The Hard Count(45)

Eventually, I get in my car and do what Nico asked. I drive home, running through stop signs and turning right instead of waiting at the stop light on the way out of West End. I go two miles out of my way on the freeway just to leave faster. And when I get home, I bring my things inside, ignoring my mom and her party book at the table on my way. My brother’s room is still empty.

I collapse on my bed and let my equipment rest at my feet, then I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at Nico’s name, still up on the contact screen. My finger runs over the CALL icon, hovering without touching, until I let the phone slip from my hold completely, watching the screen while it fades and Nico’s name goes away.





10





I let my film consume me for the rest of the weekend; I even convinced myself there were too many shots in the can I needed to work on editing for me to spend time at practice today.

I was avoiding Nico, was the honest truth.

We’d sparred in class, which was nothing unusual, but for some reason, I couldn’t seem to pause long enough to even hear his perspective out. I resorted to name-calling.

I got kicked out of class.

That…that’s the real reason I am at home. My mother will never hear about it, unless someone whispers to someone else in a long chain of socialite telephone. Even then, the likelihood that each link in the chain would get the story right is incredibly low. I’ll take that gamble. My father, however, has probably already heard that his daughter called his new star quarterback an ego-driven dickhead.

Dickhead.

That’s the word. I probably could have said just about anything else and been all right. In fact, I have said just about everything in Mr. Huffman’s class before. I’ve pushed the boundaries, and he’s never even flinched. Dickhead is the line, I guess.

It just slipped out.

It started when I saw Nico talking to Izzy when I walked into class. I acknowledged that my gut was sinking, and that I was being petty by pretending not to hear my friend say “hi” when I walked in and sat at my desk near her. I pulled out a notebook and began manically flipping pages, as if I was looking for something that I needed quickly, which therefore must be why I didn’t hear her. I flipped pages until Mr. Huffman began taking attendance, and I didn’t look up until he started talking about the last reading we did from an excerpt of Plato’s Republic.

I was content to do nothing but listen today. The reading wasn’t anything earth-shattering. Of Plato’s concept of a perfect world, the idea that those with the highest intellect and understanding of thought should lead isn’t really controversial. Frankly, it’s sound judgment. But then Nico argued that Plato was right to believe the philosophers of the world should lead and be kings. I dug in to take the opposite side, no other reason than the fact that every word out of Nico’s mouth was exactly the point of view I had written out in my notes. Behind the scenes—in my head—I agreed with him. Out loud—different story. He said everything first. And then everyone looked to me—waiting…expecting me to have some amazing counterpoint.

After a few starts, eventually my arguments fell thin.

I had nothing.

I rattled on about how the philosophers lacked specialization and focus, a bunch of crap I’d read in the counter-opinions at the back of our book, and Nico called me out on it by the time I was done.

That’s when dickhead happened.

The closer I get to home, the more embarrassed I am about getting kicked out. I know it looks like I ran away, on top of it. I did run away.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, but I don’t pull it out until I park in our driveway, my car lined up directly behind my brother’s. He can’t drive in his condition, so the car has sat unused for two weeks. He wasn’t in school either, a fact that my father noted, but in the midst of pressure to win this week’s matchup against the giant Division I school Metahill, my brother playing hooky sort of fell off the radar.

I yank my bag over my shoulder and leave my equipment in my car, pulling my phone out from my pocket while I march up my driveway. It’s a message from Izzy, asking if I’m okay. I write back that I am, just embarrassed, and consider adding that I have cramps to give myself an excuse, but she types a response too quickly.

IZZY: Nico was asking about you. I think he feels badly that he pushed you so much.

He didn’t push me. Not comparatively. I’ve had three and a half years of classes with Nico, and we’ve gone rounds before. Today was mild in comparison, at least on his part. I push on the handle for my front door and let my back fall against it to close it, my phone gripped in my hand while I think before typing.

ME: He didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just having a bad day. Noah ditched today, and things with my brother have just been weird.

It’s not entirely a lie, but it’s also not the reason for my behavior. I use Noah and his crap as an excuse. When my best friend sends me back a heart, I sigh in relief and head to my room, grateful that my brother’s drama can buy me this. I let my bag fall to the floor when I enter the hallway, and I’m dragging it behind me when I catch a scent that I instantly recognize.

My brother’s door is closed, but I can tell his light is on. I rest my ear against the wood paneling, waiting for some clue that doesn’t come. My mom’s car is gone, so I know we’re home alone, which is the only reason I break the boundary rule Noah and I set for each other. We’re supposed to knock, but the second I push down on the door handle to his room and meet the resistance of a lock, I know that what I smell is marijuana.