by Zoicite
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Nick’s sweatshirt was discarded on the cement, his discman lost in the folds of blue cloth. He bounced the ball, his head cocked as though listening to the rubbery thwap of it rhythmically hitting the floor. He was on the brink of a mathematical triumph, grinning at Billy as he shot the ball. One could only be half the age of one’s parents once, never again. Silly, really, but Billy was stumped at first, frowning as the ball bounced toward him. He picked it up and tossed it through the hoop. Nick caught it, laughed when Billy didn’t understand why the ages couldn’t just be doubled, why it didn’t work that way twice. They had a small audience then, people milled around the backstage area and stopped to watch because it was more interesting than what they should be doing. Nick looked distracted as he set up the shot and he frowned when he missed, going to retrieve the ball. He watched it for a moment before catching in his left arm and swinging swiftly around. The small group that had gathered cried out collectively when they heard the contact, gasped when they saw the blood on Nick’s knuckles. Nick winced and pulled back sharply, stumbled a little but did not shout. The audience was quiet then, the only sound was the whir of the fans that the arena kept running to provide some minimal air circulation during the hot summer months. Nick looked at the padded area, saw too late the faint outline of the metal bar beneath the soft exterior. It was unexpected, all of it, and a woman whimpered a little from where she stood by the black divider curtain. Nick continued to stare at the outline of the bar, hardness hidden beneath a padded shell, and the stage technicians and the PR girls, they stared too, stared at the same bit of red plastic. He still held the basketball beneath his arm and he turned away from the wall to glance at it, as though surprised it hadn’t fled the scene. He rolled it away from the side of his body and gripped it awkwardly in the palm of his left hand, perhaps not sure what to do with it. The grainy texture of the ball stood out, bright with shadows from the overhead lights. Red and orange and gray all around. Nick stared at the ball, wide-eyed, confused, until a lighting technician offered to take it. He didn’t touch Nick, didn’t get too close, but he held out his hands for the ball and smiled sadly when Nick let it drop from his palm. The technician held the ball for a moment, then he too let it drop. It rolled off the edge of his hand and bounced on the cement floor, rolled beneath the black curtain. The witnesses started to move then, as though the sound of the ball hitting the floor, rolling over the gritty surface, had awoken them from a sort of stupor. They moved in, onto the makeshift court and circled Nick, not daring to touch, but reaching out their hands as though they wanted to. They wanted to help, but the air felt fragile, the moment strange. They looked from Nick to the padded wall, and back again, and then an older woman, an arena employee with a thick Boston accent, offered to get ice, find a doctor. A man by her side, larger and younger, offered Nick a shoulder to lean on, support. Nick declined, gazing silently at his wrist, the knuckles torn and bleeding. He looked once more at the wall, innocent, the only evidence a small indent in the padded surface. As Nick watched, the indented area began to fill in, heal itself, until it was smooth again. Nick gripped his right wrist in his left hand, delicately, cradling them both against his chest. He walked away from the court, passed straight through the throng of people surrounding him. Nick picked up his sweatshirt and the discman fell from the folds of cloth and crashed to the floor, popping open. The dispelled CD rolled on its side, like a spun nickel, until it ran into Nick’s foot and fell. Nick toed it, dropped the sweatshirt on top of the mess, and ducked beneath the curtain that divided the backstage area into rooms. Some management types stood on the other side of the curtain, clustered around a folding table. They chattered lowly to one another, heads bent over piles of forms, crisp, white and new, missing only five signatures. Nick watched them, gripped his wrist a little tighter and walked away. A group of dancers laughed, piled across one another on the floor, and a few got up to do exaggerated dance routines for the amusement of the group. Their feet stomped on the floor, and their voices were raised high in shouts of praise and laughter. They called out to Nick, waved from their giggling heap, but Nick walked on. He was in a hallway then, away from the land of rooms divided by black cloth. A real hallway, with real rooms, dressing