The Fixes

by Owen Matthews

  He does this on Thursday.

  He does not pass Go. He does not collect $200. He does not have any fun.

  He is the model of the perfect Connelly Man.

  44.

  And that’s all that matters, right?

  You start young. You build your future instead of farting around—

  (or so Eric’s dad is always saying).

  Short-term pain, long-term gain.

  Etc.

  Still, Eric drives past the beach every night on his way home. He looks at all the boats out on the sparkling water. He sees party pictures on Instagram and Snapchat, club nights and camping trips and bonfires, sees Jordan living it up with Paige Hammond and Haley Keefer, and it’s hard not to feel just the tiniest little twinge of,

  you know,

  FOMO.

  45.

  Whatever, though. Eric figures he can party—

  (or at least relax)

  —when he’s president.

  For now, there’s work to do.

  (Monday.)

  (Tuesday.)

  (Wednesday.)

  (Thursday.)

  (Etc.)

  And on and on, until Thursday night, Eric’s online doing problem sets out of his first semester statistics textbook—

  (This is what passes for a social life when you’re Student of the Year.)

  —and his phone buzzes with a new message:

  ThaINfamous.

  Jordan Grant.

  (And Eric forgets about statistics.)

  46.

  JG: You still up?

  EC: (After a long pause and a few lame false starts) Ya.

  What’s up?

  JG: Cramming for calculus. The exam is tomorrow.

  EC: How’s it going?

  JG: Bad.

  EC: You need help?

  JG: You still down?

  EC: Sure, why not? I’m always down for whatever.

  Pause.

  Long pause.

  (During which Eric curses himself for his inability to have, like, just one interpersonal interaction that doesn’t turn horribly awkward.)

  JG: Rad.

  47.

  Jordan shows up at the back door a half hour later.

  (Eric can hear his BMW from two blocks down.)

  He’s wearing a hoodie and board shorts, and his hair is artfully messed up and he’s tanned, and he’s grinning his cocky, mischievous grin. Just the sight of him gives Eric butterflies.

  “So this is your place, huh?” Jordan says as Eric leads him into the kitchen. “This is where the Student of the Year magic happens.”

  Eric follows his gaze, sees everything the way Jordan must be seeing it, and feels instantly self-conscious. His parents have a nice house, but, you know, his dad’s a politician, not a studio executive.

  Jordan doesn’t seem to care, though. He looks around, takes in the kitchen, the dining room, the hallway to the TV room. “Where do you want to do this?” he says.

  (How about the bedroom? Eric thinks. Then he thinks about how messy and embarrassing his bedroom looks right now.)

  “How about the dining room?” he says. “That table right there?”

  48.

  “What were you doing online?” Jordan says. “I hope you weren’t, like, G-chatting with an underwear model or something.”

  (They’ve been working for an hour or so. It’s going fine. Jordan is way behind and kind of lost, but he picks up concepts quickly. Eric can tell he’s actually pretty smart, no matter what kind of laid-back slacker vibe he puts out to the world.)

  “Not really important,” Eric says. “Just doing some statistics problems.”

  Jordan looks up from his calculus textbook. “What, like, homework? Are you in summer school or something?”

  “No, no,” Eric says.

  “I thought you were Student of the Year.”

  “I am.” Eric searches for a way to say the next part without sounding like a supernerd.

  (It’s impossible.)

  “It’s for college,” he says finally. “I looked up my courses online and downloaded all the textbooks already. I was doing some problem sets.”

  Jordan looks at Eric like he’s from Mars. “It’s. Summer.”

  Eric blushes. “I know, but, like, I want to get a head start, you know? This way, when college starts, I’ll be sure I really know everything.”

  “You could be doing anything in the world right now. Traveling to Europe. Racing cars. Learning to fly. And you’re doing problem sets?”

  Eric hesitates.

  (It sounds really stupid when Jordan puts it that way.)

  “I need to keep my grades up to get into Stanford Law,” Eric tells him. “It’s important. I can have fun later.”

