“What’s your deal with that guy, anyway?” he says, choking my emotions and putting the rest of my thoughts on hold, my muscles tensing. “You know there’s no way in hell Dad is going to let you go out with a guy from West End, right? And Mom would flip her shit if you brought home a Mexican.”
My hand flies at my brother’s face, hitting him so fast that my eyes barely register it. The only thing to see is the red mark left in the wake of my slap. My brother’s head is tilted to the side, and he brings his own palm to cover his cheek, spitting on his floor, then slamming his door closed in my face.
I stand still, my eyes looking at the grain of the wood for several seconds. My heart races, and my fingertips tinge with the power of just having hit someone. If I let myself, I could cry right now—hard. I’m not sure why, exactly. My chest is swimming with so many feelings, and I sway from disgust to fear to heartbreak to anger with every beat of my heart.
There’s a part of me that wants to keep fighting with Noah, to hit him again…and again. Then there’s a part of me that is scared because he knows I feel something for Nico. I’m scared because Noah sees it, and I’m even more terrified that he’s right about my family. And I’m sad because what if that means I can’t like Nico the way my heart is desperate to?
And what does that say about me if I let all of that stand in my way?
My mouth closed and my lips quivering, I draw in a long breath through my nose before taking careful steps down the rest of the hall to my room. When I get inside, I shut the door, and I don’t come out for anyone or anything until I wake up for school the next morning.
11
I pull into the school parking lot just as the bell is ringing. I normally leave early in the mornings, just after my dad. I like to spend time in the lab, editing on the equipment at our school. It’s nicer and I can do a lot of the nuanced things, like fix the sound from my shitty mic and add notes to my editing file for shots I think I still need. I skipped that all today. I missed doing something I love because my brother has made me dread things.
I see Nico in the mornings. He gets to school early, too. In fact, Nico Medina is almost always the first person to arrive at Cornwall, even though it takes him probably an hour to push his way there on his skateboard. In the winter, he rides in darkness. Even now, fall weather beginning to settle in, Nico’s morning trek is likely cold and dim. Still, he’s always first.
I’m sure he was first today. I’m sure he was also looking for me to pass by his favorite table in the library on my way to the video lab, so he could question me about the whole dickhead thing. But I never passed by. Instead, I waited at home for minutes to tick by until I knew I could sneak into school unnoticed because talking to Nico might mean admitting I feel something for Nico, and that might lead to me wanting things—wanting to be things…with Nico.
For three years I’ve passed by that table in the library, glanced at the board under his feet, sneered at the memory of something he said in class, and then I went about my business, my mind moving right along from Nico Medina to whatever the next thing was I saw. Lately, though…my thoughts are kind of stuck. On him.
On his story.
His voice.
His…eyes.
I’ve never had a real boyfriend. I’ve had dates for dances and guys I’ve gone out with to go to the movies with Izzy. There was the guy who worked at the water park over the summer who made out with me in the cabana during his break, twice, but I was not the girl he took to the summer parties. I pined after Travis for a few years, and then I settled for awkward first kisses with boys I thought were cute enough. Not once did I ever call someone my boyfriend, though. I had my focus—graduate at the top of my class, perfect my visual-arts skills, get into Prestige, win an Emmy or a Globe. It was a list that would take time, but I would do it.
I haven’t thought about Prestige in days. When I watch the video I’ve captured at night, I don’t think about my film. There’s a story I want to tell, yes, but more than putting together a great story, I’m obsessed with getting its pieces, because I want to know more about the boy who has catapulted into the starring role.
I want to know Nico’s story. I want to hold his hand.
I want that kiss from my dream to be real.
None of this matters because Nico likes Izzy. It doesn’t mean I don’t still want him to want me instead. Sometime during my sleepless night last night I decided that all of those things my brother said wouldn’t matter at all if Nico liked me back—as in liked me liked me.