The Fixes
Page 2
(Jordan’s like a Lamborghini at a Taco Bell drive-thru right now, but here he is nonetheless.)
He looks up when Eric walks in, flashes a thousand-watt smile.
“Hey,” he says. “What are you in for?”
10.
Eric kind of stammers. Looks at his feet.
(He’s blushing already.)
“I mean,” Eric says. “I’m just here to pick up my plaque.”
11.
Mrs. Adams looks up from the phone, sees Eric. Covers the mouthpiece.
“Hi, Eric,” she says. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be right with you.”
“What about me?” Jordan asks her.
Mrs. Adams gives Jordan a look. “I’ll deal with you next, Mr. Grant. Just be patient.”
She goes back to talking on the phone. Jordan lifts an eyebrow at Eric. “Guess she likes you better. What’s your secret?”
Eric kind of shifts his weight again. “Pardon?”
“Never mind,” Jordan says. “You’re here for a plaque? Like, you won an award or something?”
Eric nods. “They spelled my name wrong when they engraved it, though. That’s why I’m here.”
There’s an awkward pause. Eric can see Jordan doesn’t get it.
“My last name’s Connelly,” he says. “Two n’s and two l’s. They dropped an n, so my dad made me give the plaque back so they could redo it.”
“Aha,” Jordan says. “So what was the award?”
Eric feels himself blushing more. Hates himself for it. “Student of the Year.”
Jordan grins wider.
(Eric thinks: #Nerd.)
“Student of the Year,” Jordan says. “Holy humblebrag. Congratulations.”
“Why are you here?” Eric asks, to change the subject.
Jordan makes a face. “A math problem. Calculus class, to be exact. They won’t let me graduate until I pass.”
This is a strange story. It doesn’t make sense. Teachers at Cap High don’t just fail anybody, especially not anybodies who happen to be Jordan Grant. Rich kids don’t fail. They pull C averages and move up the ladder, annoy their college professors for a while until their parents land them cushy jobs with seven-figure starting salaries.
(#CapilanoLife.)
Jordan sees the look on Eric’s face. “Right? Fackrell failed me, though, and if I can’t sort this out, I’m coming back to Cap next year.”
“Isn’t there any way out?” Eric asks.
(Translation: Can’t your dad, like, make it rain?)
“I don’t think so.” Jordan gestures to Mrs. Adams. “I’ve been trying to work my charms on the administration, but so far, the best she can do is try to convince Fackrell to let me rewrite the exam.”
Mrs. Adams overhears, and rolls her eyes.
Jordan sighs. “Fackrell says unless I pass the exam, he’ll hold me back. I won’t graduate. So I’m probably screwed. I barely made it out of math class junior year.”
“I got a ninety-five in calculus,” Eric says, before he even knows what he’s saying. “I could, like, tutor you.”
(Bingo. There’s our cheesy meet cute.)
12.
It’s about as cheesy as cheesy can get. Completely contrived.
(Because we all know Eric isn’t going to spend more than a couple pages tutoring Jordan Grant.)
For one thing, tutoring is boring to read about. For another, Eric doesn’t have time to be tutoring Jordan Grant. He should be kicking ass at his internship. Speaking of which—
“Shit,” Eric says, checking his watch again. “I am really, really freaking late.”
It’s about this time that Mrs. Adams hangs up the phone. She smiles at Eric the way your grandmother smiles when you drop by for Christmas.
(The secretaries love Eric.)
(All adults love Eric.)
“Eric,” she says. “You’re here about your plaque.” She starts shifting papers. “I know it’s around here somewhere.”
Eric tries not to look impatient. He’s fifteen minutes late for his internship already.
(I don’t know if I mentioned this, but it’s a VERY PRESTIGIOUS internship for which his dad pulled beaucoup strings.)
Then Jordan speaks up behind him. “You’re serious? You could tutor me?”
Eric glances back at Mrs. Adams, still searching fruitlessly. “I mean, sure,” he tells Jordan.
“I don’t know. I’m probably a lost cause.” Jordan flashes that movie-star smile again, and it kind of makes Eric’s stomach do a flip. “But it’s worth a shot to save the summer, right? You’re good at calculus?”
“Pretty good.”
“Then it’s settled.” Jordan holds out his hand. “I’ll pay you for your time, of course. Double if I actually pass.”
Eric starts to mumble something about how Jordan doesn’t have to pay him. Then Mrs. Adams makes, like, a triumphant noise and lifts the plaque out from under a stack of report cards. “Aha!”
“Sweet.” Eric takes the plaque from Mrs. Adams. Thanks her.
CAPILANO HIGH SCHOOL, the plaque reads. ERIC CONNELLY, STUDENT OF THE YEAR.
Jordan peeks over Eric’s shoulder. “Student of the Year,” he says. “Rad. Fackrell can totally suck it.”
13.
Eric stuffs the plaque in his Herschel bag. He’s twenty minutes late now—and counting.
“So when do you want to do this?” Jordan says.
Eric pauses at the office door. Half wishes he could stay here, hang out with Jordan Grant the rest of the afternoon.
But Eric keeps his poker face. He has places to be. “I dunno, tomorrow night?”
