The Hard Count(85)

“Just figured you usually end up with everything that’s mine,” my brother says.

“Noah!” I scold him.

“I’m kidding,” my brother says, but I think part of him still isn’t.

“Don’t be a prick. Not now,” I say.

“Sorry,” he says, looking up to Nico and holding up a hand. “For real, man. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Nico says, spinning the crown in his hand and placing it on his head. His eyes look up at it, and I chuckle because he looks ridiculous. “Hey, maybe I can wear this at the Hungry Hill.”

“You working there?” my brother asks.

Nico tosses his crown back to him.

“Yeah, on Sundays,” he says.

“Isn’t that place, like…where truckers get blow jobs and stuff?” Noah says, and Nico and I both laugh at the inside joke.

“That’s,” Nico pauses, pushing his laughter down, “that’s not what I’ll be doing.”

Noah nods, then joins our quiet laughter. Soon, it’s silent again in his room. We all stare at the space on the floor between us. I’m searching my mind for something to say, something that will make the last few hours disappear, only leaving behind the good parts with Nico. But I can’t. I can’t just have the good and leave out the bad in life. I have to take it all, for what it’s worth. It’s how people learn, I guess. Those bad things, they teach us stuff. My dad’s job, and the loss of it? That taught me a hell of a lot about people, and the kind of people I want to be around.

“If Cornwall were in West End, they wouldn’t treat people like this,” I say.

My brother and Nico are quiet for a few seconds, then Nico breaks the silence with a laugh.

“If Cornwall were in West End, you wouldn’t go there,” he says.

“Not true,” I lie.

Nico tilts his head and purses his lips.

“Fine, but still. You know what I mean,” I say.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. People are allowed to make mistakes where I’m from. We have forgiveness,” he says.

I hear Noah swallow next to me, so I move my hand over to his leg, nudging him.

“You all right?” I ask.

He’s looking down, his hands folded over his knees. His face is more somber than I’ve ever seen it.

“It’s my fault,” he says, pulling his top lip in and sucking, letting it snap free with a pop before looking me in the eyes. “All of this…Dad’s job? It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t f*cked up. If I wasn’t so damn angry that I was blind to what was really going on. Reagan, this is all my fault.”

“Noah, no. It’s not,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Your problems…they don’t bleed into the school’s politics. The board didn’t look at you having a hard time and decide to fire Dad because of it.”

“No? You really think they didn’t look at Chad Prescott’s f*cked-up son and make a judgment on him? You think Mom crashing her car through our house…because of something I did…didn’t reflect on Dad? They were worried his f*cked-up personal life was going to bleed out onto the field.”

“Noah, you don’t believe that,” I say, standing in front of him and pulling his chin up, forcing him to look at me. “They’ve been dying to fire Dad the second Jimmy O’Donahue said he was interested in the job. And it’s not about Brandon, because we all know he’s a shit quarterback, Noah. It’s about Jimmy, and Jimmy’s pedigree, and the fact that his family name is on a dozen gold plates at the front of the school. The O’Donahues may as well have built Cornwall, Noah. It’s about money. You cut them and they bleed goddamned gold! Dad didn’t have a shot in hell.”

Nico’s head falls back against the wall and he sighs. I turn to face him, and his head comes up enough to look at me.

“You know I’m right,” I say. “Tell him it’s not his fault, Nico.”

Our eyes meet and agree, and I can tell Nico believes every word I just said. He knows it to be true.

“Your sister is right, man. It’s how that place operates. The cream rises to the top with dollars for stairs,” he says. “The rest of us…shit, man. We have to grip and claw and fight and battle. And it ain’t right. None of it. But I need this school. I can’t come out of West End and get somewhere—somewhere better—without it. And as much as I want to quit on principle, your dad’s right, Reagan. I can’t do that either. I can’t quit because the only person who would care is me, and the only person I would hurt is me. It wouldn’t teach them anything. It would be removing a problem for them, because me, and my scholarship, and my background…it makes problems.”

Noah and I look at Nico, his gaze lost somewhere over our heads, his eyes serious—the reflection of someone who is driven to make his point.

“You are not a problem,” I say.

He lowers his gaze to meet mine, his lip ticking up just enough to dent his cheek.

“No?” he says.

I shake my head to confirm it.

“What do you think happens when some kid from the Barrio lifts up the state championship trophy at the most prestigious school in the state?” he asks.

“It makes headlines,” my brother answers, a little more confidence in his words, more strength.