“It’s my fault,” he says, pulling his top lip in and sucking, letting it snap free with a pop before looking me in the eyes. “All of this…Dad’s job? It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t fucked up. If I wasn’t so damn angry that I was blind to what was really going on. Reagan, this is all my fault.”
“Noah, no. It’s not,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Your problems…they don’t bleed into the school’s politics. The board didn’t look at you having a hard time and decide to fire Dad because of it.”
“No? You really think they didn’t look at Chad Prescott’s fucked-up son and make a judgment on him? You think Mom crashing her car through our house…because of something I did…didn’t reflect on Dad? They were worried his fucked-up personal life was going to bleed out onto the field.”
“Noah, you don’t believe that,” I say, standing in front of him and pulling his chin up, forcing him to look at me. “They’ve been dying to fire Dad the second Jimmy O’Donahue said he was interested in the job. And it’s not about Brandon, because we all know he’s a shit quarterback, Noah. It’s about Jimmy, and Jimmy’s pedigree, and the fact that his family name is on a dozen gold plates at the front of the school. The O’Donahues may as well have built Cornwall, Noah. It’s about money. You cut them and they bleed goddamned gold! Dad didn’t have a shot in hell.”
Nico’s head falls back against the wall and he sighs. I turn to face him, and his head comes up enough to look at me.
“You know I’m right,” I say. “Tell him it’s not his fault, Nico.”
Our eyes meet and agree, and I can tell Nico believes every word I just said. He knows it to be true.
“Your sister is right, man. It’s how that place operates. The cream rises to the top with dollars for stairs,” he says. “The rest of us…shit, man. We have to grip and claw and fight and battle. And it ain’t right. None of it. But I need this school. I can’t come out of West End and get somewhere—somewhere better—without it. And as much as I want to quit on principle, your dad’s right, Reagan. I can’t do that either. I can’t quit because the only person who would care is me, and the only person I would hurt is me. It wouldn’t teach them anything. It would be removing a problem for them, because me, and my scholarship, and my background…it makes problems.”
Noah and I look at Nico, his gaze lost somewhere over our heads, his eyes serious—the reflection of someone who is driven to make his point.
“You are not a problem,” I say.
He lowers his gaze to meet mine, his lip ticking up just enough to dent his cheek.
“No?” he says.
I shake my head to confirm it.
“What do you think happens when some kid from the Barrio lifts up the state championship trophy at the most prestigious school in the state?” he asks.
“It makes headlines,” my brother answers, a little more confidence in his words, more strength.
“It. Makes. Headlines,” Nico says, his smirk growing. “And it means more kids from my neighborhood, and neighborhoods like mine, start to think they can do it, too.”
“And that makes people like the ones who came here to fire my dad nervous,” Noah says, lifting himself to his feet and dragging himself toward Nico on one leg.
“It sure does,” Nico smiles. “Nothing fucks with legacies like opening up the talent pool to competition.”
“Suck it, Jimmy O’Donahue!” Noah shouts.
I watch them both slap hands, holding onto one another for a few seconds, their forearms both flexing with their renewed passion. They’re both on the same side, finally. United in the injustice that took out my dad, and while seeing that feels good in my chest, my heart is also breaking because just outside, my father’s is lost and broken.
19
The disorder on the field all week was evident now. The Tradition found themselves down by a touchdown—against a team, that under normal circumstances, they should trounce. I was kept out of practice on Monday, told my filming privileges were now relegated to the press box only, and field access was not allowed.
I fought it. I went to the principal, asked Bob to try to help, pleaded with Mrs. O’Donahue, the new chair of the social committee—I asked and begged anyone who would listen. They all said no.
There was no real reason given. Coach O’Donahue made reference to some theory that I was becoming a distraction, but I knew that was bullshit. The only person I was distracting was him. But I had run into a wall. My film has hundreds of hours of footage and B-roll already; I know I can make something great from what I already have, but I need the last games of the season on tape, so I can’t risk losing the press box, too.