Jordan shakes his head. “Callum Fulchrest’s party, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Of course.”
(Eric remembers. Eric got the blast online, just like everyone else. But Eric doesn’t really, you know, go to parties. It doesn’t fit with his dad’s Plan.)
(The Plan apparently includes sending his son through life with a serious case of FOMO.)
“I’ll just message you,” Jordan says. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Cool,” Eric says.
“I have to go now,” Eric says.
And he walks casually, exactly five paces away from the office door, before he breaks into a full-on sprint.
14.
Eric speeds the G-Wagen across town to Hockley, Hart, and Brent—
(his dad’s old law firm).
On the way there, he berates himself for being so freaking lame. For wasting his time. How are you going to tutor Jordan Grant when you don’t even have time for your internship?
It’s a fact. Eric—
(and his dad)
—have the summer all figured out. Internship Monday through Friday, eight hours a day. On the evenings and weekends, there’s college prep to be done. Picking courses. Finding a dorm room. Researching professors.
(“And if you have any time left over,” Eric’s dad tells him, “you can get an early start on next semester’s required reading.”)
(Yawn.)
It’s not the greatest summer in the world. But this is the kind of work you have to put in when you’re building your future, right? This is how a Connelly Man lives his life.
15.
Eric has lived nearly eighteen years preparing for life as a Connelly Man. There are certain things a Connelly Man is expected to do:
1.A Connelly Man goes to law school. (Preferably Stanford.)
2.A Connelly Man practices law for a Reputable Number of Years, and then
3.A Connelly Man enters politics.
These are all Very Important Steps.
This is the code Eric lives by.
This is the Plan.
16.
There’s one other fundamental tenet to fulfilling your destiny as a Connelly Man. It’s arguably the Most Important Tenet. It must NEVER BE BROKEN.
(Are you ready?)
4.A Connelly Man must never, ever, under any circumstances, TARNISH THE CONNELLY NA
ME.
17.
Eric’s grandfather went to Stanford. He came back to Capilano and built a career in litigation before running for mayor of the town, and winning.
(So he literally ran the town.)1
Eric’s dad went to Stanford. He came back to Capilano and built a career in corporate law before running for the state senate, and winning.
(Eric’s dad runs the state.)
Eric will go to Stanford. He will come back to Capilano. He will build a successful law career, and then he’ll enter politics. Preferably federal politics.
(“A Connelly in the White House,” Eric’s dad likes to say.)
So, you know. No pressure.
18.
(One more aside on the whole “Connelly Man” thing:
Connelly Men are expected to get married.
Connelly Men are expected to have families.
Connelly Men do not hook up with guys.
Ever.)
19.
(No Connelly Man ever met Jordan Grant, though.)
20.
I mean, it’s not like Eric’s dad is, you know, overtly homophobic or anything. He doesn’t explicitly hate the gays.
He just prefers to tolerate them from a distance. Stays out of their business, if they’ll stay out of his. They don’t jive with Eric’s dad’s worldview.
They sure as hell don’t jive with his image of the Connelly Man.
And that’s why this whole Jordan Grant thing is going to be problematic.
21.
That night, at the Home of the Connelly Men—
(and women, but there’s no glorifying mythology about them)
—Eric and his parents are eating dinner.
“First day at the firm,” Eric’s dad says. “Did you make the family proud?”
Eric shrugs. “I mean, I think it went okay.”
(In fact, it was kind of boring. Ann, Eric’s dad’s old assistant, pretty well locked him in the room with a bunch of old files and told him to enter the pertinent details into a computer. There are boxes and boxes of files to be entered. It’s going to be a long, tedious summer.)
“Ann said you were late this morning. What happened?”
Eric mutters a silent curse. Pastes his best smile on his face. “I had to pick up my plaque from the school.”
The plaque is resting on the china cabinet, waiting for his dad to notice. “See? Now the name’s right and everything.”
“That’s great, honey,” Eric’s mom says. “We’re both so proud of you.”
But the attempted distraction doesn’t work. Eric’s dad looks the plaque over. Frowns and sets it aside.
“Late for your first day at a job?” he says. “It sends the wrong message. It’s careless and unprofessional.”
Eric looks down at his salmon. “I’ll be on time tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s not your first day.”
“I’m sorry,” Eric tells him. “I’ll be better. I promise.”
“Your grandfather and I have worked hard to build the Connelly name, Eric. I know you’ll do us proud.”
Eric finishes the salmon as quickly as he can. Excuses himself, goes downstairs to his bedroom.
(Brings the plaque with him.)
(Debates throwing the plaque through a window.)
(But he doesn’t, of course.)
Eric doesn’t do anything but feel guilty.
(As usual.)
22.
I mean, Eric knows his dad’s right.
Eric knows if he doesn’t bust his ass, he won’t LIVE UP TO HIS POTENTIAL.
He won’t MEET EXPECTATIONS.
He’ll fail.
“Not everyone’s cut out to be a Connelly,” his dad’s always saying. “But the world needs ditch diggers, too.”
Eric knows he has to show up on time. He knows he has to make a good impression. He’s depending on a good letter of reference from Ann to impress the Stanford Law admissions committee, three or four years down the road.
