The Hard Count(26)

I nod yes, and his mouth curves into a slight smile as his hand comes down to pat the base of my window.

I watch him jog back to Colton, and I think of the dozen things more I should have said. I should have told him not to worry, that he could do this—that they would all warm up to him quickly, love him—just like they love my brother.

But I just didn’t want to lie. I can’t promise him any of that. But I know one thing—Travis better have his back. Otherwise, I’m digging out my Ken doll and feeding him to the blender.





6





“Nico. Nico, get up!”

My brother pushes down several times on my mattress, shaking the springs until my head moves enough that my eyes startle open. His eyes hit mine, and he stands up from the floor where my mattress lies, moving close to the window, pulling my curtains to the side, but not enough to really look out my window.

“What is it, Vincent?” I sit up in my pool of covers, my hands fists that I ball and rub into my eyes. I’m so tired, and I can tell it’s still nighttime. He hasn’t been home in days. Mom is going to be so happy. “Are you coming home?”

“Shhhhh,” my brother says, rushing back to me, but still looking out the barely-exposed window. He pulls me into his arms, and I hug him tightly.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

Vincent pushes my shoulders square with his, then rubs his right eye, which is swollen and bruised. He’s been fighting, and I swallow hard because it scares me, and I don’t like looking at his face when it looks like this.

“I need your help,” he says, his grip on my arms tight.

I’ve grown a lot over the last year. I’m almost twelve, and I’m nearly five inches taller than I was last summer. Vincent has grown, too. He’s seventeen. He stopped going to school a few months ago. He also has a lot of numbers and strange symbols tattooed on his arm, and he tells me they don’t mean anything when I ask. My mom always makes him put on a long-sleeved shirt to cover them. I heard her tell him he should be ashamed of them. He doesn’t say anything to her face, but when she walks away, he calls her bad things. I don’t like it when he does that, and I tell myself he doesn’t mean it.

I miss how he used to be, when we were little. I liked it when we built forts out of Mom’s sheets in the living room. He was home every night, and some nights, he let me sleep in his room with him. That was before he started hanging out with Cruz. Before the smoke poisoned him. My mom threatens to kick him out of the house when she finds it. He always leaves first.

“I don’t want you to be scared,” Vincent says, reaching to the back of his jeans, pulling a gun from inside the waistband. I stiffen and try to push away from him, my heart racing.

“Shhhh, Nico. It’s okay. Look, here,” he says, flipping the gun open in his palm, showing me an empty chamber, clicking it closed. My heart slows, but not much. I’ve never been this close to a gun. I lied once and told my friends I saw one when Cruz drove by our playground nice and slow. I needed an excuse for running home. I didn’t want them to know I was just afraid.

“It isn’t loaded,” Vincent says. He sounds out of breath. I think he ran here. “Someone might be looking for it. They can’t find it. I need to hide it.”

My mouth is watering, the way it does right before I throw up. I pull my hand to my eye and wipe away the tear forming in the corner.

“Nobody will look here, Nico. I need to hide it here, okay?” he says, and I nod, because he’s Vincent, and I just want him to come home. I don’t want anyone to find it, to find him.

“And you can’t tell Mom,” he whispers, his right hand back on my shoulder, the gun in his grip between us. I nod again, but this time shake a little with my cry.

Vincent pulls me in close, holding me tightly to his chest, and I fall into him, watching as he slides the gun inside a beanie that he pushes under my mattress, against the cold concrete floor.

“I love you, Nico. No matter what. Know that I love you,” he says into the small space below my ear, his lips pressing on the top of my head. His hands shake where they grip my back, and I cling to his sweaty T-shirt, holding tightly but losing the battle as it slips through my fingers and my brother flees my dark bedroom.

I hear the back door slide open and closed again, and after several minutes, I sneak out of my bedroom, taking quiet steps to the sliding glass door. I get on my knees, and feel for the small pin that locks the door completely, and I put it in place, hoping I’ll remember to pull the pin free before my mother notices in the morning.

I won’t sleep. I’m too afraid. Whoever wants Vincent, wants his gun—they might come looking for me.

I want him to come home.

Home.





7





Friday pep rallies at Cornwall are kind of a big deal. We pack the gym, and parents and boosters come; so seating is always tight. Certain people get a special section with padded leather seats lined up behind the podium. I always sit on the floor, next to the cheerleaders, but in the far corner. I usually walk in carrying Izzy’s extra pom-poms, but since I’ve started my film project, I haven’t had to lean on my best-friend’s cheer connection to get a good reserved spot. I just go wherever I need to go—carrying a camera gets me an odd pass into a lot of places.