by Nikki Chase
As the slice of cake gets smaller and smaller, I learn more and more about Aiden’s life. His family lives in a nearby apartment block, and he goes to school in the neighborhood, too.
I feel embarrassed when I answer his questions about my family, my house, and my school. I have so much more than he does, to the point where it feels obnoxious to even mention the things that I have.
It just doesn’t feel fair.
Aiden has been working so hard, and still he has so little. I have never had to work a day in my life, and I have everything I could ever want—except for some stupid make-up. I cringe when I think about how big of a deal that used to seem to me.
But Aiden doesn’t seem to notice anything unfair. He doesn’t hate me for my privileges. In fact, he’s fascinated. When he says, “Wow, you live like a princess, don't you?” he’s not mocking me. He genuinely thinks my life is awesome.
He asks me so many questions about my school and my friends that, after half an hour, it feels like he knows them too.
“This has been great, Aiden, but I think it’s time for me to go,” I say as I look down at my watch. It took us five minutes to walk from the convenience store to this cake shop we’ve been here for half an hour, and it’ll take another five minutes to get back to the convenience store. That leaves me with five minutes to spare.
“Can you stay a little longer, princess?” Aiden asks, pleading me with his eyes.
I can’t say “no” to those eyes. “Sure, I can stay five more minutes . . .”
But then Aiden starts talking, and I just get lost in his stories.
He tells me how his mom doesn’t like the fact that he’s working, even though his family needs his pay checks to cover the utilities. She stays up with him when he needs to study until late, and she brews him some tea when it’s chilly outside. It sounds like he has a warm, loving family.
Before I realize it, I’ve stayed way past my five minutes.
As I run down the sidewalk, wishing I could fly to Marie’s old house, I curse myself for staying for so long.
The only reason why I haven’t gotten caught is because I’ve come up with a precise schedule that shouldn’t raise any suspicions at home. But now I’m at least fifteen minutes late.
Idiot. I should’ve stuck to my schedule.
Just as I expected, as I get closer to Marie’s old house, huffing and panting, I catch sight of the chauffeur, waiting by the gate.
I’m too late.
Now everything ends.
“Took a little walk, huh?” the chauffeur asks, sneering.
He’s probably more annoyed about having to wait for me than he is about my lie, but he can’t stay quiet now that he knows the truth. He’s already texting on the phone, probably tattling to my dad.
I can’t exactly blame him, though. He works for my dad; not for me.
Again, as I expected, once we get home, Dad tells the chauffeur he won’t need to drive me to Marie’s house on Tuesdays again.
I don’t mind losing the job because it’s not like I ever actually needed the money, but I miss Aiden. It guts me to know that I may never see him again after our impromptu first date.
But to my surprise, Aiden doesn’t disappear from my life just because we don’t work together anymore.
In fact, he calls me every night, even if Dad keeps picking up the phone downstairs to gruffly tell us to end the call as soon as it’s 9 p.m. That’s when Dad turns off the Wi-Fi and collects my phone for the night so I can’t contact anyone anymore—especially Aiden.
But Dad doesn’t deter Aiden.
He keeps calling, and he starts coming to my house, too, as soon as one of his friends lends him an old car.
I cheer inwardly when I see how perfectly nice and polite Aiden is with my parents. But at the end of their first meeting, Dad says, “There's something about that boy I don't like.”
He's not even giving Aiden a chance! It's like my dad’s determined to hate my first boyfriend, no matter what he’s like.
But little by little, Aiden’s charm wears my mom down to the point where she lets me leave the house with him, even though my dad isn’t happy about it.
That doesn’t stop my dad from trying to intimidate and inconvenience us., though.
Before Dad lets me get into Aiden’s car for the first time, he asks to see Aiden’s ID and takes a picture of it on his phone. Then he says, “Now I know where you live, so make sure she comes home on time, or you’re going to regret it.”
He also peers inside the car to check the odometer. “The mall is seven and a half miles away,” he says as he scribbles something on a piece of paper. “When I check the odometer exactly three hours from now, you’d better have exactly fifteen more miles on it.”
But despite Dad’s best efforts, we keep going strong. We manage to sneak in some private time for ourselves, which is how I end up having my first kiss in Aiden’s friend’s car, in the parking lot of the mall.
It feels strange, my first kiss. Aiden’s lips are soft and wet . . . but it’s not magical like in the movies. Music doesn’t suddenly start playing out of nowhere, and I just feel self-conscious.
But we keep practicing, and soon we’re making out like fiends, foregoing our movies in favor of some alone time in a dark corner of the parking lot.
On one of our dates, we go to a funfair and just for fun, enter a fortune teller’s tent. She says we’ll be married one day and we’ll be happy together. Just hearing that makes me giddily happy.
But of course we don’t last forever. We’re sixteen.
Still, I never expected Aiden to just disappear without an explanation. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive him for that.
Aiden
“How was your interview, A?”
I’m so going to hell for this.
“It was good. At least I think so,” I say into the phone. I’m sitting in my hotel room, ready to go out for the night. I’m just waiting for David to finish doing whatever he’s doing in the en-suite of our shared hotel room.
