I lean in, my lips twitching with the need to feel his again, but just before I reach him, the door slides open, and we both twist in our seats to see my father standing in the doorway along with Jimmy O’Donahue. I let go of Nico’s hand quickly, and stumble to a stand so I’m facing him.
“Dad, hey,” I say, my body beat-red with guilt, my palms sweating and my heart thumping wildly while my dad’s eyes shift from Nico to me.
“I saw your car. I’m getting pizza,” he says, nothing about his tone warm or fuzzy or happy in the least. “Nico,” he says, his name coming out clipped, smothered in a hint of a threat, perhaps.
“Coach,” Nico says, standing next to me. I scoot to the right, giving us distance, and I feel Nico glance to me.
I swing my arm against my side, my mind spinning, unsure what to do, what to say—what to confess to. My eyes are wide, and the Western standoff we’ve all found ourselves in only grows more uncomfortable when Jimmy O’Donahue clears his throat, drawing my dad’s attention to him, his face looking to the ground, to his feet, away from me and Nico.
“Got it,” Nico says through a soft and unhappy chuckle.
My lips quiver, and I want to apologize immediately, but I don’t. Nico holds up his phone and leans in.
“Thanks for the video lesson, Reagan. That sure was…swell of you,” he says, speaking slowly and pointed.
“You’re welcome,” I say, glancing to meet his gaze for a breath, his eyes hazed with disappointment. I widen mine with a plea—I just need time. He nods slowly.
“Yeah, I sure am,” he says, bending down to grab his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder and moving toward his coaches—my father—and reaching out to shake their hands.
My dad holds the door open, his eyes on nothing in particular, but most definitely not on me. I gather my things and log off the computer, only looking him in the eyes a second at a time while I pass through the door.
“I’d love pizza,” I say, knowing in my gut that sitting in a booth with my dad and the guy trying to steal his job is the last place on earth I want to be. I want to be with Nico, but I fucked that up, too.
“We should pick up Noah,” I say, if only to take the heat and attention off me.
“Good idea. I’ll call him,” my dad says, quick to agree.
We both need the ally.
15
“Fairy tales…”
Mr. Huffman writes the word on the board, the chalk breaking with the force with which he scribbles the final letters. He tosses the half still in his fingers onto the metal lip below the board, clapping his hands together and turning to face our class.
The irony of today’s class discussion is not lost on me. I doubt it’s lost on Nico, either. We read a selection of the original Grimm tales in preparation for today, and Mr. Huffman challenged us to consider how they evolved into the now-famous versions with happier endings. The Grimm tales, as they were intended, are bleak and without promise. They are reflections of the time—stories of hunger, desperation…war.
Nico and I may very well be a Grimm fairy tale.
After another night without sleep, and a Sunday of exchanging snide comments with my brother while we both moped around the house, I finally sucked it up and sent Nico a text.
I’m sorry.
I typed paragraphs upon paragraphs, more words in a text form than I think I have typed to Izzy ever, and then I deleted them. I spent an hour crafting the perfect thing to say—building the perfect excuse. I spent an hour typing out lies.
My dad is strict.
I’m afraid he won’t want me dating one of his players.
I was worried he saw me kissing you, and I got embarrassed.
Some of those things were slightly true, but mostly…not.
I deleted them all, and when it came down to it, I was just sorry. Sorry that I was afraid of showing my dad how much I like a boy from West End—a boy whose neighborhood my parents don’t want me to go to; a boy whose last name is different from ours. And then I felt ashamed, because when I showed up at Nico’s house, unannounced, his mom welcomed me inside. She kissed my cheek and hugged me. She didn’t see a girl who was different from her son, and if she did, she didn’t care enough to show it.
I came to school early, hoping Nico would be sitting in his favorite spot in the library, but he wasn’t. I looked for him at lunch, but he was nowhere to be found. I’d seen him pass by through the halls, dozens of moving bodies between us and his thoughts and eyes always somewhere else. I knew he was here. I knew I’d see him. But now that I’m sitting here in this seat, staring at the boy a few rows over and a few chairs ahead, his hands gripping his desk at the top while his long legs fold underneath, I fear I’ve fallen back in time—to a place where Nico Medina hates me.
“You all did your reading, I assume?”
Mr. Huffman’s question brings our eyes to the front. He tilts his head, feeling us out, then nods.
“Good,” he says, moving to his desk at the front, folding his arms over his chest and leaning his weight back. “So what did you think? How do Grimm’s tales compare?”