The Hard Count(70)

“My chariot awaits,” I say.

“Well, it’ll be chariot-worthy one day, but for now, it’s a Toyota Camry without a working heater,” he says, grimacing.

I pull the hoodie up from my sweatshirt and show him my hands inside my sleeves.

“I think I’ll be fine,” I say.

Nico smiles crooked, then takes my bags and puts them in the back seat while I slide into the front. He gets in with me, and we drive to school in a tense sort of quiet. His radio isn’t on, so I’m assuming it probably doesn’t work, and the heater does work—periodically—the blowers blasting air one second and completely cutting out the next. We idle at the last light before school, and Nico leans between us, touching the vent in the middle, and just as his finger reaches it, it sends a shot of air into his face that blows the hair from his eyes.

I suck in my lips trying not to laugh, but when he turns to face me, his hair spread haphazardly around his forehead, until he blows it out of his way, I lose it and laugh hard and loud.

“All chariots have glitches,” he says.

I smile, and he moves his hand into mine, threading our fingers. I look at them, locked together, for the last block to school. Nico pulls into an open space in the last row for visitors, and I kick myself for not grabbing my parking pass for him to use.

“I’m sorry you have to park so far; I didn’t think…”

Nico stops me, leaning forward and pressing his lips to mine. He pulls away, and his lips stretch into a wide grin.

“I wanted to park down here. I need to talk to your dad,” he says, and for some reason, he’s still smiling instead of scowling.

“You…want to talk to my dad?” I repeat it like a question.

“Uh huh,” he says, pushing his door open with his foot, hopping out and jogging around the front before I have a chance to open my side.

“You…I don’t know…want me to come with you?” I ask. My stomach twists. I’m still reeling from ripping the first Band-Aid off. I’m not so sure I’m keen to go ripping again so early.

“Nah, I got this. I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

Taking my hand, he lifts me up to him, his fingers catching my chin softly and his head falling against mine.

“Mmmmm, okay,” I say, letting my eyes fall closed.

We stand like this for a few seconds, until I feel him take a deep breath and step away. I load up my bags on my arms and give him one last glance, my eyebrow raised on one side in question. He nods with a smile and squeezes his eyes shut, letting me know he’s sure and it will be okay. I believe him for about ten seconds. I start to worry again when I get to the main door for the school, and I turn around just in time to see him standing in front of the film-room door. He’s jumping and swiveling his head from side to side, like a boxer about to get the shit kicked out of him by the heavyweight champion of the world.



When I was a freshman here at Cornwall, there was a girl—a senior—whose parents went through a very public, and very hostile divorce. It wasn’t the kind of separation that played out behind closed doors, or in courtrooms. It was the kind where cars were spray-painted with words like BITCH or MANWHORE when they were left unattended in the school parking lot for any longer than a minute. The girl, Jill, ended up dropping out over the holiday break, unable to cope with the whispers and stares from the rest of the student body.

My mother drove her car through our house.

I have become Jill.

I was ready for it, for the most part. I navigated the questions from curious people in my first period. With Izzy’s help, we managed to answer all of the inquiries from the rest of the cheerleaders without ever divulging that my mom was high and that it was because of my brother’s pot. Third period is advanced chemistry, and the people in that class with me are so hardcore about academics, they couldn’t give a rip about the gossip I stirred.

By noon, I’d made it through the first half of the day with only a few things shouted in the hallway and some laughs behind my back. I was head and shoulders above Jill, and so far ahead of my brother, who was now also forced to eat lunch with our father in his office—daily.

For the first time in days, maybe even weeks, I was feeling comfortable…almost relaxed. I think that’s why I didn’t see it coming.

I entered the cafeteria and slid into line easily, spotting Nico at a table in the center, waiting for me. I balanced my tray carefully in one hand, gripping the side while my arm shook with the weight of it and my equipment bag. I held my tripod under my other arm, and was nearly through the line and on my way to Nico when a girl with long brown hair flipped my tray into my chest. She pounded the tray with her palm so hard that I lost my balance and fell back hard on my ass. The impact forced the air from my lungs, and I let out a gasp, catching the attention of anyone who may have possibly missed what went down.

I had no idea who the girl was, but she called me a bitch and told me to stay away from Nico. All I could do was sit there and blink. I’m still blinking, but now my arms are tingling with anger and my mind is racing through all of the things I should have said.

“I can’t believe I didn’t hit her back,” I say to Izzy.

She’s holding my shirt out over the sink, soaking it with water from a wad of paper towels. I spilled pizza and Coke down the front of my favorite T-shirt—a white V-neck with lyrics from my favorite song written on the front. My brother bought it for me two Christmases ago, and I know he had it made special, because my favorite band isn’t big, and they most definitely don’t have swag items.