The Hard Count(103)

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 meeting 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.”