Izzy and the Right Answer Read online

  “Can I buy you coffee?” Iz blurted out and got shushed again, which took a lot of nerve from someone with a clearly audible podcast coming from their headphones. He froze with his fingers curled into the buttery lapel of Rocco’s leather jacket. “As a thank you,” he explained. “Because of course I am saying yes to that very generous offer.” He smiled and Rocco smiled in relief, which was so strange that Iz forgot what he was saying for a moment and they stood there smiling at one another. And again, Iz wondered if Rocco was anxious but couldn’t imagine what for unless his apartment was awful and he was embarrassed. “Is there a coffee shop within walking distance that you like?”

  “Actually, I live off coffee right now, but I don’t really like it,” Rocco said, with his mouth twisted in distaste. “It’s late, anyway.”

  “Right, right, of course,” Iz agreed immediately, bobbing his head too much and flushing uncomfortably. He had something to feel uncomfortable about, then, but wouldn’t know what until later. “Obviously, you don’t want to have coffee. That is a very obvious, normal thing.”

  “Well, if I had a paper to finish or something….” Every time Iz glanced up, Rocco’s gaze was elsewhere. Maybe he knew someone at one of the other tables. His attention returned to Iz eventually, eyes tracking over the jacket to Iz’s twin French braids behind his ears, then away again. “You drink coffee this late? Is that why you’re jittery?”

  Iz wasn’t aware that he was jittery, but that would explain his shaking hands and his rapid heartbeat. It wasn’t all Rocco. “A bad night,” Iz said again at last. “Or, it was. Now you’re here, and I’m warm.”

  Rocco’s inhale was soft but audible. “You got everything?” He moved on abruptly. “I could carry your books—because you’re tired. That’s all I meant.”

  “You have two bags already.” Iz shook his head and gripped the strap of his bag tightly. “You’re sure it’s not a bother for me to be in your apartment? You don’t mind?”

  He got a grin for it, and all traces of Rocco’s hesitation disappearing. “You kidding? I’m doing a favor for a mafia don. If anything, I expect you to whack someone for me someday.”

  Iz flipped his horrible textbook closed and put it away. “Deal.”

  Rocco stopped in the middle of settling his big bag across his back. “You said that easily. Jesus,” he added after Iz waved a hand dismissively. “I mostly think you’re kidding, but there’s enough of an aura of something different about you that I believe you at the same time. You’ve never been ordinary.”

  “A large number of people would call me a freak, but ‘not ordinary’ sounds better,” Iz confided as he stood up. He staggered under the weight of his bag, but it had been a long day. He carried it fine all the time, and Rocco was doing enough. No one had forced Iz to fill his bag with extra books and they shouldn’t be Rocco’s problem. “If you believe me, it’s funny that you’d loan me this.” He started to pat the leather but wound up petting it.

  “Pretty sure I could take that back if I wanted to.” Rocco’s tone was too light for Iz to feel remotely threatened. Anyway, it was true.

  “You do move with dangerous grace,” Iz mused as he turned to leave. “I’ve never seen you stumble into a chair or trip. All the fighty training pays off.” He took the central staircase instead of the elevators or the stairs in the back, his bag over his shoulder, his peacoat on his arm.

  Rocco’s bags made quiet thumping noises with every step, as if bumping against his body. Iz could hear when he stopped on a stair and then continued on. “Fighty?” he echoed, instead of what Iz had expected him to question.

  “You know what I mean.” Iz clucked his tongue as he realized how dismissive he sounded. He turned around. “I’m tired, so I forgot the words. I wasn’t trying to be insulting.” He and Rocco stared at each other for a few moments on the first floor landing. “Martial arts is such a good way of phrasing it—warlike arts. Brutal and deadly and skilled and artistic.” Rocco had the most serious expressions. So much focus even when he had also had a long day. Iz smiled and then continued down to the first floor. “I don’t know exactly what you’re trained in. You don’t talk about it, which could mean you are terrible, or it could mean you’re modest. I’m inclined to think modest. But then you go and start learning fencing. Which is, by the way, all the more warlike of you. The gentlemen’s combat training. In previous centuries, students used to regularly duel each other with swords. That’s where a lot of fencing comes from. But I bet you knew that.”

