How We Roll Read online

  *   *   *

  “I am so sorry,” Quinn said, when she and Nick finally made it out of the kitchen and into the back hall. “My brother … he just says whatever pops into his mouth. With no regard.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Nick said.

  “I know, but still.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he one of those child geniuses?”

  Quinn shook her head. “No. He just reads the same books over and over, until it’s all stuck in his brain … Largest indoor Ferris wheel. God. I am so sorry about that.”

  “Hey,” Nick said, stopping Quinn before she could open the door to Mo’s studio. “Can we make a rule?”

  “What kind of rule?”

  “No more apologizing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Next person who says ‘I’m sorry’ has to do ten push-ups.”

  “Really?”

  “What—you don’t think I can do push-ups?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Quinn said.

  “I tried, you know. Last night, after you left. I was just lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and I started thinking, ‘I wonder if I can still do a push-up?’”

  “Could you?”

  “Yeah.” Nick lifted his chin a little. “I could do twelve.”

  Quinn was about to ask a riskier question—Did you do them with or without your prosthetic legs?—when her mom decided to show up.

  “Thanks for waiting. It took me a while to get Julius settled.” Mo looked at Nick and smiled. “Ready to see a real sculpting studio?”

  Nick nodded.

  “Prepare yourself,” Quinn said. “It’s a mess.”

  “Behind every great mess is a creative mind,” Mo said. She twisted the handles of the French doors and pushed.

  Quinn waited for Nick to roll through first. He didn’t say anything for a minute. He just sat there in the middle of the room, taking it all in.

  Quinn tried to imagine seeing Mo’s studio for the first time. The tables covered in drop cloths and shards of clay. The spray bottles and modeling tools and aperture wire scattered everywhere. The study casts and anatomy posters. The bricks of clay wrapped in plastic, stacked against the wall. And, of course, the shelves of heads and busts in various stages of completion.

  “You made all these?” Nick said, rolling over to one of the shelves.

  “I did,” Quinn’s mom said.

  Nick was leaning in, studying each piece, taking his time before moving on to the next. Quinn noticed that Julius’s Sharpie hair scribbles had all disappeared. She wondered how Mo had done it. Had she used some kind of ink remover? Had she glazed over them? Quinn thought about telling Nick the story. It was pretty funny. But she stopped herself because to raise the subject of hair, even scribbled-on Sharpie hair, was to open a can of worms she definitely did not want to open. So she just stood there, watching Nick roll from shelf to shelf.

  “This one’s my favorite,” he said finally. He’d stopped in front of Grandpa Joe. Quinn liked that one, too. The folds in the cheeks, the wrinkles around the eyes, the droopy ears and corded neck.

  “That’s my grandfather,” Quinn said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. My mom’s dad. He modeled for her a few weeks before he died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Quinn smiled. She held up both hands and waggled her fingers.

  “What?” Nick said.

  “Ten push-ups.”

  He let out a little groan.

  “In-joke,” Quinn told her mom, who looked confused. To Nick she said quickly, “You don’t have to do them now. The floor’s really dirty. You can do them at home. You know, honor system.”

  “Right.”

  Quinn focused her attention on a shaft of light coming through one of the windows, dust mites and clay particles suspended in the air.

  “So, Nick,” Quinn’s mom said, breaking the silence. “Have you done much sculpting?”

  “Not unless you count clay animals in second grade.”

  “You want to give it a try?”

  “What, now?”

  “Sure. Let’s make you a work space.” Mo shoved some stuff into a box to make room at one of the tables.

  Nick rolled over.

  “For a first-time sculptor,” Mo said, “you’ll probably find it easier to build off a base.” She glanced around. “Where did I…?” She strode across the room to a wooden trunk, opened it, and said, “Ah.” She held up a foam head, just like the ones upstairs on Quinn’s dresser. “Q?” Mo turned to Quinn. “You want to make one, too?”

  “I’m good,” Quinn said. “I’ll just watch.”

  As it turned out, Nick was not a natural sculptor. Watching him slap chunks of clay onto his foam head wasn’t nearly as interesting as hearing him talk while he did it.