“That’s great. I knew you’d ace that,” Mom says with pride in her voice. She adds, “If you were going to flunk anything, it sure as hell won’t be the interview bit. You’re too smooth.”
I laugh.
“But I’m really hoping you can get a position at Oak Crest Hospital instead so you can stay here, close to me. I guess that’s kind of selfish of me,” Mom says, sighing.
Truthfully, I’ve already received an acceptance letter from Oak Crest Hospital, and I’ve decided to start my medical career there. I just can’t tell Mom yet.
“Mom, nobody could ever accuse you of being selfish. And I want to stay in San Francisco, too. Oak Crest is my first choice, so we want the same thing. Let’s just hope it happens.”
Suddenly, the bathroom door swings wide open. David yells out, “A-dog! Let’s party, man! We’re in fucking Vegas!”
Shit.
I put my hand over the mic on my phone, but it’s too late.
“Is someone there? Did they say Vegas?” Mom asks, suddenly panicked.
I put my finger over my lips and glare at David, telling him to shut the fuck up.
“Yeah, it’s just David, Mom. We share a hotel room and we went to the same interview. He’s just asking if I want to go out and celebrate over drinks. He said, ‘they will effing beg us’ . . . you know, to accept the positions that we interviewed for.” My heart pounds in my chest as I strain my ear to listen to Mom’s labored breathing. “Mom, are you okay?”
She remains silent for a few worrying seconds before she finally says, “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I just thought . . . I thought someone said something about going to—” she pauses “—Vegas.”
I laugh nervously. “No, Mom. David’s just really happy the interview went well. His family lives here in Ohio and he’s hoping he’ll get this position.” I drop my voice conspiratorially. “I think he might’ve drunk a few glasses of whisky already.”
David opens his mouth to protest, and I quickly get up to put my hand over the lower half of his face.
“Oh, that’s fine, A,” Mom says. “Go out and have a few drinks with your friends. It’s not every day that you visit Columbus.”
“Yeah. We’re leaving in a few minutes.”
“Just don’t party too hard and wake up in Vegas,” Mom says, laughing.
Oh, if only she knew . . .
“Of course not. I know how you feel about that,” I say.
“Good. Remember what I’ve always told you. Vegas is bad luck. Only bad things will happen if you ever step foot in that city. Don’t ever go there, and don’t ever contact anyone who’s ever been there.”
“I know. I’m telling you, you’re worried over nothing. Now, I have to go. See you on Monday, okay, Mom?”
“Yeah. Bye, A. Have fun.”
“I will. Bye, Mom.”
I feel David’s stare before I even see it.
“Ohio? Really?” David asks. “Also, you lied to your mom to go to Vegas? Dude, what the fuck? You’re twenty-six.”
I give him a wry smile. “My mom’s . . . different.”
“What do you mean? She’s extra controlling?”
“Nah, she’s not like that at all. She just has this weird fear about Vegas,” I say as I put on my jacket and head toward the door. I don’t really want to get into this.
“Because it’s the Sin City? Is she religious?” David follows me out of the hotel room.
“No.”
“Has she been here at all? She lives in San Francisco, right? That’s just a stone’s throw away,” David says. He’s not going to drop it.
I don’t like talking about my mom’s irrational phobia because I don’t want people to think she’s crazy. But there comes a point in a conversation when it’s better to reveal some information, rather than let someone’s imagination go wild with speculation.
“Actually, we used to live here. My dad used to gamble a lot. You know those people who walk into a casino and only come back out days later?” I ask as we get into the elevator. “My dad was one of them.”
“Oh,” David says, obviously feeling bad about asking so many questions now. He knows my dad’s dead.
“Yeah, he got himself into a lot of debt and he was drinking a lot from feeling like a failure, and then one day, he got into a car accident because he was driving drunk.
“I guess my mom’s not completely wrong because something bad has happened to us in Vegas, but she blames the location instead of my dad’s own behavior. It’s not rational, but grief does strange things to people.”
That should be enough information to shut him up.
“Sorry, man. That must’ve sucked,” David says.
“Nah, that’s okay. It happened a long time ago.”
The elevator door opens at the ground floor, and we have to go through the casino to get to where we’re supposed to meet the other guys.
I’m not a fan of huge casinos like this one. This place has been designed to manipulate people into gambling their hard-earned money away.
The warm lighting and cool air-conditioning keep people in a state of sedentary comfort, making it more likely that they’d stay on their seats at the slot machines or at the poker tables.
When they’re hungry, they just follow the neon lights to find fast food restaurants where they buy greasy, unhealthy food—all just a few feet away from their aforementioned seats.
It’s a recipe for heart attack and short life expectancy.
But, I can’t bring myself to blame the casinos, much less Vegas, for what happened to my dad—or whatever’s happening to any of these suckers in this casino right now.
My dad was solely responsible for his choices to gamble, to drink, and to drive under the influence. Vegas didn’t make him do all those things; he did.
Besides, as long as you don’t go overboard, gambling is fine.
In fact, I think I might’ve indulged last night. I woke up to a bunch of bills scattered all over my bed this morning. Not a bad way to start the day.
