The Hard Count(2)

We exchanged papers, and my crush was crushed into a thousand tiny, sharp, jagged bits.

Nico gave me a B. He wrote WEAK on the top—and circled it.

In red.

I approached him after class, paper in my hand and finger pointing to his one-word review, and asked him “What is this supposed to be?”

His response: “It’s a word. Weak. It describes your paper. You’re bad at this…” he paused when he leaned forward to look at my essay, now wrinkled in my angry, rigid hands. His lips quirked just before he looked up at me again, “Reagan Prescott.”

Every syllable sounded as if he had spit it on the ground. That was our first encounter. That was also our longest encounter, unless I count the times we debate in school. Somehow, our humanities class always turns into a session of point-counterpoint, and Nico is always quick to take up the opposite view of mine.

Because he hates me.

Right now—hate. I can hear him sucking in his breath through his nose, his shoulders rising like a shield against my voice. I’m talking. I’m…arguing. He hates that. The fire in his veins is waiting to burn me to the ground.

We’ve been debating over altruism—the idea of a truly selfless act. I believe they exist. Nico…not so much.

“I just feel like that perspective is too broad. It’s a black-or-white kind of statement eliminating the gray. In this case, that gray area is an entire array of emotions that you’ve basically just boiled down into one category—”

“Yes, selfishness. You get it now. You’re actually arguing my point exactly—that all acts are done out of self-interest. We are, by nature, ego-driven beings. We simply can’t help it,” Nico says, cutting me off and breaking the rules of decorum. Mr. Huffman insists we follow some basic rules of respect when discussions heat up in his classroom. He likes his students engaged, and even when we veer into taboo topics—politics, religion, the weird place where they intersect—he never stops us. I’m fairly certain that’s why he assigns reading subjects like Ayn Rand and topics that are so two-sided that a debate is inevitable.

“Go on,” Mr. Huffman says, giving Nico a short glance in warning.

He meant for me to continue, but Nico, of course, talks over my words, reiterating his point. Most of the class is behind him now, half because he’s a good arguer, and half because, despite his arrogance, he’s mesmerizing to look at. Taller than most of the guys in our school, he has this one lock of dark hair that hangs over his right eye, and he smiles when he blows it out of his face. There’s a dimple when he grins—the same dimple he gets when he speaks. That small dent in his bronze skin is deeper when he’s sure he’s right. His expressions are the kind that are bolstered by confidence, and as easy as it would be for me to chalk that up to his broad shoulders that seem to fill out every T-shirt he owns, I know it really comes from his beautiful mind—quick wit, nearly photographic memory, and a way with words that leaves me tongue-tied and slightly spellbound.

His perfection pisses me off.

I feel the enamel on my back teeth crackle with the harsh grinding motion while I clench so hard I may in fact break my jaw. After a two-second breath and pause to think, I open my mouth the second Nico stops talking and begin to speak just in time to halt Mr. Huffman mid-spin of the heels on his way to the board where he keeps notes during our classroom debates.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all, though I do see your ego is in rare form today,” I say. My remark gets a smirk from my teacher, and I catch Nico’s shoulder lift with a single-breath chuckle. I bet he’s smiling. I’m sure the dimple is there. I wouldn’t know for certain. He doesn’t turn to look at me. He never looks at me when he speaks—when we spar. That, more than anything, usually gets me so angry that I end up losing my train of thought. But there’s enough time left today, and today—today…I’m not as angry as I usually am. I’m on point.

My lips part just enough for my tongue to slip through and wet the dry skin. I should probably take a drink from my water bottle, but I don’t want anyone in here to see it as a sign of weakness. I’m right on this one. Not Nico Medina.

“You argue that we, as humans, only do kind things for others because of the pleasure it gives us,” I say, pausing when I hear the noise of Nico’s pencil tapping rapidly against his leg. He’s like a snake coiled and ready to strike.

“We act because doing good makes us feel good,” he blurts out, his voice full of that condescension I’ve come to expect every day from two fifteen to three o’clock. “We act in every way because it feels good. We seek thrills for pleasure. We avoid pain—for pleasure! And we do favors for others, we make donations, we give someone a piece of our body—an organ—because saving someone else makes us feel good. I’m not saying it isn’t a good thing. I’m just saying we don’t do it because we’re good people. We do it because we like the feeling we get when we’re good people.”

“Not always,” I swallow before continuing, my eyes firm on my opponent’s form three rows across from me and one chair ahead. I lean forward, hoping to catch his periphery, and grip the edge of my desk. He doesn’t turn a tick. “On occasion, we act because of duty. We self-sacrifice for the greater good of the community—even when it breaks our hearts to do so. I cannot believe that the pleasure from sacrifice is always part of the equation. I know it’s not.”