“Pshh,” he says, rolling his shoulders and walking away from me.
My brother’s cast is off, and he’s wearing a giant plastic boot device with a long splint until he gets stronger. He walks like the Frankenstein monster in it, but I won’t make fun of him. He’s healing about two weeks ahead of schedule, and he’s hoping to make a few trips this week with our dad to some schools still interested in seeing what he can do. The scope of Noah’s dreams has been narrowed, but when he found out some of them were still viable, he started to act a little more like himself. I can’t take shots at something so important to him, no matter what kind of digs he’s taken at me.
Noah’s actually helped more with my film over the last weeks. He’s taken my camera on the field for me, and he talked Jimmy O’Donahue into sitting down for an interview, which he did…reluctantly. I didn’t pull any punches, and I asked him about working in an environment where everyone is always gunning for his job—especially since he took out my dad just to get the gig. He said it was a matter of knowing his enemies and keeping them happy. He’s right.
I suppose my dad will be playing the same game in the fall, only on a bigger scale. At least he’ll be the guy bucking for the job, for a little while, rather than the one fending off the attacks.
By about eleven, most of the team has showed up, and Charlie’s parking lot is buzzing with a mix of music from competing car stereos, squeals from girls, laughter from guys, and a few quiet conversations tucked in corners. I sit back and watch it all, my phone turning over and over again in my hand anxiously. I’m waiting for my guy.
Nico texted about half an hour ago that he had gotten off work and was going to head home to change and have Sasha pick him up. I couldn’t wait to see them both, actually. The night wouldn’t feel right until then.
Somehow, Izzy has worked her magic and gotten another large shake, which I know she didn’t pay for. She slides up to sit next to me again after making her rounds and talking with every group here.
“You’re like the ultimate politician, I swear,” I say, leaning into her.
“Yeah, except I’m only in it for the ice cream,” she says, sliding the straw free and sucking out the milkshake from the bottom, her head tilted back. She shifts to look at me and winks while she slurps.
“You’re like a milkshake hooker,” I say, making her snort laugh.
“Oh my God, I am,” she says, pausing briefly, then shrugging and diving back in to scoop out more.
I’m laughing at my friend, watching her try not to make a mess, and I don’t see Sasha’s car squeal into the parking lot. I don’t see him park in the middle of the drive-thru, and I don’t notice him kick the door open and leave his car running. I don’t see anything at all until I follow Izzy’s gaze and turn to meet his eyes.
He doesn’t have to speak the second I do. I cover my mouth and run to the car with him, tears streaming down my face the second my foot lands inside his car.
Nico!
The blue car is always waiting. It’s the only thing I’m afraid of. I’m not even sure I’m really afraid of the smoking man inside as much as I’m afraid of his car.
That car is on the corner now, and I don’t have my bike. I should have waited for the other boys, should have walked home with Sasha and had his mom drive me here. I shouldn’t be alone. But Momma needed me. She said she wanted me to help her shop for Vincent’s birthday. Vincent is coming home for his birthday—he always does, and Momma wants to be ready, to make his favorite food and a cake.
My watch said four thirty. Momma’s leaving at five. I had to go, even though my friends were staying to play more football. I always do as Momma says. Only…I wasn’t supposed to go to the park that far away. It’s my fault that he’s here, my fault that I’m so far from home. If he gets me, it’s because I was careless and didn’t follow the rules.
I crouch behind the concrete block on the West End side of the bridge, and I watch the man in the blue car. His lips curl around a pipe, and his hands hold fire in his palms, burning the poison. His lips puff out white fog, and his head falls back against his seat. I have to go now. If I run now, he won’t see me go, and I’ll have a head start.
I’m faster than he is. I’m faster than his car. I’m not filled with poison.
My feet are numb, and I’m afraid my legs won’t work, so I run in place for a second, watching the man to make sure his head is still back. I think his eyes are closed, and I know I have to go, but my body feels too weak.
I glance around, hoping to see someone I know, but the streets are all quiet and empty. The corner market is closed for the day. They don’t stay open very late any more—not since the shootings started.