getting trapped between her tongue and the tooth she’s missing in the front. I want to hear that word said just like that from now on. I think I need to start every day with a water fight with Alyssa. I think I understand why Nico is so strong.
“Okay, if you promise you’ll dry her off,” he says, letting her out of his arms.
I have no time to react before Alyssa wraps her arms around me, hugging my legs with her shivering wet body, her wet hair sticking to me and making me wetter than I would have been had I joined them and skipped through the sprinkler, too.
“Thanks,” I mouth to Nico, who steps closer to the driveway from the grass.
He winks at me, then laughs.
“You better run in and put dry clothes on before Nana gets home,” he says, patting his niece on the butt as she sprints by. His eyes watch her until she makes her way into the house, and the smile on his face is something I haven’t seen him wear before, except maybe at the pep rally, when he talked about the meaning of
family
.
I watch his face glow with love until he turns his eyes to me and catches me. For the first time ever, I don’t look away, though. I’m not afraid of being caught.
“What?” he says, after a few seconds pass. He speaks through a crooked smile, and the earnestness with which he does just about everything hits me hard.
“I like watching you with your family. You’re like that with Sasha, too,” I say.
“Oh, you’ve seen me spin Sasha around on my back through the sprinkler?” he jokes.
“No,” I say, laughing and looking down at his wet shoes, socks, and soaking cotton shorts. The material clings to his thighs, and he shakes them loose with his fingers. “I…” My tongue stumbles as my eye follow his hands up the length of his arms as he pulls off his soaking wet T-shirt, wringing it out by twisting it in front of him. It’s not the water falling away from the shirt; it’s not the water at all. It’s how his stomach chisels, his abs curve individually and how his chest grows broader until I realize I’m staring and not talking at all.
“I just mean that you seem like family with Sasha. That’s all,” I say, only glancing up enough to see his face looking at me sideways, one eye squinting, and his lip tugged up in a smile. I turn away the moment our eyes meet, and I wait at least three seconds before looking up again. I know, because I count in my head. His eyes are still waiting for me, his head cocked in the same position. His lip raises higher this time, and a small, breathy laugh escapes.
My shoulders fall as I exhale and turn my head to match his, leaning to the side and putting one hand on my hip.
“What?”
His lips press together tightly, and curl slowly on the sides, until both cheeks are dimpled with his suppressed laugh. I’m amusing him, and I don’t know why. I hold my hands out to my sides and raise my shoulders and eyebrows, and finally his lips break their hold and his laughter escapes.
He never answers me, instead looking to the wet shirt in his hands, which he slings up and down a few times, then lies flat on the hood of my car.
“Uhm…”
I point at it as he passes me, walking up his driveway toward the house.
“Your engine is hot. It will dry faster there,” he says.
I glance back at it over my shoulder, the wet cotton dripping down the front of my hood over my headlights. When I turn back, I run into Nico’s chest, not realizing I was as close to his porch as I was and that he had turned to wait for me. His hand wraps around my upper arm and my face touches his bare shoulder, my eyes closing while my skin heats up in instant blush.
“Oh, sorry…I wasn’t looking,” I stumble.
His hand still on my arm, he squeezes, an
almost
hug.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Come on in.”
Nico holds the screen door open, and I step inside, walking past him. He gestures toward the kitchen, where Alyssa is already sitting in a wooden chair at the head of a giant butcher-block table. The little girl is wearing an oversized T-shirt—clearly her uncle’s—and a pair of unicorn leggings. He rustles her hair as he walks by, stopping to scoop the length of it up and twist it into a temporary ponytail on her back.
“Nana told me not to let you get too wet outside. You’re going to get me in so much trouble,” he laughs, bending forward and touching her nose with his. She scrunches her face and moves her nose back and forth against his.
“You’re the one that made me get this wet!” she says, her voice loud and confident. I smile because she’s so much like her uncle.
“Well played, Miss Medina,” Nico says, squeezing her cheeks in his hands and kissing the top of her head. His eyes move to me while he does, and he winks just before he turns to move toward the counter.
“We have corn tortillas, some of Nana’s carnitas left and…nope. We’re out of cheese. You okay with cheeseless soft tacos?” Nico asks, his eyes shifting between me and his niece. I look to her for a response, and she grins with an open mouth and an overexaggerated nod.
Nico leans into the counter and begins opening up a small plastic bag of tortillas.
“I figured you would be okay with that. You don’t
like
cheese. But I was more asking for our guest,” he says, shifting his focus to me.
“Oh, no…it’s…it’s okay, really. I’m not that hungry,” I say, not wanting to intrude on something that was probably supposed to be just for the two of them.
“Stop it. I hear your stomach growling. And my mom’s carnitas is the shit,” he says, spinning on his feet and opening a cupboard behind him, pulling out three plates and quickly fashioning a soft taco on each.
He slides a plate in front of me, then turns back to the counter to grab his and Alyssa’s, urging me to sit in the chair at the table. I smile and slink into the seat, tugging my plate closer while I whisper, “Thanks.”
He and Alyssa both pull their food into the palms of their hands, taking large bites and smiling at each other with full mouths. I pick a small piece of the meat from mine and taste it, and the flavor is so powerfully delicious that my mouth waters at the first touch. I follow their lead, folding the tortilla tightly and biting into the end.
“It’s really good,” I say.
Nico nods. The three of us eat in silence, but he watches me through every bite, his mouth hovering in this sort of
almost
smile that keeps me off guard and makes me aware of every grind of my teeth, swallow of food, and shift of my fingers in holding my food. I try not to meet his gaze, but it’s almost magnetic in the way it calls to me, and every time my eyes meet his, I grow warmer.
“What?” I ask finally, putting the last piece of tortilla down on my plate just long enough to pick up the small paper napkin he sat down with it to wipe aimlessly on my chin in fear that I’m wearing food.
Nico lunges forward, grabbing my discarded bite and popping it in his mouth, and all I can do is look at him, stunned.