  “When we first moved here”—slap, slap—“my mom used to take me into Boston to visit the Museum of Fine Arts.”

  “She sounds like my kind of woman,” Mo said. She was bent over her own work, chiseling gently.

  “Yeah,” Nick said. He dipped a sponge in water and squeezed way too much over a chunk of clay. “After we looked at all the art, she would take me to the museum store and let me pick out postcards. When we got home, I’d try to re-create them. I had this little box of charcoal pencils … But then my dad caught on, and that was the end of that.”

  “What happened?” Mo asked.

  “He said I’d never be a professional football player if I spent all my time inside, doing my little drawings.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I don’t know. Six.”

  Mo actually sat speechless for a few seconds. Finally she said, “It can be difficult for nonartists to understand the artistic impulse. Remind me before you leave. I have a great book for you.”

  *   *   *

  “Your mom’s cool,” Nick said later, when Quinn was skateboarding beside him down Cliffside Road.

  “Thanks,” Quinn said.

  “Your dad’s cool, too.”

  This, Quinn knew, was not true. Her dad was anything but cool. But she was grateful to him. Phil had helped carry Nick’s chair up and down the steps. He’d kept Julius out of Mo’s studio. He’d even offered to drive Nick home, but Nick had said no thanks; going downhill would be way easier than going up.

  “You okay there?” Quinn said when Nick’s wheelchair picked up speed. She popped her board up into her hand and jogged instead, ready to reach out and grab Nick if she had to, if he lost control, if a car backed out of a driveway.

  “I’ve got brakes,” Nick said.

  “Yeah, but you’re not using them.”

  “So?”

  The wheelchair sped up. Quinn ran faster. She was starting to feel panicky, not just at the thought of Nick flying out of his chair, but at the thought of Guinevere flying off her head. She’d done a rush job with the wig tape this morning.

  “If you fall,” Quinn said as she sprinted, “don’t stick out your arms. Try to land on your side. And cover your face!” These were lessons she had learned the hard way when she first started riding a skateboard.

  Nick let out a war whoop as he skidded to a wobbly stop at the bottom of the hill.

  “Are you kidding me?” Quinn said. Her heart was pounding so hard.

  “What?”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t fall out.”

  “It’s all about shifting your weight. Physics.”

  Quinn shook her head. She could feel Guinevere holding on. Whether she was 100 percent straight or not Quinn couldn’t tell without a mirror.

  “Is that why you won’t wear your legs?” she asked. “Because you like the high-octane thrills?”

  “No.” He pushed off again, so Quinn couldn’t see his face. “I just don’t see the point.”

  Quinn hopped on her board and rolled up beside him. “The point of walking?”

  “Of pretendin
g they’re legs. You saw them. They’re not legs. They don’t even have knee joints. I’m, like, three feet tall, waddling around. I feel like an Oompa-Loompa.”

  Quinn was glad Nick wasn’t looking at her, because the image of him with orange skin and green hair made her smile. “Can you ask for longer ones?”

  “Uh-uh. It’s a progression.”

  “So you have to master the Oompa-Loompa legs before you can move on to the Superman legs?”

  “Not Superman,” he said. “Steve Austin.”

  “What?”

  “Steve Austin legs. The Six Million Dollar Man. You know that show?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you should. Check it out sometime.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  Nick kept rolling.

  “You have to start somewhere,” Quinn said, rolling beside him. “Don’t you think?”

  “I guess. I don’t know.”

  A phone pinged. They both stopped to check their pockets.

  Nick frowned at his screen.

  “What?” Quinn said.

  “Tommy.”

  “What about him?”

  “My parents found out about the party. Osternek’s mom has been making calls.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Tommy’s grounded.”

  “Just for going to a party?”

  Nick looked at Quinn. “Not just for going to a party. For drinking. For being an idiot. Again.”

  “Right.” She thought about the snowmobile. “It’s a good thing you weren’t there.”

  “I gotta go,” Nick said.

  “You want me to come with you?”

