I feel the enamel on my back teeth crackle with the harsh grinding motion while I clench so hard I may in fact break my jaw. After a two-second breath and pause to think, I open my mouth the second Nico stops talking and begin to speak just in time to halt Mr. Huffman mid-spin of the heels on his way to the board where he keeps notes during our classroom debates.
“That’s not what I’m saying at all, though I do see your ego is in rare form today,” I say. My remark gets a smirk from my teacher, and I catch Nico’s shoulder lift with a single-breath chuckle. I bet he’s smiling. I’m sure the dimple is there. I wouldn’t know for certain. He doesn’t turn to look at me. He never looks at me when he speaks—when we spar. That, more than anything, usually gets me so angry that I end up losing my train of thought. But there’s enough time left today, and today—today…I’m not as angry as I usually am. I’m on point.
My lips part just enough for my tongue to slip through and wet the dry skin. I should probably take a drink from my water bottle, but I don’t want anyone in here to see it as a sign of weakness. I’m right on this one. Not Nico Medina.
“You argue that we, as humans, only do kind things for others because of the pleasure it gives us,” I say, pausing when I hear the noise of Nico’s pencil tapping rapidly against his leg. He’s like a snake coiled and ready to strike.
“We act because doing good makes us feel good,” he blurts out, his voice full of that condescension I’ve come to expect every day from two fifteen to three o’clock. “We act in every way because it feels good. We seek thrills for pleasure. We avoid pain—for pleasure! And we do favors for others, we make donations, we give someone a piece of our body—an organ—because saving someone else makes us feel good. I’m not saying it isn’t a good thing. I’m just saying we don’t do it because we’re good people. We do it because we like the feeling we get when we’re good people.”
“Not always,” I swallow before continuing, my eyes firm on my opponent’s form three rows across from me and one chair ahead. I lean forward, hoping to catch his periphery, and grip the edge of my desk. He doesn’t turn a tick. “On occasion, we act because of duty. We self-sacrifice for the greater good of the community—even when it breaks our hearts to do so. I cannot believe that the pleasure from sacrifice is always part of the equation. I know it’s not.”
Nico’s feet shuffle, crossing underneath his desk. His pencil has stopped moving, and the lines in his jaw flex. I’ve made him nervous. The dimple is gone.
Yes! I’ve erased the dimple!
I revel for a full three seconds, but my breath catches the moment my eyes are square with his. He’s turned around. The deep brown is offset by flecks of gold, and they’re wide at first, narrowing the instant he knows he has me caught—he’s the sniper, and I’m on the run. He didn’t face me out of weakness; this is a kill shot. His body is squared with mine as he turns in his seat, leaning forward slowly to settle his elbows on his denim-covered knees and rub his hands together as his smirk grows steadily along with his confidence.
I know exactly where he’s going. He thinks he has me trapped—that I’ll fall right in. My honesty is about to surprise him.
“Last year…” he begins, “we had a competition for our junior class. Our best debate team against the best team from St. Augustine.”
The junior debate with our rival school is an annual event. It’s a way to show off our academic prowess, which of course makes the parents who are writing ten-thousand-dollar checks to the school feel like they’re getting their money’s worth. It’s also a way to show off scholarship kids—like Nico—and prove to those same boosters and parents that they’re making a difference. I suppose Nico is right in one case—those checks aren’t selfless acts. Those people want to feel good about helping kids from tax brackets well below their own, and they strut for compliments on debate night as if the scholarship kids were actually their flesh and blood.
“We won,” I answer Nico, my voice strong and certain as I turn in my seat, mirroring him. His nostrils flare, but I’m sure only I notice.
“We did,” he says, the left side of his mouth rising as his eyes lower more. The rest of the class has grown quiet to the point of breathless. I know most of them don’t really care about our little point-counterpoint; they care about drama. They love it; it’s what keeps life at Cornwall Prep going—a mini society fueled by rumors and innuendos, sex scandals and rivalries. Nico Medina and I are small time, but we’re hot enough to fill the last two minutes of class. Our drama will do.
All I want to do is win.
Nico leans back in his seat, resting his back on the small curve of wood behind him, crossing his right leg over his left knee and folding his arms with satisfaction over his chest.
Conceited prick asshole.
“And why did we win?” he asks.