I am a disappointment to my parents, to the family legacy they talk about endlessly, that Jack taunts me about endlessly. Even in my dreams.
God only knows why Jack Hunter made it his mission this year to make me miserable, but he did. He singled me out as his exclusive target for barbs of all kinds. I don’t remember him ever being a bully before, but he’s making up for lost time now.
I go to school the next day only because Mom insists. Dad’s not around to vote. So here I am, wrapped like a mummy under my cashmere sweater and looking like I gained weight in the most unflattering way possible. I’m wary and watching the stream of kids in the hall where Stacy and I stand at our lockers.
“He taunts you because he’s jealous, because you have money and come from an important family,” Stacy insists.
“Stacy, half the kids in this school come from rich families.” Moreland High is almost like a prep school, sitting close enough to Lake Winnipesaukee to sport a crew team. I wonder why Jack decides to bully me around suddenly, why now in his senior year? He’s the resident god among mortals, the quarterback of the championship football team, likely to go to some big-time football college and take some lucky cheerleader with him.
Meantime, the jerk isn’t just a dumb handsome jock. He’s the stinking class valedictorian. Something is wrong with this picture. But I’m too busy trying to survive without being humiliated to figure it out. Sliding my eyes to where I know his locker is, I study the area. He’s nowhere in sight. Maybe he got in trouble for yesterday’s incident after all. Maybe he’s been suspended. A swirl of mixed emotions turn my stomach.
One of the jerks from yesterday’s shoving incident walks past me, he slides a look at me and I notice the hint of shame as he looks the other way. But he’s not ashamed enough to apologize.
Stacy shrugs. “But your family is legit. You’re like an heiress, and Jack . . .” She rolls her eyes, then whispers as if she’s worried someone will hear, as if someone will report her for offending him if she talks about his family aloud. “You know about his mother. And the poor guy doesn’t even have a dad, only an old grumpy gramps. I kind of feel sorry for him.”
Outrage snaps me to attention and I open my mouth to ask her whose side she’s on, to remind her of his hateful behavior, that his lack of family is no excuse, but then all the indignation flickers and dies because I wonder if I’m wrong. If maybe his lack of money and a decent home is a good excuse for being nasty. It’s the same one I’ve been making for him for months in my own head.
But no, he’s only nasty to me and it’s not fair.
“So what if he’s poor and doesn’t have a father,” I say. “The guy got me sent away in an ambulance yesterday.”
“He didn’t touch you—except for when he held his arm around you. That must have been hot—”
“Earth to Stacy. He instigated those boys. They never bothered me before yesterday. Not until the big man Jack Hunter made it seem like such fun.”
“He’s being horrible to you. I hope he gets in big trouble. It’s a shame, though. Do you think he’s mean because he has a tough life?”
“I don’t care. It’s still no excuse to bully me Or anyone. Not that he bullies anyone else.” I’m firm. For about a minute.
“So what are we going to do about it?” she says, ready for mischief, a gleam in her eyes.
“I’m not sure.” I’m lying, because I have an idea. It’s extreme and it’s the easy way out, but it would save me if I go through with it. But it would also make me a scared little bunny running away. The bell rings and I head for class. Stacy heads the other way, to the honors class that I’m not in. The one Jack’s in. He takes all honors classes, the smart jerk.
He may be from “the other side of the tracks,” as my mother says, but he’s popular and smart and good-looking. The guy who’s bigger and more mature for his age, the one all the other boys look up to, want to be like. And he’s so arrogant, so sure and most of all, so tough, that no one ever makes fun of where he lives or what he wears.
In fact, he makes it cool to wear off-brand beat-up old jeans and paint-stained T-shirts. He makes everything look good with the outsized muscles of his tall 17-year-old man-boy body.
So what is his problem with me? We were never friendly, but he never singled me out until a couple of months ago. We’ve been familiar, acquaintances, smiling and nodding. We played in the same playground, occasionally in the same kickball game for a while when we were in grade school. Then there was the incident that summer, a moment of real friendship we shared. But that was years ago.
I’m a quiet person, far from the life of the party, but when I’m around him, I’m a certified mute, which he so unkindly points out. He taunts me about my grades too. I’m not only not in the smart math class like he is—which he derides me for—but I’m barely passing the average class.
The cruelest thing he’s done was label me The Dowd Disappointment at yesterday’s volleyball game in front of everyone. Because now people are calling me DD today.
“Pass the paper to DD.”