  “That’s okay. It’s all flat from here.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll text you later.”

  “How?”

  “What?”

  “How will you text me later if you don’t have my number?”

  “I guess you’ll need to give it to me,” Nick said.

  And Quinn said, “I guess I will.”

  *   *   *

  When Quinn got home, she texted Ivy. R we okay?

  Her phone pinged right away. Yeah y?

  Quinn: Nick came over today.

  Ivy: Cool.

  Quinn: R u sure?

  Ivy: Yes.

  Quinn: B/c ur friendship matters more.

  Ivy: Aww thx.

  Quinn: Srsly. I don’t want things to b weird.

  Ivy: I meant what I said. We’re good.

  Quinn: K. ☺☺☺

  Ivy: If I start acting like that again just smack me. ☺☺☺

  CHAPTER

  13

  NICK’S FIRST TEXTS TO QUINN WERE ABOUT TOMMY. Tommy couldn’t drive for a month. Tommy couldn’t use his phone. Tommy couldn’t see his friends. Except for going to school and football, Tommy was grounded. He would be spending the next thirty days staring at the ceiling in his room or doing grunt work at their dad’s construction site.

  R u glad? Quinn texted Nick.

  And he texted back, Y would I be glad?

  IDK. B/c u want him to be punished?

  Nick took a while to respond. When he did, his answer surprised Quinn with its honesty. Maybe a little.

  Quinn’s next question, although Nick might have thought it was random, was not, in her mind, a subject change. Meet me @ the beach tmrw AM? We can walk to school.

  Nick: Walk?

  Quinn: Or roll. Ur call.

  Nick: OK.

  Quinn: OK which?

  Nick: OK I will c u @ the beach tmrw.

  Quinn didn’t push it. She texted a thumbs-up.

  *   *   *

  Later that night, when she was almost asleep, Nick pinged her again. OldSkool TV. 11:30 PM.

  Quinn: Y r u still awake?

  Nick: Y r u?

  Quinn: I was almost asleep.

  Nick: Turn on ur TV.

  Quinn: Y?

  Nick: That show I told u about. Its on in 5 min.

  Quinn: Srsly?

  Nick: Yes.

  Quinn: Can’t I just youtube from bed?

  Nick: No. We have to go old school, at the same time, so we can text while we watch.

  Quinn was tired, but she tiptoed downstairs in the pitch-black and turned on the TV.

  Quinn: Idk if we get that channel. What’s the #?

  Nick: 88.

  Quinn punched two eights into the remote and got a Beachbody infomercial.

  Quinn: U want me to watch Beachbodies?

  Nick: Wait.

  Quinn waited. She watched some orangey tan women in short-shorts do butt crunches. They looked strangely happy about it. Then the ad finished and a man in a space helmet filled the screen.

  Nick: R u watching?

  Quinn: Yes.

  She was watching. After the space man’s rocket malfunctioned and he crashed into the ocean, there was a corny voice-over. Steve Austin, astronaut. A man barely alive. Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. There were X-rays and body scans and doctors with scalpels installing the space man’s new robot legs, new robot arm, and new robot eyeball, until suddenly, there he was, running down the street in a red sweat suit to the world’s cheesiest soundtrack.

  Quinn: Wow. She had no other words.

  Nick: Keep watching. It gets better.

  Quinn kept watching as Steve Austin adapted to his new abilities by running very fast, rescuing children, and punching through walls like a boss. Quinn discovered that his robot eye not only had infrared capabilities, but could also zoom to a twenty-to-one ratio. Unfortunately, his bionic parts were radioactive and would stop working in extreme cold, but on warmer days, Steve Austin’s robot legs could reach speeds of sixty miles per hour, and his vertical jump was insane.

  Quinn: If u had legs like that, u would school me at basketball.

  Nick: True dat.

  Quinn: If u had chest hair like that u would get all the ladies.

  Nick: I don’t need all the ladies. Just one.

  Quinn didn’t know how to respond to that, so she texted the silly emoticon face with one eye closed and a tongue hanging out.

