But what Nola noticed most of all was the wiry and extremely pale sixteen-year-old—Acne Steve’s son—sulking on the sofa, elbows on his knees, lost in his brand-new Nintendo DS Lite. Nola had seen him before, dragged here on alternating weekends as the divorce required. Steve III, though everyone called him Trey.
“You guys got soda?” Trey had asked a few weeks back. Nola brought him an RC Cola, and as she handed it over, Trey thanked her with a quick smile that Nola missed—though Royall didn’t.
“Stay away from him—older boys only want one thing,” Royall had warned that night.
Today, Nola still didn’t know what the one thing was, but the fact that Royall didn’t like Trey made him—with his spiky, bleached-blond hair, a black concert tee with the word Obey across the front, and shockingly white Nike Air Force Ones—instantly more interesting.
Circling the poker table to refill the pretzel bowls, Nola stole a glance at Trey. He didn’t notice, though truthfully, she didn’t much care. Even with the churn in her stomach, as the game heated up, as the bets got bigger, Nola was, for the first time in a while, actually having fun.
That should’ve been her warning.
“Let me get that for you, sir,” she said, pouring a refill of scotch for Royall.
Royall shot her a thin grin. On most days, he was armed with devil smiles. This was an angel one, like a joke between just the two of them. It actually made her feel good. Great, even. Like they were on the same team.
For Nola, it was a new concept. Back before Royall took her in, she’d thought that she and her old family—the LaPointes—were on the same team. But they’d tossed her aside, deciding to rehome her by listing her on an adoption website called Brand New Chance. Royall chose her the first night her photo was posted. The site was perfect for people like Royall, who would never make it through the adoption screening process. But it turned Nola into a thing . . . something cast to the curb. Like garbage, Royall used to tell her. Would real teammates do that?
It made Nola think of her real mom, who, truthfully, she barely remembered. When Nola was six, a caseworker said that her mom had been murdered. Nola didn’t believe it. Surely you’d feel something like that. Which left her with her only original teammate—the one who scared her, but who was still forever tied to her, like a horrible magnet—her brother, her twin. Roddy.
For those first years after Royall took her in, Nola wrote Roddy letter after letter: How’re things going? How’re you doing? How tall are you? How tall is everyone else? And then, over time: Why didn’t you write me back?
He was a horror, built with a cruelty that came naturally. Nola knew that, even at thirteen. Yet she’d still write him at least once a year, usually on their birthday, too young to understand that her dedication was really desperation. And yes, there’d be moments—usually when Full House was on—when she’d wonder if Roddy still thought of her, if he even remembered her. But right now, the only thing Nola was focused on was that angel smile on Royall’s face.
For years, Nola assumed Royall took her in so she could cook and clean. That was certainly what he screamed loudest about, most recently when he pinned her to the wall by her throat because a stray red sock ruined the nice white shirt that he’d bought at full damn price. But maybe she had it wrong.
Indeed, as Nola stood at the edge of the poker table, her small hands gripping the scotch bottle, Royall’s angel smile felt like the glow of a thousand suns. Could that be why she was here? To be part of his team?
“Okay, donkeys, just to make you feel better, I’m limiting my bet to one, two, three . . .” Royall tossed four orange chips—two hundred dollars—into what was easily the largest pot of the night.
“There’s nothing sadder than a bad bluff,” Acne Steve said.
“With a name like Royall, you really think he’d bluff?” Repeating Francis challenged.