Small Miracles

Everything's been going fine for now. Between work and school and my social life (slowly) making a comeback, I've been keeping pretty busy, too busy to think about football or Dad.

The Sterling Falcons, of course, are winning every game they play, thanks to Nick. Morgan and Georgia coo over him whenever he's at work (now that the season is really kicking in, there's practice every day), but surprisingly, he just waves them off. I keep waiting for him to come swaggering in, bragging about the latest win, but he never does, and it's pissing me off.

Regardless, Nick stays out of my way, and I stay out of his. I put the order in; he puts the food out. It's a good system. Sometimes, he offers to drive me home, if we're leaving at the same time, and sometimes I accept. We usually ride in silence, though, but that's fine with me.

I'm about to leave for work; I have my uniform on and I'm bringing James with me today. Mom doesn't like dropping him off at peoples' houses too much, because she feels bad about it. So he usually just sits behind the counter and drinks a milkshake the entire time and talks to whoever is near him. James is a pretty agreeable kid.

Suddenly, the house phone rings. I glance at the Caller ID, but it's from a number I don't recognize. Cautiously, I pick it up. "Hello?"

"Julianna?" a voice says. It's Nick.

I exhale. It's dumb, and I know it is, but every time I see an unfamiliar number, I can't help but hope that maybe it's Dad, calling from wherever he fucked off to, maybe to see if I'm okay or to tell me he misses me or even just to say good-bye. "Yeah."

"It's Nick."

"I know."

"Uh, okay." He pauses. "I was just about to head to work and I wanted to know if you wanted a ride?"

"I've got James with me." I inform him.

"That's fine. There's a backseat in the truck."

I really, really don't want to ride with him. At all. But it's hot out, and walking to the diner with my brother is a hassle because he's always running off, interested in every flower or blade of grass or crack in the sidewalk he sees. If we ride with Nick, he'll be forced to sit still. And James likes trucks, too.

So there's pretty much no other option. "All right. Fine."

When he speaks again, he sounds surprised that I accepted so quickly. Usually it takes a lot of hemming and hawing on my part until I finally say yes. "Okay. Uh, I'll swing by in a few."

I hang up with Nick before calling James over. "Okay, cowboy," I say. "What kind of milkshake do you want?" James insists that I make the best milkshakes, so to keep him occupied, I give him a different flavor every time. He likes giving me weird combinations to sort out.

He thinks about it. "Peanut butter!"

That's an easy one, thankfully. It sounds good, too. I might make one for myself. "Peanut butter it is," I say, saluting him. "Nick is gonna drive us in his truck, okay? How does that sound?"

Sure enough, his eyes light up. "A truck?"

"Yup. You get to ride in a truck."

So of course, when Nick pulls up, James bounds up from where we're waiting on the front porch and flies over to the car. I open the backseat and help him in, buckling him up. "You leave that seatbelt on," I order when he starts to fiddle with it. "Or no milkshake."

"Milkshake?" Nick says when I climb in the front seat. He's got some Blink-182 song blasting. Most of the boys in town listen to country or rap (a weird and terrible combination), but ever since I can remember, Nick, Brady, and Will have always been interested in those gritty, grungy bands from the 90's and the early 2000's.

"Yeah. It's peanut butter today."

"Sounds good." He sounds like he's hesitating, like he's making conversation with a wild animal or something.

We don't speak after that, and when we arrive at the diner, I say, "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem," he says, nodding a little, and then he follows me into the diner. As soon as we walk in, Mom is on our cases immediately, screeching about how she's been swamped with orders and if we don't get our butts to work this instant there's going to be trouble, big, big trouble.

I open my mouth to tell her to relax, but before I can, Nick cuts in, "Don't worry, Mrs. C, we'll get right on it." Mom looks at us for a second before she nods and then goes hurtling off, most likely to yell at Morgan or something.

Before we part ways, Nick catches my eye, and, despite my best efforts, we both grin.

▲ ▼ ▲

I don't want to admit it. I really, really don't. But as the days slowly pass, Nick and I are slowly warming up to each other. Or, rather, I'm warming up to him. At first, it only starts at the diner.

If it was late and there weren't many people, Colton would make all of us something to eat for dinner. Nothing special, maybe a chicken salad sandwich or a grilled cheese. If Georgia or Morgan were there, they'd sit in the back with him and eat, but James and I always sat at the counter.

We're eating there, me keeping one eye on my brother and the other on our only table, when Nick comes in from the kitchen, holding a Styrofoam container that has chicken tenders and fries in it. "Hello," he says.

"Hi," I say, not really paying attention.

"Can I sit there?"

"Where?"

"Next to you."

This gets my attention. I glance over at him and see he's looking at the empty stool next to me, since James is on the end and I'm next to him. "Why do you wanna sit there?" I ask, and maybe it's mean, but I don't really care.

He blinks at me. "Because it's available."

