The Hard Count(38)

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.





9





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.