  “Do you know all this information for some particular reason?” Rocco kept his voice down as they passed the main desk and sighed when Iz held open the entrance door for him. Iz watched the steam from his breath dissipate, then huddled into his borrowed jacket and struggled to pull his scarf and gloves from his coat pockets.

  Rocco closed the door, then took Iz’s bag from him.

  Iz quickly slipped on his gloves since he could feel the heat seeping from his fingers. He wrapped his scarf nearly to his nose. Even while shivering at the same cold that was making Iz act ridiculous, Rocco was smiling.

  “We should go so you don’t freeze,” Iz heard himself say, although he could have stayed that way a few moments longer. He held out his hand, but somehow when they started walking again his bag stayed on Rocco’s shoulder.

  Eric would have a lot to say about those shoulders. It was funny that he hadn’t, even in passing.

  “You don’t have to tell me more about your martial arts things.” Iz spoke up so his scarf wouldn’t muffle his voice too much. “It’s just that we’ve never been close enough to talk about things like that.”

  “I suppose we haven’t.” Rocco was too tall for Iz to see his face without obviously looking up, and that would have been in profile anyway. They walked for a while, Iz drifting slightly behind him since he didn’t know what direction to go in. The silence went on for long enough that Iz assumed Rocco didn’t want to talk to him, but then, as though it was difficult and Rocco had been considering his words, he said, “I took karate as a kid.”

  Iz startled and looked up, barely avoiding stepping in some wet, frosty grass as he did.

  “Regular suburban kid, strip mall dojo karate.” Rocco was the one dismissive of his own interest, or playing it down. “But I liked it, and I was good at it. Did that instead of Scouts or Little League. Started exploring other disciplines in high school, after I persuaded the school to let me count that as P.E. credits since I was doing this every day after school anyway. My mom didn’t get it, but it kept me out of trouble and it gave me more time to study, so she learned to love it. My brother did football. She understands that better, but she tries.” The lights lining one of the paths leading off campus illuminated Rocco’s ruddy cheeks and made the clouds of his breath glow. “Team sports are fun, but I like seeing what I’m capable of on my own. And I fucking hate playing football. It’s not interesting. I like learning new things. I apparently tolerate pain well. And I like how it feels to know my body in a way I don’t think most people do.”

  “Other athletes do?” Iz suggested quietly.

  Rocco nodded. “Yeah.”

  “The fencing is the same?”

  “Yeah,” Rocco said again. “A foil makes me feel too big, so I don’t know if I will get comfortable with it. But it’s not what you think. It’s… chess. But fast. And sometimes you bleed.”

  Iz was momentarily speechless. He was very tired, and blamed it on that.

  “I never had the head for chess,” he murmured weakly. “Or the attention span. Do you play?”

  “With my grandpa, sometimes.” Rocco gestured to the right.

  Iz turned right onto the sidewalk. “That sounds nice. Sweet. But you prefer bleeding—fighting?”

  “Wouldn’t call it that. I’m not fighting for my life or anything. Not much farther now.” Rocco’s hands were deep in his front sweatshirt pocket, the bags making noise as he moved though his steps were nearly silent. And as he rode his armor rung, Iz thought, and
nearly sighed. Rocco continued, his not-quite coal-black curls peeking out from a beanie and not a knight’s helmet. “So I do it purely for me. To see what I am capable of. To help me stay focused.”

  “Strength and discipline.” Iz did sigh.

  “It’s not like a movie. It’s a lot of practice and trying to live a certain way. It’s muscle memory and confidence and a sharp, clear mind. Sometimes it’s trying not to strike, and other times it’s striking only when the time is right. It’s… waiting.” Rocco stopped. “Boring to hear about, I bet.”

  Iz reached out to rest his hand on Rocco’s elbow for one moment. “The mind is the body. A focused mind and a focused body is unimaginable to me. But not boring.” A violent shudder took some of the force from the words, and then Rocco was urging him forward again. “I wanted to learn when I was in grade school,” Iz went on, a frozen chatterbox with no discipline at all, “but my parents thought I was trouble enough already.” He brightened before he had time to worry once more about his parents’ opinion of him. “You win, though? I heard that.”