“Did you see how fat DD looks today? Maybe she was tired of being skinny and decided to stuff her clothes to look better?”
“Did you hear DD is failing math class?”
I hear them all. I don’t even want to think about what I don’t hear. I shouldn’t care about what people think of me. Maybe I don’t, for the most part. The problem is what I think of myself. Jack has everyone singing the chorus of my conscience. The Dowd Disappointment is pathetic in every way possible.
That night, I hardly notice the pain in my ribs, but I cry big fat sorry tears, embarrassing big baby tears because I do feel like the family disappointment. Attention has always been hard to come by at home—at least attention from my parents. Greta takes care of me. But no matter how many times she tells me I’m not a disappointment as she feeds me cookies after school like a kindergartener, it’s the way I feel.
I have no idea how Jack knows, but he somehow knows my secret fear. Maybe it’s because he’s more than smart, like some kind of prodigy or evil genius.
Yesterday was the worst day of my short overly privileged life, almost halfway through junior year. After three months of torture by Jack.
Now with the volleyball incident fresh in my mind, I do the unthinkable. I stay home from school the next day because Greta makes Mom relent. Dad’s coming home from New York tonight and I have a plan.
After dinner, which I eat alone with a book and my cat for company, I hear my father arrive home and wait a few minutes, on edge, petting Cleo and feeling pathetic.
“I’m going to turn into one of those stereotypical cozy mystery spinsters with a house full of cats and writing books about solving murders by being a busybody if I don’t get my act together, Cleo.” She purrs, oblivious to why there’s anything wrong with that future. On my worst days, I wonder the same thing. But now, I stiffen my spine. “Here goes.” Putting the cat aside, I go to my father’s den and knock on the half-closed door.
“What is it, Joni? Come in.” He’s taking papers from his briefcase and I don’t know how to start. He pauses and looks at me expectantly. “You look distraught.” He waits for me to speak, his papers suspended over his desk, so I jump in.
“I want to transfer to Philips.”
He contemplates me. He’s been a tepid and distant fixture in my life, more like an uncle than a father if I had to say. Greta is the one I usually go to with my problems. But this isn’t a problem Greta can solve.
“You’ve been in public school since kindergarten, sweetheart, why the change of heart now?”
I’m prepared for this. I know I can’t complain about being bullied by Jack Hunter or I’ll bring the whole school down on me and I have some friends I might want to keep. Stacy would kill me. I take a deep breath.
“I know, but I feel like I’m missing something at Moreland High. They don’t have the resources that Philips has, or the opportunities to learn so much more. Now that I’m a j
unior, I realize these things are way more important. Don’t you think so too?”
He looks at me like he doesn’t buy it and I worry for a few fast heartbeats, feeling like I’ve overdone it, but also warmed by the fact that maybe he has some insight into me. Then he shrugs and puts the papers in a neat stack on his desk. And I deflate.
“Guess I can’t argue with your logic. Wish I had time to discuss this with you more, honey. But if that’s what you want, have Greta arrange it. I’ll let her know it’s okay.” He turns and goes back to taking papers from his briefcase. Dismissed, I run from the room like an excited eight-year-old getting away with something terrible. Straight to Greta.
She’s the household manager, Dad’s personal assistant. She helps Mom too. Mom calls her a girl Friday—whatever that is.
I go to her office at the back of the house because I know she’ll still be there. Sometimes she sleeps there. I figure she ought to have a legit apartment at our house since it’s big enough for ten more people, but don’t dare bring it up to her. She’d tell me it’s none of my business, but I’m not that naïve. I know the reason. Why would Mom want another woman living in the house?
“Greta,” The door’s closed, but I walk into her office without knocking.
She isn’t alone. And she isn’t working.
She’s on the couch. Half dressed.
With my mother.
I don’t go to Moreland the next day either, and two days after that I move into Philips with everything I can fit into three Versace bags and no plans to return home anytime soon. Stacy is the only one I talk to about it and we promise to keep in touch. The relief on Mom’s face as she leaves me behind at Philips barely penetrates my numbness.
I guess it was Dad who hadn’t wanted to give Greta her own apartment at the house.
And I guess it was Mom who Greta has really been personally assisting all these years.
I don’t tell Dad about Mom and Greta because I feel bad for him even though I shouldn’t. He’s such a no-show. But also, I figure he knows what’s going on. He has to. He does have good instincts, I’ll give him that. Even if he does go out of his way to ignore problems, he knows they’re there, tidily shoved under the surface. Plus, Mom begged me not to say anything to anyone. Most of all what hurts is Greta’s betrayal. She’s turned our family into a sham.