  Jordan makes a face. Is obviously about to shoot holes in that theory when the floorboards unexpectedly creak in the next room, and Eric’s dad appears in the doorway. “Eric?”

  “Dad.” Eric feels a sudden rush of, like, guilt, like his dad just walked in on them smoking pot or hooking up or something. “This is, uh, Jordan. We’re just doing some calculus.”

  “It’s after midnight on a weeknight,” Eric’s dad says. “Surely your calculus can wait until a more reasonable hour.”

  Jordan’s standing, hand outstretched, before Eric can reply. “You must be Mr. Connelly with two n’s,” he tells Eric’s dad. “I’m Jordan Grant. Eric was just helping me cram for when I retake the exam.”

  The creases on Eric’s dad’s forehead get deeper. “Helping you cram,” he repeats. “That implies you haven’t adequately studied already.”

  Jordan’s smile doesn’t waver. “Well, yeah. That’s correct, sir. I’ve been busy with some, uh, other projects.”

  “The night before an exam is hardly the time to start studying,” Eric’s dad says. “And it’s EXTREMELY IRRESPONSIBLE of you to conscript your friend into enabling this kind of behavior.”

  (Mortifying, Eric’s thinking. Dad, you’re the worst.)

  “Yes, sir,” Jordan says. “Extremely irresponsible, I agree.”

  “Our house is closed to visitors after eleven on weeknights,” Eric’s dad continues. “Even to those who are cramming.”

  “Of course,” Jordan says. “I was just leaving.”

  “See that you do.” Eric’s dad turns to go. Stops and looks back. “Oh, and Mr. Grant?”

  Jordan winks at Eric. “Yes, sir?”

  Eric’s dad gives it a beat. “It’s Senator Connelly.”

  49.

  “It’s Senator Connelly.”

  Jordan is whispering, a pretty good imitation of Eric’s dad’s voice. Eric is equal parts trying to shut him up and trying not to laugh.

  “My dad will kill you if he hears you,” he tells Jordan. “He’ll kill both of us.”

  Jordan waves him off. “He’s not going to kill anyone. He’d never get reelected.” He shoulders his backpack. “Anyway, thanks for this. I’d better get out of here.”

  “I’m sorry about my dad,” Eric says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Jordan opens the back door. “This was good. I learned a lot. I’m feeling optimistic.”

  He tosses a wave over his shoulder. Disappears into the backyard. Eric waits at the open door until he hears Jordan’s BMW rev. Until he hears the tires chirp as Jordan peels out, until the block is dead quiet once again.

  Then he closes the door, locks it. Stands in the empty kitchen.

  (Statistics problems just seem like a letdown at this point.)

  50.

  “It’s noble of you to want to help your friend out,” Eric’s dad says.

  (It’s the next morning, at the breakfast table. Eric waited all night for this.)

  “But your friend is going to have to learn proper work habits if he wants to succeed in this world. Using you as a crutch isn’t going to suffice.”

  “His dad’s Harrison Grant,” Eric says. “The studio head. His family’s loaded. He doesn’t need
work habits.”

  Eric’s dad lowers the newspaper. Stares at Eric across the table. “But you do. And staying up to all hours to help your rich slacker friends isn’t going to help you one bit. You remember what we’ve said about time management.”

  Eric looks down into his cereal. Sighs. Then recites. “I need to be proactive in making the most of my time. I need to choose activities that will set me on the right course for the future. This is where I set the foundation for my life as a Connelly Man.”

  “Exactly,” Eric’s dad says. “And you’re not building any foundations when you’re wasting time with Jordan Grant.”

  Eric doesn’t say anything. He knows his dad is right.

  (But come on. It’s summer freaking vacation.)

  “Better finish up,” Eric’s dad says. “You’re going to be late to your internship.”

  51.

  It’s back to the paperwork.

  Monday to Friday.

  Nine to five.

  File by file, stack by stack.

  (Half-hour break for lunch.)

  The little room is air-conditioned. There aren’t any windows. It’s freezing cold and sterile.

  Eric hardly sees the sun.

  (Short-term pain for long-term gain.)

