The Hard Count(3)

Nico’s feet shuffle, crossing underneath his desk. His pencil has stopped moving, and the lines in his jaw flex. I’ve made him nervous. The dimple is gone.

Yes! I’ve erased the dimple!

I revel for a full three seconds, but my breath catches the moment my eyes are square with his. He’s turned around. The deep brown is offset by flecks of gold, and they’re wide at first, narrowing the instant he knows he has me caught—he’s the sniper, and I’m on the run. He didn’t face me out of weakness; this is a kill shot. His body is squared with mine as he turns in his seat, leaning forward slowly to settle his elbows on his denim-covered knees and rub his hands together as his smirk grows steadily along with his confidence.

I know exactly where he’s going. He thinks he has me trapped—that I’ll fall right in. My honesty is about to surprise him.

“Last year…” he begins, “we had a competition for our junior class. Our best debate team against the best team from St. Augustine.”

The junior debate with our rival school is an annual event. It’s a way to show off our academic prowess, which of course makes the parents who are writing ten-thousand-dollar checks to the school feel like they’re getting their money’s worth. It’s also a way to show off scholarship kids—like Nico—and prove to those same boosters and parents that they’re making a difference. I suppose Nico is right in one case—those checks aren’t selfless acts. Those people want to feel good about helping kids from tax brackets well below their own, and they strut for compliments on debate night as if the scholarship kids were actually their flesh and blood.

“We won,” I answer Nico, my voice strong and certain as I turn in my seat, mirroring him. His nostrils flare, but I’m sure only I notice.

“We did,” he says, the left side of his mouth rising as his eyes lower more. The rest of the class has grown quiet to the point of breathless. I know most of them don’t really care about our little point-counterpoint; they care about drama. They love it; it’s what keeps life at Cornwall Prep going—a mini society fueled by rumors and innuendos, sex scandals and rivalries. Nico Medina and I are small time, but we’re hot enough to fill the last two minutes of class. Our drama will do.

All I want to do is win.

Nico leans back in his seat, resting his back on the small curve of wood behind him, crossing his right leg over his left knee and folding his arms with satisfaction over his chest.

Conceited prick *.

“And why did we win?” he asks.

“Because I let you be captain,” I say, my eyes blinking out the words slowly because, yes, they are painful to say. But I don’t pause in saying them. I answer quickly.

“That’s right. You made me captain, sacrificing your own desire to be a leader for the good of the team,” he says, his words patronizing and dripping with condescension. “I’m pretty sure that falls into the category of duty, would you agree?”

“I’ll agree,” I say, my expression still flat as it was when he began. Nothing he’s saying is surprising me. It won’t.

“Then let me ask you this—your sacrifice…how did it make you feel?”

He’s so sure he has me. I could cave so easily. I would look better if I caved, better in the eyes of my best friend Izzy who is sitting next to me. She’s the one who asked me to let him be captain. She wanted to win, to carry home a heavy golden cup engraved with the word CHAMPION, to have a line on her resume that she was preparing for expensive colleges back East that said the same. Out of duty to my friend, I voted for Nico. Raising my hand felt like swallowing acid, and if I had it to do over, I would never make that mistake again.

“Well?” he prompts.

“It made me feel ashamed. It made me sick with regret. It’s the worst mistake I’ve ever made, and I took absolutely zero pleasure from it.”

The chuckles from the back of our classroom are faint, and Mr. Huffman’s warning with the wave of his hand and finger-hush over his lips does little to quiet them. The bell rings, and our teacher begins to recite out page numbers for our next reading. Nico and I don’t bother to write them down. I’m sure, like me, he’s finished his already.

The rustling of papers and chatter—about the weekend’s party, about tonight’s game, about my quarterback brother and whoever he’s dating—takes over the present, but Nico and I remain in our seats in the very-near past. We’re locked in our duel. My stomach is twitching with the nervous patter of my racing heart. It isn’t because of his eyes or smirk or tight T-shirt and somehow unbelievably-masculine seated position. I notice those things, but I dismiss them. It’s because I’ve been in the ring with him, and I’ve come out victorious. I want to cheer! I want high fives. I want to whisper yes, and clutch my fist to my gut in celebration.

Neither of us moves or speaks until Mr. Huffman calls our names, stirring us from our locked positions as he kicks down the stop on his door, signaling he has hall duty. I’m the first to break. I tell myself it’s because I have things to do. I need to get to the video room, to gather my equipment and make it to Dad’s coaching office before the football team files in. I have a deadline that Nico doesn’t have. But that’s not why I’m moving. I’m moving because I know he won’t. He’ll just sit there and continue to stare, and no matter how right I believe I am, he’ll make me think I’m wrong.