  Nick: I didn’t mean u were my lady.

  Quinn: I know.

  Nick: I just meant how many ladies does a guy need?

  Quinn: Right.

  Nick: Anyway. Now uv met steve austin.

  Quinn: Yup.

  Nick: I guess I will c u tmrw.

  Quinn: I guess u will.

  *   *   *

  When Quinn rolled onto the basketball court the next morning, she didn’t see Nick anywhere. I’m here, she texted. Where r u?

  Not blowing u off, Nick texted back. I have a dr’s appt this AM. My mom just told me.

  Quinn: Phys therapy?

  Nick: Yes.

  Quinn: Good luck.

  Nick: Thx.

  Quinn: C u in study hall?

  Nick texted a thumbs-up.

  Quinn slid her phone into her backpack. She dribbled her basketball to the foul line and got to work.

  *   *   *

  “Are you tired?” Ivy asked in PE. “You look tired.”

  Quinn was tired. She had been up until after midnight texting with Nick. But she wasn’t sure she should say this to Ivy. Even though they were “good” now, Quinn didn’t want to rub her friendship with Nick in Ivy’s face. It was safer to say, “I’m still recovering from the sleepover.”

  “Me, too.” Ivy lowered her voice. “And the party.”

  “Yeah.”

  The bell rang and Ivy looked around the gym. “Where are Carm and Liss?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t see them changing. Did you?”

  Quinn shook her head.

  Mr. Fenner blew his whistle. “Stretch it out, people!”

  Quinn and Ivy bent over the mat. After a few minutes of hamstring stretching, Lissa appeared. She wasn’t dressed for PE. She was wearing sparkly flip-flops and tight white jeans.

  “You guys, Carm is freaking out. S
he needs us.”

  “Where is she?” Ivy said.

  “Lockah room.”

  As soon as Mr. Fenner was looking the other way, the three of them dashed across the gym and into the locker room. They found Carmen wedged under a sink, curled up in a ball.

  “Carm,” Ivy said, squatting down and waddling over to Carmen. “What’s going on?”

  Carmen lifted her chin from her knees. Her eyes were red and puffy.

  “Talk to us,” Ivy said.

  Carmen shook her head.

  “Carm. Come on. You’re scaring me.”

  “He told everyone,” Carmen said softly.

  “Who told everyone?” Quinn said. She squatted down, too. So did Lissa.

  “Rob.”

  “Rob from the party?” Ivy said.

  Carmen nodded. “My brother Marco just texted me. He said Rob’s telling everyone he hooked up with some hot freshman named Carmen.”

  “At least he called you hot,” Lissa said.

  Carmen frowned. “We did not hook up. We just kissed. And anyway, that’s not even the worst part.”

  “What’s the worst part?” Ivy said.

  Carmen shook her head. “I can’t say it.”

  “Carm,” Lissa said, putting a hand on Carmen’s knee. “This is us. You can say anything.”

  Carmen let out a deep, shuddering breath. “I let him take a picture of me, at the party. It wasn’t bad or anything. I was wearing all my clothes. But he texted it to all his friends. He texted … ‘this girl is good to go.’”

  “Carmy!” Ivy cried. She reached out and wrapped her arms around Carmen’s balled-up body.

  “What did your brothah do?” Lissa said.

  “Punched him in the face. Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Ivy said.

  “Is Marco suspended?” Lissa said.

  “I don’t know yet.” Carmen sniffled. “He texted from the principal’s office. He’s waiting for my parents.”

  “Oh, Carm.” Lissa wrapped her arms around both Ivy and Carmen.

  Quinn stayed where she was. She felt stupid, but she had to ask. “What does that mean, ‘good to go’?”

  Lissa turned her head to the side, keeping her arms around Carmen. “It’s like saying she’s easy.”

  “Like next time,” Ivy said, “maybe she’ll take her clothes off.”

  Carmen, whose voice was muffled, said, “There’s not going to be a next time.”

  “That’s for sure,” Ivy said.

  And Lissa said, “You messed with the wrong girl, asshat.”