The Hard Count(95)

“No,” he chuckles. “Nothing like that. Just…there was always someone doing something wrong—talking in class, yelling something, or pushing someone around. Sometimes people would break things, or draw on the walls or whatever. The teachers could never catch the right person, so if you looked them in the eyes, they would just say ‘You! Come here!’ Then next thing you knew, you were against the wall at recess and all of the other kids were making fun of you.”

“That’s awful,” I say.

He laughs, then reaches down for his stick again, breaking a piece off and tossing it into the fire.

“When I got older, though, it’s like the teachers couldn’t stand that I knew more than they did. If I looked them in the eye, they’d try to tell me I was wrong about something, or to be quiet and not ask the questions I was asking,” he says, tilting his head to look at me. “I begged Mom to let me apply to Cornwall when I was in eighth grade. She said if I could get the scholarship, I could go.”

“You and Sasha both got in,” I smile.

He chuckles.

“Yeah, but he’s here because he’s fast. They wanted him for soccer and track,” he says.

“You’re the brainy one,” I say.

“Don’t you mean nerd?” He cocks his brow.

“Oh, now you want to be the nerd,” I tease back.

Nico leans into me, poking his finger into my side and tickling me. I giggle and gasp for breath, reaching to try to tickle him back, when we both freeze, our eyes meeting Mrs. Mendoza’s as she stands with one hand over her mouth in the center of the now-opened patio door.

“Maria?” Nico questions, his hands falling away from me. He gets to his feet quickly, rushing to her, her face ghosted, her eyes red, the tears falling nonstop. “What…what is it?”

He gets to her and holds her arm in his as she reaches for him, her balance off. She struggles to speak, nothing coming out but nonsense. Eventually she gestures inside, only able to say, “You need to go get your mom. The door…go…”

Nico’s body goes rigid, and I see his breath leave his body in a blink before he sprints inside his house. I rush to my feet and move to Maria; we embrace each other, both looking inside through the glass.

Nico’s mom is on the floor, on her knees, sobbing with her hands pressed flat on the floor in front of her. At the door, two men dressed in full military uniforms stand solemnly. Nico has stopped in front of them, his hands gripping at his hair, his shoulders rising and falling with his rapid breath, until eventually he kneels to the floor, pulling his mother into his arms as he sits back, holding her while she cries through her worst nightmare.

“Alyssa!” I say, seeing the little girl stand next to the door, her hand holding the door frame, her small face looking up at the two men, not understanding. I rush inside to help, but before I’m there, Nico has called her over, and he’s holding her in his arms, too, rocking them both and telling them it will be okay.

“It’s going to be okay, baby girl,” he whispers, his eyes wet and fixed on a dream in the distance. “Shhhh, Momma. He was brave. It’s going to be okay.”

The air outside, behind the Marines at the door, is quiet. West End is peaceful tonight, and the moon is full. But nothing is okay. A brother, father and son has fallen.

Nico’s home—it will never be the same.





21





My father came to pick me up from Nico’s house. He ended up staying for three hours with me. In an instant, Nico had lost his light, and I could see it. He was so broken—is so broken. I don’t know how to fix it any more now than I did days ago…when he held his mother, and all of the pieces she was breaking into, together as best he could on the cold concrete floor.

It’s Friday, and Nico has missed practice the entire week. I’ve talked to my father about it a few times, and he thinks Jimmy O’Donahue is going to try to start Brandon in Nico’s place. The board doesn’t care—they’re cold and heartless, and they don’t want a distracted quarterback.

They want the win.

Tonight’s game is important. If we win, we clinch a spot in the state playoffs. But more than that, USC is showing up tonight—they’re coming to watch a few of our players, and they’ve sat in on a few practices this week, none of which Nico was at.

I’ve been banned from being on the field at practice, too, and despite Bob’s best attempt to lie that I was his assistant and he needed me on the field to help with training, the wall put up between me and the coaching staff stayed strong. They know who I am, and as far as Jimmy’s concerned, I’m the enemy.

I haven’t talked to Nico, other than a few short conversations on the phone. I dropped off a stack of homework assignments by his front door yesterday. I set them amidst the flowers, notes, and pans of food that had been left for Nico, his mom, and Alyssa. I recognized the roses from Mrs. Mendoza’s yard, and when I went home, I pulled several of the dying ones from my vase, drying them and sliding them into the pages of a dictionary to press them flat. They will forever be one of the most precious things I’ve ever been given.

I’m unfolding the blanket on the front row of the bleachers to save room for my family when a pair of hands slips into view, grabbing one end and helping me.