Eric knows.
Eric takes it seriously.
Eric does NOT want to be a ditch digger.
It’s just—
damn it,
sometimes being a Connelly Man is just
really
freaking
HARD.
23.
Whatever. Eric gets over it.
He forces himself to focus on the future, the long-term gain for this short-term pain. He shows up to the law firm on time. He inputs the pertinent details like a good worker bee. He smiles and makes conversation with Ann when she checks in on him. He meets expectations.
(It’s not fun, but it’s progress.)
Friday passes. Eric goes home, goes online, settles in to spend the evening choosing his courses for first semester at college. Picking out his electives. Working out a schedule.
Then his phone buzzes. A message on Kik—
(The user name says ThaINfamous, but Eric knows it’s Jordan Grant.)
Callum Fulchrest’s party tonight. U going?
Eric hesitates. Nah.
Why not? Friday night. Everyone will be there.
(Not me, Eric thinks.)
Stuff to do, Eric writes back. Have to pick my courses for college. Make a schedule.
College is in, like, September, Jordan writes.
There’s a pause.
Then: I really think you should come.
24.
So Eric sneaks out.
(Duh.)
It’s not the first time he’s done it. Besides, it’s the first week of summer, and his dad’s out of town on some fact-finding mission somewhere. Eric has tons of time to make a schedule later.
He borrows his mom’s G-Wagen and drives to Callum Fulchrest’s house.
This is wrong, obviously. This is not the way a Connelly Man behaves. Connelly Men don’t go to house parties. Too much illicit shit going on and too many smartphones. Eric knows his dad would be furious.
Still, Eric isn’t sure if his heart is beating so hard because he’s NOT LIVING UP TO HIS POTENTIAL, or because he’s sneaking out to see Jordan.
25.
The party is off the chain.
It’s like every party you’ve ever been to—except in a bigger house and the people are way better-looking.
Callum Fulchrest lives in a big estate on Marine Drive, the road that winds through the forest and hugs the shoreline west of Capilano. Callum’s dad only runs, like, a mining company or something, so his house is on the north side of the street, away from the water. But it’s still huge. There’s a gate. There are trees. Someone has to buzz you in and then you have to drive up a long driveway just to get to the mansion.
Eric parks the G-Wagen between a couple of Range Rovers. Fixes his hair in the rearview mirror, checks his breath. Stalls a little bit, exhales. Then he climbs from the Benz and walks through Callum’s front door.
There are kids everywhere, some Eric recognizes and some that he doesn’t. They’re dancing in the living room. Making out on the massive curving front staircase. Playing beer pong on Callum’s family’s antique French Revolution–era dining room table. Somewhere, someone’s bumping A$AP Rocky at a high volume through artfully concealed wireless speakers.
(There’s no sign of Jordan Grant anywhere.)
Someone thrusts a drink into Eric’s hand. A red Solo cup. A clear liquid. “I’m good,” Eric tells him. “I drove and all.”
The kid takes the cup back. “Suit yourself,” he says, disappearing into the mix. “Fag.”
Eric flinches.
(#WordsHurt.)
“Fuck it, one drink,” he starts to tell the kid, but he’s talking to air.
26.
Everyone’s drinking from a red Solo cup.
Maybe just one drink, Eric’s thinking. Maybe I’ll just make it light.
(You can probably guess how underage drinking fits into the Connelly Man, you know, ethos. Or doesn’t fit, as the case may be.)
Eric asks the closest person
where she got her drink. She stops dancing and looks at him. “The keg’s in the garage,” she says. “Hard liquor in the kitchen.”
“What about the cups?” Eric says.
The girl looks at him like he’s a monkey.
“I’ll just go to the kitchen,” Eric says.
He does.
He walks into the kitchen. It’s jammed with Capilano kids in various states of inebriation. And smack in the middle, holding court like he really is the king, stands Jordan motherfucking Grant.
Jordan looks good. He’s wearing jeans and a fitted linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his forearms. He’s holding a red cup and a forty of Fireball. He’s pouring shots for a group of Cap High elite.
There’s Callum Fulchrest. There’s Terry Miles. Lexi Tanner. Tristan West.
The A-list.
The beautiful people.
(Only Jordan’s miles above them, and everybody knows it.)
They’re all circled around Jordan, laughing and having fun, looking—every one of them—like they’ve never stressed about anything for a minute in their lives.
(And let’s be honest, they haven’t.)
Eric knows he’s staring. Knows he probably looks creepy. Can’t turn away, though. He’s realizing, for the first time in a long time, just how much fun he’s been missing. He’s feeling just a little twinge of maybe, you know, envy.
Eric pushes the little twinge from his mind. It’s all worth the sacrifice, he tells himself. Someday you’ll be a big, important politician and you won’t regret missing out on this stuff at all.
He’s not sure if he believes it, though. Especially not when Jordan looks up from the row of shot glasses and catches Eric staring.
“Connelly with two n’s,” he says, breaking into that movie-star grin again. “Come do a shot.”
27.
Eric blanches. Eric feels the room looking at him.
(Eric hears the kid with the red Solo cup calling him fag.)