I pull up to the stoplight above the freeway right before crossing over into West End, my camera equipment piled in the seat next to me, covered by my pink-flannel shirt. My mom used to tell me stories about people getting carjacked in West End, but now that I’m older, and watch the news and read the paper, I never hear of it really happening. I think she made it up—a fear tactic—to keep me from driving into an “bad neighborhood.” But that thought crept in about a block ago, so I pulled my shirt from around my waist, and spread it over my things as if that actually conceals everything.
My father held an early-morning practice today, just as he promised the guys he would. And he worked the team hard. By the time I arrived, everyone was accounted for. Everyone, but my brother. I suppose he wasn’t expected, but after the speech he made—about how he would support the team in his new role—I would have thought he would have shown up. Noah actually never came home. He told my mom he was staying at Travis’s for the night. Neither he, nor Travis—who lives next door—came home, though. My mom was aware of this when I came home at eleven. She was aware of it when I was still awake and creeping down to the fridge for a glass of milk at two o’clock, and she was aware of it this morning, when she sat at the breakfast table with her head barely held up on her arm, the coffee in her cup cold long ago.
My mom is a worrier. She also has terrible anxiety. She medicates—upping the dosage against doctor’s orders—and my brother’s self-destructive behavior is not helping things. I knew I didn’t want to be around when he showed up. Not that my mom would discipline him. She’ll do just the opposite, actually, because that’s what we do with problems in the Prescott family—we cover them up in happy paint, put on sunshine smiles and pretend everything is fine. When boosters started writing op-ed pieces in the local newspaper calling for my dad’s resignation after last year’s season, my mom began forcing our family to go to the art shows and plays in the city. We needed to be “more well-rounded” she said.
More like we needed to show off how upscale and pedigreed we were, why even though he lost, my father was still the right coach for Cornwall, because he attended theater. This is also why the PTA would never find a more perfect and qualified president for their social committee than my mom. Sometimes, I wonder about all of the work that happens in her head, the strain she puts on herself to make sure everything in our lives looks perfect. I catch her talking to herself sometimes. Other times, she falls apart. I don’t see the tears, only the remnants. She always has an excuse—“allergies” or “something in my eye.”
I pretend, too, I suppose. I pretend I don’t notice, or that I believe her. We’re a house of flipping posers.
When I left her at the kitchen table, the sun barely up, she was already pulling out her calendar to plan the next function. By the time I get home, I’m sure some major fall dinner party will be planned for our house—all coordinated on zero hours of sleep and a nice cocktail of chardonnay and Xanax.
My dad fixes things the opposite way. He dives head first into the problem, but burrows himself so far in that he becomes manic, losing control. That was evident at this morning’s practice when his unrealistic expectations left three players with heat exhaustion and a handful of others on the verge of pulling muscles. When he called practice for the day, the sun high above everyone’s head, hunger in their bellies if they weren’t sick, he didn’t bother to stay behind while the team cleared the field. If he had, he would have seen one player do an extra set of everything.
Nico.
I watched from my car. In fact, I didn’t bother to film a thing. At the time, I told myself I was just tired—giving myself a break. Every few minutes, I’d convince myself that I was going to go home soon, to help my mom, to go back to bed—to get the enormous stick out of my ass.
My brother’s cruel words were locked in my head, and every time I shut my eyes to sleep last night, they popped right back open at the thought that I was wasting my time with this film business.
Nico changed my mind about that, too, though. I watched him run one more set of bleachers, and then count out on his own for a solid minute of up-downs, his legs weak and barely able to carry him, but his will fighting to make them work just a little longer.
Seeing him want something so badly was beautiful. That’s how I feel about film.
I should have offered to take him home, but instead I let him hitch a ride with Sasha, and then I sat in my car for an extra hour, giving him a head start so I didn’t look like I just followed him.
I realize now exactly how little good that did. His eyes narrow on my windshield as I pull into his driveway. His niece is in the front yard, skipping through a sprinkler, while he sits on the porch in a plastic chair. He’s still wearing the gray T-shirt he wore during practice. In fact, the only difference from the version of him I saw an hour ago is that his shoes are unlaced, and the sweat has dried a little.
He cocks his head to the side and raises a brow, so I raise a hand, curling my fingers up and down in the weirdest wave of my life.
“Nico, come play with me!” Alyssa yells from the yard, her arms swinging wildly through the stream of water, trying to fling it toward me. She’s giggling, and I can tell she’s trying to get me wet.