  Rocco’s shrug was not a complete surprise now. “Sometimes. If I’m lucky.”

  “Modest,” Iz decided out loud, making Rocco glance at him in shock. “You don’t begin many of your sentences with ‘I’. Did you notice that? Not even when talking about yourself because I asked, which would have been socially acceptable. You win tournaments or whatever your events are called, and I don’t think that can all be luck.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Rocco whispered, but it didn’t sound angry. It was almost awed. He raised his voice. “Training is essential, and I’ve studied for years. But if you and your opponent are equally matched, chance can be the deciding factor.”

  “And taking advantage of the moment chance gives you? That’s skill.” Iz carried the thought to the conclusion that Rocco was deliberately avoiding. He shook his head and then tugged his scarf down. “I’m being rude and pushy. My brain’s picking at you now. I’m sorry. You’re interesting, and I think you’re great, so I don’t understand why you don’t seem to think so. Or at least won’t say so.”

  They were a street corner, approaching a residential street like dozens of others close to the campus, full of small homes and chunky apartment buildings full up with students.

  “People don’t usually say no to you, do they?” Rocco asked, in a soft voice and with a face too impassive for Iz to try to read by streetlight. But he could see Rocco’s flinch. “Oh shit.” Rocco shook his head. “Sorry.”

  Iz frowned, not following. “What do you mean?”

  Rocco looked at him directly for the first time since they’d left the library. Then he waved Iz on. “Three houses down,” he instructed and cleared his throat. “So, if I didn’t win tournaments, would you still think I’m great?”

  “If you didn’t win, I would be very interested in why you keep doing them,” Iz answered honestly. “You would have to love it more than I ever loved anything.”

  “Except coffee.” The way Rocco corrected him was more playful than smug.

  “Except coffee,” Iz agreed.

  “I do love it.” Rocco was hushed. “With or without some ribbons.”

  “You get ribbons?” This was something to consider. Iz had been imagining giant trophies. “Unless you meant metaphorical ribb—” He stepped off the curb and landed hard on his foot, nearly biting his tongue. It was jarring, but not painful. “Tired,” he said, to explain, and abruptly became aware of how slowly they had been walking, even though Rocco was obviously cold. Rocco had been the one to set the pace.

  Iz raised his head. Rocco’s hand glanced across his shoulder blades, pushing gently to get Iz back up on the sidewalk before Rocco pulled it away.

  He wondered if he had been stumbling the whole time. It seemed very likely, all of the sudden, that Iz had been tripping in exhaustion and Rocco had been keeping him in a straight path and out of the road. “You’re so sweet. I think… I think I’m more tired than I thought.” One foot was colder than the other and making squelching noises that not even the creaky leather could drown out. “Did I step in a puddle?”

  “You cracked through some ice, yeah.” Rocco’s hand returned to his back and stayed there, directing Iz down a stone path to a small apartment building. “Second floor. Almost there.”

  “I should set my alarm in case I fall asleep. I didn’t sleep last night. I was reading. Do you like to read? For fun, not just for school? There’s nothing wrong if you don’t. I only want to know for reasons.”

  “For reasons, huh? What have I done, exactly, to get this much of Izzy’s attention on me?” Rocco moved close behind him the moment Iz stepped onto the staircase as though he expected Iz to fall.

  “You had my attention before.” Iz couldn’t turn around to look at him, which wasn’t fair. “If I fall asleep, I might have to walk home at dawn. People will think it’s a walk of shame. Always wanted to do one. For the college experience.”

  Rocco’s laugh was short and loud. But then he nudged Iz again. “There’s nothing nice about shame.”

  Iz nodded slowly, his chin falling into his scarf, his gaze dropping to his feet as he reached the last step. He was extremely tired. “I can sleep on the floor. You work a lot and have class early tomorrow.”

  “You know my class schedule?” Rocco demanded, startled, only to immediately heave a breath. “Wait. Patterns. You couldn’t help yourself.” Iz beamed at him though Rocco couldn’t see it. “Okay, princess, one door down.”