"Why can't you go sit with Colton and Morgan?" I know the answer already, though. Colton and Morgan are sort of skirting around each other in a very teenager-y way, even though they're technically adults. Being back there with just them is annoying and awkward for both parties involved.

"I don't want to." He sighs. "Look, it was just a question. I'll eat at home."

I look at the clock. It's almost eight o'clock. I've been here since two-thirty, but since Nick works whatever hours he can grab, he'd just come in at six, right after practice. We'd both be here until nine-thirty. He's probably starving.

I think about what Will said the other week at his party. Just give him a chance, okay? And then I feel sort of bad, because he's just standing there holding the container. "Fine, fine," I say at last. "Go ahead."

Cautiously, he sits down next to me and grabs a ketchup bottle, squirting it in a neat little circle near his fries. I watch as he picks up a chicken finger and peels part of it off, dipping it in the cup of honey mustard next to it. He does this again and again, eating them in small bits, until they're all gone. Next, he eats the fries one by one, finally noticing me watching.

"What? Am I chewing too loudly? Am I existing too much?" he asks, annoyed.

"No," I say, surprised at how calm my voice sounds. "I was just watching you eat."

"That's weird."

"I guess."

We don't say anything else. Nick continues to eat his fries, one after the other, until James asks, "Can I have a fry?"

"James, those are Nick's, not yours. Eat your dinner." James asked for a turkey sandwich, and then proceeded to have three bites of it.

"I want fries," James says, getting the look on this face.

"Hey, bud," Nick says, leaning over me. "How about you eat some of your sandwich, and then I'll give you . . . five of my fries. How does that sound?"

Any normal person would realize that five fries is not that much, but my brother doesn't. He nods eagerly and then, to my amazement, actually eats most of his dinner. Nick hands over some of his fries, which he immediately stuffs in his mouth.

I stare at him before shaking my head and going back to my salad. A few seconds later, though, a hand comes into my vision, dangling a French fry in front of my face. "You want a fry?"

"No, thanks."

"Yeah, you do."

"No, I don't." This is a lie. Colton makes really good fries.

"Oh, go on." Nick wiggles it a little bit and I finally take it, sighing, and eat it.

"Are you happy now?"

"Very. My dreams of seeing you eat a French fry have finally been fufilled. Life can give me nothing more than that." Nick nudges my shoulder with his and I guess I'm sort of okay with it.

▲ ▼ ▲

The next time it happens is at school. Usually, Savannah eats lunch with me, but today she has to go make up a Calculus test she missed. So it looks like I'm on my own. "No, you're not," she reprimands me when I say this. "You know Kate and Anna wouldn't mind if you sat with them."

I know they wouldn't. During the first two weeks of school, I've managed to strike up a tentative friendship with a couple girls here and there. It's not like anybody is mean to me or bullies me; they're just . . . afraid of me. And I'm not mean either. I'm just the former coach's daughter, the coach who promised us state champs and then let everybody down.

So it's just that nobody really knows what to say around me. And it's fine with me. Sure enough, Kate and Anna offer to squeeze over and let me sit with them and some other girls, but I decline as politely as I can. Nobody says it, but I can tell they're all relieved.

I find a table in the shade and pull out my lunch and stick my headphones in my ears. No one gives me a second glance. Lunch is only twenty minutes. I don't mind.

Suddenly, someone is sitting down across from me. I look up and then do a double-take, because Nick Kingston himself is there. I can see the table he must've come from, full of large boys who are gaping at his back, which is firmly turned against them.

I pause my music. "What are you doing?"

"What are you listening to?"

"Answer my question."

"I felt like eating over here." More people are staring, because it's well-known that Nick and I aren't usually on the best of terms.

"Nick."

"What? Is this table yours? Does it say your name on it?" He makes a big show of looking around, even under the table, to make sure.

"No, but -"

"Well, okay then. Now, what are you listening to?"

"Bleachers," I say after a moment. "Nick."

"What?"

"What are you doing here?"

He raises his eyebrows at me. "Why are you eating alone?"

"I didn't feel like eating with anyone."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot you're still doing that I-hate-the-world schtick."

"It's not a schtick," I say, and I can feel my blood boiling. "And I don't hate the world. I just didn't want to eat with people who have no idea what to say around me, all right?" Nick sighs. People continue to stare. "Look around you," I say, lowering my voice. "Everyone is watching."

"So?"

"They're going to talk."

"Jules," Nick says, and I forget to tell him not to call me that. "Let me handle it, okay? I don't care if they do. I came here on purpose." He picks up his sandwich and takes a bite before shooting me a look. "Don't stare at me like that. We eat together all the time at the diner."

And I can tell he's not going to move no matter what, so I pick up my sandwich, too, and we eat together. And at some point, I pass him an earbud and we sit there for the remainder of lunch, listening as Bleachers sings, I wanna get better, better, better, better, I wanna get better.