Nobody speaks. Mouths are shut, and consciences are evaluating the words Nico just said. He isn’t wrong, and even though I feel some of the guys wanting to protest, they won’t—they can’t. They would be liars.
“So keep me off that list. I’m going to earn my way just like the rest of you. But you better be willing to prove your skills, because I’m done holding back, and I’m done not beating other teams by thirty or forty points,” Nico says, turning so he faces Travis, stepping forward until they stand only feet apart. “And I’m done pretending I don’t hear the things you say.”
Travis swallows, his eyes meeting Nico’s. The standoff is short, and it ends in Travis giving Nico a slight nod, a silent pact between the two of them.
I wait by the bus, watching as the team slowly breaks away, some not even bothering to head to the locker room at all. My brother walks away with Travis, but the bond that was there for years feels different between them. When Noah starts to talk, Travis doesn’t engage. That might change the minute they get in the car and drive home, but the fact that Nico put those thoughts out there in the open has done something to everyone—even my dad.
After several minutes, I’m standing in the parking lot alone. My father’s car is the last one besides mine in the lot. Nico left with Sasha, not bothering to stop to talk to me. I didn’t expect him to, but I felt slighted somehow still. Izzy tried to talk me into going to Charlie’s, mostly because she likes drama and wants to see how many people still decide to show up.
I want to go home, and maybe for the same reason Izzy wants to go to the ice cream shop. I want to see how tonight affected my mom. I want to see if Travis drove home, and if my brother and he parted ways. I want to ask my brother what he was thinking. I want to shake him, and scream at him.
I want him to apologize to me—for being a goddamned asshole!
And I want the adults to quit plotting for ways to take my father down. They’re not so different from the students, and Nico said it all. I hear them, too. They think I can’t…they think my mom can’t. We all hear them.
The streets are quiet on the way home, and I purposely don’t drive near Charlie’s, so I’m not tempted to stop. I head directly home, pulling into my driveway, feeling a sense of comfort when I see Travis’s Jeep in his driveway. My mom’s car is still not home, though, and when I unlock the front door, the house is quiet and dark. My brother’s door is wide open, his lights off, and his bed the same unkempt mess it’s been for days.
His leg may heal soon, but the rest of him—the other parts he’s slowly destroying—I don’t hold out much hope.
13
“Mom? I can’t find my nice shoes!”
On my knees, I burrow into my closet, tossing loose clothing from the floor. It’s picture day at school, and I have one pair of nice shoes—the ones I wear to church.
Church!
I leap to my feet, remembering taking my shoes off on Sunday on the ride home. I’m sure they’re still in the back seat. I sprint down the hallway, sliding in my socks. I stop hard when I see Vincent standing in the front doorway, close to Momma.
“Vincent!” I shout, running to my brother.
“Shhhh,” my mom says, twisting to face me with a finger over her lips. She’s holding a tiny baby, bouncing lightly, and there are tears in her eyes.
Whose baby is this?
“Nico? I’d like you to meet your niece…Alyssa,” Momma says.
I step closer to see the tiniest person I’ve ever seen. She’s wrapped in a pink blanket, her mouth moving like a fish’s, her hand struggling to pull loose from the blanket.
“She’s hungry,” Momma says. She looks up at Vincent. “Do you have a bottle for her?”
My brother is shaking. He balls his fists and pushes them into his eyes.
“I don’t know. I…I don’t know how to do any of this. And she just left. This morning, I got up, and she was gone. And I don’t know how to do any of this,” Vincent says.
He lets his hands fall and his eyes dart from me to our mom to the tiny baby, and his chest begins to shake. My brother starts to cry, and he covers his mouth with his hand while our mom bounces the baby lightly and whispers softly in the tiny girl’s face.
“It’s okay, isn’t it Alyssa?” she says.
The baby…my niece…starts to make more noise, almost like hard hiccups. And in a second, her face turns red and her lips curl down as she begins to cry.
“Vincent, bring the bag. I’ll show you,” my mom says.
She carries the baby into the kitchen and tells my brother to sit in a chair. She hands him the baby—his baby—and he holds her close to his chest, his eyes almost frozen open. The little girl looks so breakable in his giant arms and against his chest. His arms are covered in grease marks, and the number tattoos he had before are marked over with designs and pictures.