Guilt cut through him. He was the reason his mom had dropped out of school. As soon as her parents had learned she was pregnant, they’d offered her one choice.
Give up the baby or give up her nice home in Kenner, her education, and her family.
For reasons he stil didn’t understand, she’d chosen him.
It was something Nick never let himself forget. But one day he was going to get al that back for her. She deserved it, and for her, he’d wear this god-awful shirt.
Even if it got him kil ed. …
And he’d smile through the pain of it until Stone and his crew kicked his teeth in.
Trying not to think about the butt-whipping to come, Nick ate his bacon in silence. Maybe Stone wouldn’t be in school today. He could get malaria or the plague, or rabies or something.
Yeah, may the smarmy freak get a pox on his privates.
That thought actual y made him smile as he shoved the grainy powdered eggs into his mouth and swal owed them. He forced himself not to shiver at the taste. But it was al they could afford.
He glanced at the clock on the wal and jerked. “Gotta go.
I’m going to be late.”
She grabbed him for a bear hug.
Nick grimaced. “Stop sexual y harassing me, Mom. I gotta go before I get another tardy.”
She popped him on the butt cheek before she released him. “Sexual y harassing you. Boy, you have no idea.” She ruffled his hair as he bent over to pick up his backpack.
Nick put both arms through the straps and hit the door running. He launched himself from the dilapidated porch and sprinted down the street, past broken-down cars and garbage cans to where the streetcar stopped.
“Please don’t be gone. … ”
Otherwise he’d be doomed to another “Nick? What are we going to do with you, you white-trash dirt?” lecture from Mr.
Peters. The old man hated his guts, and the fact that Nick was a scholarship kid at his snotty overprivileged school seriously ticked Peters off. He’d like nothing better than to kick him out so that Nick wouldn’t “corrupt” the kids from the good families.
Nick’s lip curled as he tried not to think about the way those decent people looked at him like he was nothing. More than half their dads were regulars at the club where his mom worked, yet they were cal ed decent while he and his mom were considered trash.
The hypocrisy of that didn’t sit wel with him. But it was what it was. He couldn’t change anyone’s mind but his own.
Nick put his head down and ran as he saw the streetcar stopped at his station.
Oh man. . . .
Nick picked up speed and he broke out into a dead run. He hit the platform and leapt for the streetcar.
He’d caught it just in time.
Panting and sweating from the humid autumn New Orleans air, he shrugged his backpack off as he greeted the driver.
“Morning, Mr. Clemmons.”
The elderly African-American man smiled at him. He was one of Nick’s favorite drivers. “Morning, Mr. Gautier.” He always mispronounced Nick’s last name. He said it “Go-chay” instead of the correct “Go-shay.” The difference being “Go-chay” traditional y had an “h” in it after the “t” and, as Nick’s mom so often said, they were too poor for any more letters.
Not to mention, one of his mom’s relatives, Fernando Upton Gautier, had founded the smal town in Mississippi that shared his name and both were pronounced “Go-shay.” “Your mom made you late again?”
“You know it.” Nick dug his money out of his pocket and quickly paid before taking a seat. Winded and sweating, he leaned back and let out a deep breath, grateful he’d made it in time.
Unfortunately, he was stil sweating when he reached school. The beauty of living in a city where even in October it could hit ninety by eight a.m. Man, he was getting tired of this late heat wave they’d been suffering.
Suck it up, Nick. You’re not late today. It’s all good.
Yeah, let the mocking commence.
He smoothed his hair down, wiped the sweat off his brow, and draped his backpack over his left shoulder.
Holding his head high in spite of the snickers and comments about his shirt and sweaty condition, he walked across the yard and through the doors like he owned them. It was the best he could do.
“Ew! Gross! He’s dripping wet. Is he too poor to own a towel? Don’t poor people ever bathe?”
“Looks like he went fishing in the Pontchartrain and came up with that hideous shirt instead of a real fish.”
“That’s ’cause he couldn’t miss it. I’l bet it even glows in the dark.”
“I bet there’s a naked hobo somewhere wanting to know who stole his clothes while he was sleeping on a bench. Gah, how long has he owned those shoes, anyway? I think my dad wore a pair like that in the eighties.” Nick turned a deaf ear to them and focused on the fact that they real y were stupid. None of them would be here if their parents weren’t loaded. He was the scholarship kid. They probably couldn’t have even spel ed their names right on the exam he’d aced to get in.