The Hard Count(22)

I shut the camera off when they both walk out of the view from my frame, and as I’m packing up, Sasha and my dad are both at the bottom of the bleachers.

“We good?” Nico says, his feet tucked underneath the bleacher seat, and his hands gripping the metal front as he leans forward to make eye contact with his friend.

Sasha nods.

“Yeah, we all good,” he says.

My dad twists the leather band of his watch on his wrist, repositioning it and checking the time. The sky is transitioning from orange to violet behind him. “I’ll see you at home,” he says, his eyebrows raised just a hint. I’m sure only I would notice the difference in his expression, but I know my dad means it’s time for me to quit hanging out at dusk with two boys on the bleachers—two boys he’s called at-risk at least a dozen times at home.

He’s being protective. It’s sweet. But it’s also…I don’t know...something more. I kind of want to stay. Maybe I feel like I owe it to Nico, because he walked over here to sit by me. I would be abandoning him. And maybe I want him and Sasha to think that I’m better than the eighty percent of the football team who doesn’t seem to be on board with the idea of Nico taking the lead.

“I won’t be far behind,” I say to my dad, and the way his eyes level on mine, I get the subtle warning and nonverbal translation. I may be eighteen, but there will always be a curfew for me when boys are involved.

“A’right then,” he says, pulling a pack of gum from his pocket and unwrapping a single piece. He pushes it into his mouth, chewing vigorously, and I smirk because he’s being so very much a dad right now.

I watch my father walk around the end of the bleachers toward his office where, while I know he said he’d see me at home, I suspect he will be for the next several hours reviewing plays and thinking about how his offense could run if he really goes through with this.

When I turn back, Sasha has climbed the steps to sit on the rail near us. He pulls the tape from his ankles and balls it up, throwing it in the trash while he and Nico talk about meeting up with Colton.

“Dude, I need to get my ass home. My mom’s already pissed that I’m getting a C in Government,” Sasha says.

“That’s because you keep skipping,” Nico says, tilting his head toward his friend.

“Yo, I do. And it’s worth it every time. Damn Brittany Shafer! Fuck, man…that girl is so fine,” Sasha says as he brings his knuckles up to his mouth, biting them to show exactly how fine he thinks Brittany is.

“Pssshhh, dude, don’t be like that in front of Reagan,” Nico says, which only makes Sasha roll his eyes.

The entire exchange makes me suddenly aware of every inch of my skin, and I push my feet farther under my seat, tucking my hands under my thighs and looking down to notice the goosebumps raised on my pale white and freckled skin.

“No, it’s fine. I get it. Brittany’s pretty fine. I’m with him on this one,” I say, mostly to deflect.

Sasha begins laughing instantly, holding his palm out for me to slap. I do, and as lame as my attempt to fit in probably is, it feels good to do this stupid little thing with him.

“Hey, just go with her,” Sasha says when he leans back on the railing. “Reagan, you’ve got your car here, right? Can you take my boy to Charlie’s?”

My mouth feels dry and fat all at once, but I manage to mutter out a “Sure.”

At some point, Sasha tells me I’m, “Awesome,” and we slap hands again, this time my palm numb and my head spinning, trying to figure out what I just agreed to. The longer it takes Sasha to leave, the more I realize that I’m going somewhere with Nico, together, and I start to work out the excuses in my head. I’ll need to get him home, because that wouldn’t be cool. But I could do that; take him home? I know my way in and out of West End now, and I could go now, and still get home way before my dad does, and nobody would need to know any of it…

“You don’t have to go. Really. I can walk,” Nico says, already standing and slinging the small gym bag, that I know is only a fraction of his things, over his shoulder.

“Oh…no, really. I don’t mind. I was just going to go home, and I don’t really have anything to do,” I say, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to erase any evidence that excuses were ever floating through my mind. I stand nervously, and my bag tumbles open at my feet, my camera and several memory cards spilling out along the grated metal landing.

“Here,” Nico says, dropping his bag and helping me pick up my pieces quickly. My heart is racing ridiculously, and my fingers can’t seem to work right to flip open my camera and test it. Nico notices, and when his hands cover mine, squeezing them to calm down, it has the opposite effect, and everything starts to feel faster—the world brighter, my legs wobblier.

“I’m sorry, I…” I don’t finish, instead just sitting down and giving over my camera to his steadier hands. I tuck my nervous ones back under my thighs and suck in both my top and bottom lip to quell my anxiety while my inner voice prays that my camera isn’t broken.

Nico kneels in front of me, his lip raised without laughing, and his able fingers flip open my view screen easily. He doesn’t know where the power button is, so I reach forward to show him, my hand still trembling with the jolt of adrenaline, and he nods. I pull my hands back in, this time pushing a few of the nails on the edge of my teeth. It’s a bad habit, and it’s the reason I don’t have long, pretty fingernails. It’s also the reason I can type wicked fast, though.