rooms and quiet rooms and empty rooms. The floor of the hall was cement. Nick lived in a world of cement, one arena after another. The walls dingy white and the ceilings low, Nick made his way down the cement tunnel, glanced into the various doors. There were people here too, there were always people in the hours before the show, in the calm before the storm. Caterers and arena employees, local crew people, their own technicians that traveled with them, PR reps, dancers, make-up and costume personnel. The arena was alive with activity that swirled around Nick as he watched it all with distant wonder. A woman in blue jeans told Nick that Kevin was at the end of the hall, in a designated quiet room, where Kevin could play relaxing music and be alone. She carried a clipboard and rushed away as soon as she could, only glancing up from her papers once, to scan Nick’s face. Nick started down that way, holding his wounded hand out in front of him. He was careful not to bump anything, maneuvering around carts and people. Familiar voices floated from an open doorway, stopping Nick in his procession. He looked into the room, the tone of the voices rising a little. AJ and Brian argued, their voices raised though they were trying to be quiet. As Nick watched, AJ climbed onto the couch where Brian sat, kneeled beside him, and Brian reached up, placed a gentle hand against AJ’s cheek. AJ curled into it, his own hands moved to caress Brian’s arm. He started speaking again, this time in hushed tones that were lost in the whir from the fans. Brian’s eyes were shining, but there was no smile on his face. “You’re hurt,” Leighanne said as she pushed herself away from the wall. Nick jumped a little, startled, and tore his eyes away from the scene inside. Leighanne was the picture of boredom, her eyes tired, a nail file held loosely between her fingers, the same way AJ held his cigarettes. Brian’s voice was audible again and Nick turned to look back into the room. “They’ll be fine,” Leighanne shrugged, standing in front of Nick and fingering his arm. Her fingernails were long, perfectly sculpted in her tedium, and they scratched a little at Nick’s skin. “You should fix this up,” she said, “here.” Nick eyed the end of the hall, his destination, as Leighanne pulled Brian’s bandanna from the back pocket of her pants. He didn’t look at Leighanne as she tied it, only thanked her vaguely when she finished. Nick continued down the hall, his head low as he watched the ground slide beneath his sneakers. He’d forgotten to smile at Leighanne. Nick always smiled for Leighanne. A stereo was on, playing a serious jazzy female, someone like Ella Fitzgerald or Etta James. It was the end of the hallway and Nick stood before the doors that led out to the parking lot. The doors were locked, watched by arena security, but the sun shown in through the thin windows, creating blocks of warm light on the grimy cement floor. The doors were locked, but they would let Nick through if he asked. They would let him through, but they would follow. “Nicky,” Howie said, coming up to him from behind. Nick turned, held out his hand, crumpled and broken, like an offering to Howie. Howie gasped and his eyes were wide and huge. He reached to grip Nick’s wrist but Nick pulled away, taking a step backward against the wall. He could see Kevin talking to Krystal inside the room that Howie had just left, his leg crossed over his knee, turning his whole body in toward the small woman. “Nick, let me look at it,” Howie said impatiently, adopting the voice one would use when speaking to a small child, “Why do you have this bandanna tied around your arm?” “Leighanne,” Nick shrugged and let Howie pluck at the cloth. He removed it and then turned Nick’s hand, surveyed the damage. Nick flinched a little and Howie frowned. “Come on. I’m going to take you to the emergency room,” Howie said. Nick sniffled then, quiet, and he said, “I won’t have it amputated.” “Nick,” Howie smiled, “Nick, of course not. It’s probably just a bad sprain. Come on. Don’t be a baby.” Howie gripped Nick’s arm tighter and Nick said, “Let go of me,” and tried to pull away. Howie yanked a bit and Nick followed, watched the floor turn to black pavement as Howie led him out of the arena and toward one of the vans. Nick squinted in the sunlight, squinted at a bodyguard, following. He let Howie drag him. And this is the story of how Nick broke his hand. When he returned to the hotel, he sat with his brothers and sobbed for a long time, cradled his wrist, but watched AJ. He fingered the cast absently as they all stared. AJ pointed to Nick’s wrist, laid a hand on Nick’s arm. “Oh well,” Nick said, standing from the edge of the bed, “I don’t suppose it matters so much as all that.” |