  (Build a foundation.)

  (Meet EXPECTATIONS.)

  (Be a Connelly Man.)

  52.

  A few days go by. Interminable, unremarkable. Then Eric’s on his lunch break at the little deli beside Hockley, Hart, and Brent, trying to decide between the egg salad and the tuna, when his phone vibrates—a text.

  Jordan.

  Just got my calc exam back.

  Eric sets aside the tuna/egg salad question. Oh yeah?

  Yup. 68%

  Ah crap, Eric writes. I’m sorry.

  Pause.

  Ellipsis.

  Are you kidding??? That’s a solid C-.

  Eric waits.

  Means I passed, duh! Jordan continues. That means I’m actually graduating. And it’s all thanks to you.

  A paralegal clears her throat behind Eric. Eric pushes his tray forward. Pretends to study a cup of Jell-O.

  Oh, he texts back. Well no worries. My pleasure ☺

  Where are you?

  Eric puts the Jell-O back. Considers the tuna/egg salad conundrum once more. Working. My internship @ HH&B. Why?

  We’re celebrating. I’m coming to get you. Be outside in ten minutes.

  “No,” Eric says aloud. The cashier turns to look at him. The paralegal glares behind him. Eric mutters an apology, steps out of line.

  I can’t. My lunch break’s almost over.

  Tell them you’re going home sick. No excuses. Be outside or I’ll drag you out.

  I can’t, Eric writes. Maybe after?

  Ten minutes, Jordan writes. And counting.

  53.

  Eric doesn’t go back to work.

  (Duh.)

  What Eric does do is panic. Eric stresses for a good eight minutes. Eric thinks about hiding until Jordan gets bored and goes away.

  But that’s ridiculous.

  (And Eric doesn’t really want Jordan to go away.)

  The files will still be there tomorrow.

  (Stacks and stacks of them.)

  Eric figures he’s been working hard. He can take a half day, right?

  (Well, no.)

  (Not if he wants to meet EXPECTATIONS.)

  (Not if he wants to BUILD a GOOD FOUNDATION.)

  (Not if he wants to be a CONNELLY MAN.)

  None of those things involve skipping out to hang with Jordan Grant. But Eric’s skipping out anyway.

  54.

  “I’m not feeling so good,” Eric tells Ann. He fakes a cough. “I think I’d better go home for the day.”

  Ann squints up at him from her workstation. She doesn’t look like she believes him.

  “I’ll have to tell your dad,” she says.

  Eric feels his phone buzzing in his pocket.

  “I’m sorry,” he tells Ann. “I just really have to go.”

  55.

  “We need to adjust your nomenclature if we’re going to hang out.”

  Jordan’s waiting outside the law firm beside his cherry-red BMW. He smiles wide behind his Wayfarers as Eric comes out the front door. Hits him with the nomenclature bit.

  Eric glances back into the office. “Huh?”

  “Your name,” Jordan says. “What we call you. Eric Connelly is so, you know, Student of the Year. We need you to loosen up a little bit. Do you agree?”

  “I mean,” Eric says. “I mean, yeah. Okay.”

  “Agreed. Perfect.” Jordan steps back. Holds his hands like a picture frame. “What we have here is . . .” Beat, then he smiles, satisfied. “E.”

  Eric blinks. “E?”

  “E,” Jordan says. “Simple. To the point. Badass. From now on you’re E, got it?”

  He’s climbing into the BMW before Eric can answer.

  56.

  Jordan isn’t alone. Paige Hammond and Haley Keefer are sitting in the backseat of the Bimmer.

  “Ladies, say hello to E,” Jordan tells them as Eric slides into the passenger seat. “E just saved my academic career. We owe him a good time.”

  Eric twists in his seat as Jordan pulls out of the lot. Waves an awkward hello to the girls. Haley just nods at Eric and goes back to playing with her phone, but Paige takes off her sunglasses. Meets Eric’s eyes.

  “Hey, Eric,” she says. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  57.