  Iz wrinkled his nose. “Not a princess,” he grumbled. His shoe was wet and muddy, still covered in small pieces of ice.

  “Le petit prince?” Rocco asked, and stopped. Keys jangled.

  “Il faut chercher avec le cœur,” Iz replied absently.

  The keys fell to the ground. Rocco was slow to pick them up. “Did you take French at a prep school somewhere?”

  “Did you?” Iz turned to help Rocco with all the bags. He grunted in surprise at the weight of the long, scuffed one.

  “High school, but only two years.” Rocco searched Iz’s face and took his bag back without moving his gaze away. “I already knew Spanish—when spoken, not to read. Uh, my neighborhood. And my family’s Italian enough that it wasn’t all that different.”

  “You’re so smart.” Iz bumped into the doorjamb.

  Rocco leaned down to unlock the door. Iz stared at his chin and his cheek, which had a bit of shadow. “Thanks,” Rocco said breathlessly, staring firmly at the knob. “What, uh, what book was that in the library? You can barely stand up but you were trying to read?” The door popped open. He went inside, flipping the light switch and propping the bags against the wall before he held the door the rest of the way open and waved for Iz to come in.

  The sleeping roommate must have turned the heater on before going to bed. Iz shuddered at the change in temperature and stopped just beyond the threshold so he wouldn’t dirty the carpeting.

  It was an ordinary student apartment. Mismatched furniture, some posters, a TV, a pile of probably smelly laundry, another pile of athletic shoes. A few beer cans. A string of lights around one of the doors in the hallway.

  “Um.” Iz couldn’t tell which bedroom was Rocco’s. “I am supposed to get a job or an internship this summer, so I was trying to learn code the way the school teaches it. From books.”

  “Instead of learning the languages the way you actually did? Intuitively?” Rocco shivered at the sudden burst of warmth too, and slipped his shoes off. He tore his beanie off as well, leaving his hair in flattened disarray.

  “Yes,” Iz breathed. His skin was stinging. He reached up toward Rocco’s hair, then remembered himself and froze. “Sorry.” He shook from head to toe, body still adjusting to the heat. “You said you had to read. I’ll go sit and get out of your way. Oh, my shoe!”

  “Okay.” Rocco was firm. He waited for Iz to finish tugging his shoes off and pick up his coat after he dropped it a few times. Then he took the coat and Iz’s arm and ste
ered him into the kitchen area. He poured Iz a glass of water, then plunked him into a chair by a small table. “Are there meds you need to take?”

  “You polite, well-mannered soul.” Iz closed his eyes and had a sip. “Probably. But it feels like a bother now. I can just sleep.”

  “Iz,” Rocco said sharply. “Tell me and I’ll get them for you.”

  Iz thought carefully. “Middle pocket. In the purple case. Half of one. I’m almost not shaking anymore.”

  “Do you need food with this?” Rocco’s voice came from far away, then closer. “Here.”

  Iz put his hand out before he opened his eyes. “This one isn’t for every day,” he explained. “I’m not normally this bad.”

  “It’s okay.” Rocco handed him the broken pill and then turned to grab a protein bar from a box on the counter. He opened it and tore off a piece before handing that over too. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

  Embarrassment. That was what was squirming through Iz’s tired brain, making it difficult to look Rocco in the eye. He chewed and then had to drink more water to get the protein bar down. “Thank you. I could’ve—should’ve…. But thank you.” He swallowed again before putting the water on the table. “If you ever have a bad night, you can call me. I’ll sit with you and tell you how great you are.”

  Rocco’s lips parted. He breathed in and then out. “I don’t remember you being this free with the compliments when you’ve been drinking. Sleepy must be the difference.”

  “How would you know? You never sit with me.” Iz should really get up and get comfortable on one of those chairs in the living room before he passed out. But he was warm, and the table was so close he could prop his elbow on it and then rest his head. He blinked a few times while his fingers and toes slowly thawed and his nose began to run. Then he tipped his head up to meet Rocco’s steady gaze.