One
Knox
It’s the last days of summer and I’m riding my bike alongside the Delaware River, appreciating the view of the lush foliage and quiet waters. When I ride on days like this, I usually go to Boat House Row, where I’ve spent many summers with my younger brothers rowing on the river. I love the water. It’s one of the few places where I can think, and I’m pretty sure I get it honestly. Both my Grandpa Joe and my dad love the water as well.
My mom wants me to join the crew team at school, but taking part in a team sport on the water would ruin it for me, because that’s the sport for all the rich pricks at my school. Participating in crew is some sort of elitist rite of passage for them. Maybe because they think universities like Harvard or Yale will look upon that activity favorably. I, on the other hand, don’t care about that type of stuff.
I’m what some would call a loner.
I choose not to spend my time with entitled kids who rather talk about all the useless shit their parents bought for them. They’re always trying to outdo each other with who has the latest tech gadget and whose parents bought it for them first. I rather hang by myself or with my family than those mindless dweebs any day of the week.
I’m halfway to my destination when I spot one of those particular idiotic fucks. His name is Mario Porter and his mother created some sort of special clothes hangers that made his family a shit ton of money. She was discovered on the reality television show, Shark Tank, and he never lets anyone forget it. He’s obnoxious, not too bright, and normally I would ignore him, but he’s sitting on the grass with Gigi.
I try to look away because the sight of them together sickens me, but just like a violent car crash or a bad Tik Tok video, I can’t stop watching them.
Gigi is irritatingly beautiful.
She is the daughter of my father’s best friend. I’ve known her my entire life. My parents always describe her as the daughter they never had, but that’s a description I wholly reject, because no sister of mine would be stupid enough to like someone like Mario. His terrible reputation for having little respect for girls precedes him. I can’t be the only one who knows that his sole goal is to hit and quit as many girls in the school that he can.
I’ve ridden up this incline of the drive many times before, but suddenly my legs feel like two heavy pillars of cement, and I strain to push the pedals of my bike forward. I want to ride past them, but I can’t. My conscience won’t let me.
I stop several feet behind them to catch my breath and watch with growing dread as Mario slides his arm around Gigi’s bare shoulders. She’s wearing a billowy, yellow strapless dress with crisp white Converse sneakers. Her outfit is an unusual departure from her usual t-shirt and jeans and all I can think about is how easy it would be for Mario to slide his hand up her legs.
Fuck my life.
Gigi notices me first as I approach and a look of confusion crosses her face. The two of us do not socialize in school. In fact, we barely acknowledge each other. The only time the two of us have any meaningful dialogue with each other is when we’re over at each other’s houses, and that’s because we have to. If my parents knew how the two of us actually feel about each other, they’d probably ground me for the rest of my life.
She’s not happy to see me.
And the feeling is mutual.
Because Gigi's older brother is older and out of school, I'm the boy next in line and closest to her age in our circle. Therefore it has been tasked to me to “look out for her” no matter how much I want to pretend that I don’t see this disaster unfolding in front of me.
I can’t unsee it. I have to step in.
“Hey.”
“Uh, hey?” she responds, confused.
Then the asshole speaks.
“What’s up, K-boogie? You need something?”
Oh yeah, did I mention that this douchebag gives everyone in the school nicknames that they didn’t ask for or acknowledge?
“I need you to get your hands off of Gigi’s shoulders.”
I notice immediately once Mario’s sluggish brain realizes what I’ve just told him to do, and then his nostrils flair like an angry bull. He’s not used to me saying much at all, much less tell him what to do, and he ain’t happy.
“I’m sorry?” Gigi asks incredulously as she rises on her knees in the grass, hands on her hips. Dude didn’t even bring a blanket for her to sit on. “What business is this of yours?”
“What’s the deal with you two?” Mario looks between the two of us. “Are you guys actually related or something?”
“No,” we both answer simultaneously.
“But whether or not I’m related to her doesn’t have shit to do with you putting your hands all over her,” I add.
“Damn, K-boogie, I thought the two of us were cool. I’ve known you since kindergarten.”