  (Here are some facts about Paige Hammond and Haley Keefer, for context:

  Paige is tall and blond and beautiful—the female Jordan Grant, almost. Her parents are big-shot real-estate developers who got rich flipping mansions to foreign investors. Except her dad’s in some legal trouble at the moment, some embezzlement scandal. It’s all over the news, and Paige’s stock at Cap High has taken a hit.

  (She’s, like, an A-minus right now. Or maybe a B-plus.)

  You might recognize Paige from the photo spread she did in Italian Vogue, if you’re into that kind of thing. But Paige is smart, too, Ivy League; she’s going to Yale in the fall.

  (So don’t get too attached.)

  Haley Keefer had her own little fall from grace a while back. She disappeared from school last fall, and rumor has it she was committed to some psychiatric hospital. Eating disorder, people said. She almost died.

  Whatever happened, Haley’s still alive. But the gossip was a big blow to her rep anyway. She’s not exactly Jordan Grant material either.

  Haley is kind of the opposite of Paige. She’s shorter than Paige, in height and in hair. Where Paige is glamorama, Haley is punk rock. Pixie cut. Tattoos. Corsets and ripped fishnets.

  Her dad was in a rock band back in the eighties. They never really made it big in North America, but the residuals from his European sales are still paying for the waterfront mansion and the vintage Ferrari. You might have heard his stuff in, like, a Girl Talk mashup or some post-ironic DJ set.

  Haley also has an older sister, Tinsley. Tinsley is tall and slim and pretty. Tinsley is an actress. Tinsley is her mother’s favorite.

  Talking about Tinsley is the easiest way to make Haley hate you. We won’t talk about Tinsley.

  Yet.)

  58.

  (Here is one more fact about Paige:

  Paige and Eric used to hook up, back in the day. Back before Eric started to realize he was more into boys.

  Eric never really told Paige about his change in, you know, sexual preference. They just kind of drifted apart.

  (Well, Eric drifted. Right into a sea of textbooks and college applications.)

  Needless to say, there’s some unfinished business between our hero and the model in the backseat. There may even be some hurt feelings.

  Awkward.)

  59.

  But Paige and Eric don’t dredge up those hurt feelings yet. The weather’s too nice to rehash ancient history. The sun’s shining, the sky�
�s blue, and there’s a breeze off the water. This isn’t the time to be stressed.

  60.

  So what do four rich Capilano kids do on a hot summer day?

  Easy.

  They take advantage.

  They make the most.

  They enjoy themselves.

  (And in this context, that means a boat day.)

  61.

  Jordan’s dad owns the boat. He’s never around, though, so it’s pretty much Jordan’s toy. It’s a Sea Ray Sundancer, fast and low-slung and sexy, with a sundeck at the bow and a cockpit at the stern, and a little kitchenette and master bedroom down below. Jordan revs the throttle high and points them out into the bay, dodging sailboats and cargo ships all the way to the south shore, the university, out west toward Wreck Beach.

  Paige and Haley are downstairs in the kitchenette mixing vodka sodas. Paige is telling Haley about how 2 tried to pick her up at the Cactus Club the other night. Haley’s telling Paige how she’s pretty sure has a fiancée back home in L.A.

  Eric isn’t really paying attention to Haley and Paige, though. Eric doesn’t care about . Eric isn’t even really enjoying the weather. He’s in the cockpit with Jordan, nursing a gin and tonic, telling Jordan how he can’t actually be here right now because he should be at the law office.

  “What were you doing at HH&B anyway?” Jordan asks him. “What could be so important that you would waste a day like this?”

  “I kind of work there,” Eric tells him. Eric tells him about the internship. He tells Jordan how it’ll look great on his law school application. How his dad had to call in favors with his old partners to get Eric in. “It’s mostly just data entry, though,” Eric says. “I’m not actually doing anything.”

  “So that’s how you’re spending your summer. Data entry. Problem sets.” Jordan pilots the Sundancer around a slower, smaller speedboat. “Isn’t law school in, like, four years?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to start early,” Eric says. “My dad just wants me to work for what I get. He says everyone in this town is so rich they feel, like, entitled.”