I don’t remember much about last night, though. I guess I drank too much and operated on autopilot.
I vaguely recall going to the casino and talking to some girl . . . but I was alone this morning—unless you count David, who was sleeping in the other bed in the same room.
It’s no wonder I didn’t manage to pick up that girl, though. I can’t even recall what I said to her, or what she looked like. I’m pretty sure she was hot, although I was also wearing beer goggles, so she could’ve been an ogre for all I know.
For some reason, though, I have this vague memory, from last night, of me talking to the skateboarding kid from the day before. But I must be mistaken because I saw that kid in San Francisco, and I was already in Vegas last night.
Maybe I shouldn’t have drunk so much . . . but the best man ordered a few bottles of vodka and whisky, then kept refilling everybody’s shot glasses. Besides, Earl’s getting married—that’s a good excuse to let loose and party.
Earl’s best man, Trey, is a doctor he works with. He seems like an okay guy, although he can be a little pushy. He also seems to be really into partying.
That’s why, despite Earl having said repeatedly that he doesn’t want a crazy bachelor party, Trey has arranged for one anyway. We’re going to have dinner at this seafood buffet place, and then we’re off to a strip club.
“There you are! Are you guys ready to party?” Trey asks loudly as soon as he sees us walking out of the casino-slash-hotel where we’re staying. The air is hot and oppressive, even though it’s already dark.
“Yeah!” David responds enthusiastically. “Sure.” I give Trey a big grin.
“Awesome! I’m so excited I’m literally about to explode,” Trey says.
That would be an interesting sight, although sadly I’m pretty sure he meant “figuratively.”
I don’t really mind going to the strip club with a bunch of guys, because this is what people come to Vegas for, right? This is not how I spend most of my weekends, but I’m having a vacation right now, so who cares?
I feel a little bad for Earl because he’s probably not going to like the surprise.
But these guys are already high-fiving and talking excitedly about watching girls take their clothes off on stage. Somehow I doubt this bunch is going to willingly walk out of the strip joint to have a quiet barbecue in someone’s backyard.
Aubrey
“I can't believe Earl went to a strip club last night,” Mom says as she shakes her head.
I play with my phone on the couch as Mom and Hannah primp and preen in front of the mirror. They're going the full nine yards with smoky eyelids, false lashes, and big hair.
I’ve opted for my normal look, which takes considerably less time to achieve. I’ve got my blonde hair up in a messy bun, and I’ve put on a little bit of tinted moisturizer and lip gloss.
Personally, I don't care if guys want to go to strip clubs, although the implication that they need to have one last party before being tied down to the ol’ ball-and-chain is kind of offensive.
It also doesn’t make sense in Earl’s case, because he's been living with Hannah for years. Other than having to wear a wedding band, his life won’t really change much.
“Oh, that was probably Trey’s idea,” Hannah says as she widens her eyes to put on some mascara. Her lips are parted in concentration. “I knew he was going to do that. That's why the rehearsal is tonight, so they won't have any time to do much after dinner and they’ll show up sober and awake tomorrow morning for the ceremony.”
“That’s smart,” I admit, although I’m not surprised. Hannah has always been organized, not to mention good with people.
She’s always been a social butterfly, and I’ve always been the weird, loner bookworm. While it’s obvious that my parents love me, too, I’ve always been aware that Hannah’s their favorite.
I used to get better grades than Hannah, but they didn’t matter.
There was one time I came home with mostly A’s in my report card, except for French. Peering at me over his reading glasses, Dad asked, “Where's the other A?”
When I told him everybody in my class got low grades in French, he said, “You’re better than average, and that's what a B is—average. This wasn't your best and you know it. Set higher standards for yourself.”
Yet even when Hannah got B’s and C’s, he showered her with praises and put her report cards up on the fridge.
They used to push me into joining various clubs at school like Hannah did, and tell me to be more friendly to people like Hannah was, and herd me out of my room so I’d read less and hang out with people more—again, like Hannah.
Let’s just say it wasn’t easy growing up as Hannah’s sister.
“Of course.” Hannah smiles and raises her eyebrows at me through the mirror of her vanity. “I don’t make mistakes.”
“Oh, so Grace sleeping in my room wasn’t a mistake either?” I ask.
“Well, okay . . . maybe one mistake, Bee,” Hannah admits, laughing.
My sister used to call me Bree for short. But Marcus couldn’t pronounce the letter “r” when he was little, and so he started calling me Bee instead. Now Hannah and Earl call me Bee, too.
It’s hard to hate Hannah when she’s always so nice and agreeable. It’s not her fault my parents like her more than they like me. I’d probably prefer her too, if I were them.
“Sounds like my girls are having fun,” Dad says as he pops his head in the doorway. “I’ve missed having all of you home.”
“Hey, Dad,” I say. “Why aren’t you in your suit yet?”
We had a little argument this morning about him tracking my phone, but he just said, “It’s for your own good,” and refused to admit he’d messed up. As usual.
But he didn’t say anything when I told him I was getting a new number, so I left it at that. Small victories.
Despite the egregious breach of my privacy, he was paying the bills for the phone, so there was nothing much I could do anyway.