I try to shrug it off, feeling numb. I’m not so naïve as to be shocked into a psychotic stupor, but even public school and bad television haven’t prepared me enough not to be confused and dazed by the truly sorry state of my family.
Maybe it’s the last push I needed on top of my crisis of confidence.
Maybe a change of scenery is the best thing for me all around.
Good riddance to tiptoeing around the house like I’m an intruder. Most of all, good riddance to the big bad bully Jack Hunter.
And yet, will running away really rid me of my demons?
Chapter 1
Jack
The recurring sharp pain in my gut strikes midstride like an old friend saying fuck you as I walk matter-of-factly toward the field house. The urge to run and hide fills me as if I’m a soldier on a battlefield caught in a bombardment of bullets. The idea that I need to be anywhere but here swarms me.
But I’m a brave soldier. I don’t break stride as I head to practice with two of my teammates.
In spite of the fact that I’m the Big Man on Campus at St. Paul U, that being QB on the football team is getting me in the conversation for the Heisman trophy this year, that the trophy talk can get me in the top NFL draft picks and a guaranteed million-dollar deal and that I’m getting a damn decent education while I’m at it—in spite of all that, right now I wish I was on the dark side of the moon with Pink Floyd.
Not still in New Hampshire within reach of all my worst nightmares and fears, where my past and my heritage, or fucking shitty lack thereof, can track me down. Daily. And haunt me nightly.
Most of the time I can handle it, keep my head in the moment, talk to people, listen to my poli-sci prof go on about world domination by the Chinese, run gassers while my sadistic coach shrieks out a tune on his fucking whistle, and most importantly keep my eye on the prize. It’s close. Looming. This is my senior year and final season of college football.
My goal is the Heisman trophy and D-Day for me is Draft Day this spring. The day I can become independent from my past when I sign the big contract, accept the money, and take my place as a pro baller in the NFL. Achieve the level of respect that will arm me against whatever ghost comes booing, whatever latent proclivities pop up to disarm my success. Whatever nuclear explosion of bad seeds cloud my achievements. By then, won’t matter. I’ll be free of it all. Or at least that’s the spidery thread of hope I’m hanging from right now.
Winning the Heisman will get me to Draft Day, the day I need to live until, to survive to, to keep pushing the stone, the boulder up that hill toward, no matter what.
Concentrate on now, on how today is hot. Though it’s not hot enough to be hellish. So why do I feel it?
The sun bombards its UV rays against my knock-off Tommy Bahama sunglasses, reminding me that I need to keep up my shield. Always. Today we have practice starting in one hour at three p.m., ending in time to toss our guts before dinner. Most days we pick up again at six and continue under the lights until eight, but not tonight.
The concession to the first day of classes is a reduction from three down to one session of practice. Coach Mario Radzewicz is riding us hard to get us up that mountain behind the boulder and pushing back on us every step of the way.
“I gotta get my monkey suit cleaned,” Tristan Collins says to me. He walks on my right, tight end and tight friend, main target of my TD passes last season and decent for a religious dude since he knows better than to preach to me by now. On my left, George Sylvester more than keeps up. He’s the team’s All-American running back and, next to me, a cinch for the pros. Unfortunately, he’s not as decent a guy as Tristan and has not a cinder of religious fire in his belly, though he has a big enough mouth to make up for it. The three of us stride in a semi-hurry, my usual pace.
“You’re wearing a tux?” I say, pretending to dismiss the idea because it’s uncool. Truth is I don’t own a tux and no way am I renting one. That’s a month’s fucking electric bill and I need my lights.
“Yeah. The invitation said black tie. It blows, but—”
“I’m not wearing one,” I say. Fuck. I don’t need trouble, but if Lassiter—Raymond Edgar Lassiter, St. Paul U’s Dean of Students—wants to give me shit about wearing a suit instead of a tux to his annual squeeze-the-wealthy-alumni-for-money-reception, he can go to hell and he can take all his rich trustee and donor friends with him.
“Of course you’re not.” George grins. “Leave it to the rebel to add a spark to an otherwise dull event.” He slaps my back.
Even if I want to waste money on a tux for the event, there’s no time to get one. The reception is on Saturday. Today is Wednesday, August 28th, the first day of my last year at St. Paul’s.
“Hey, Jack. Lookie what we have walking our way,” George says, changing track—or going back to the main track dominating his pea-size brain. He elbows me in the biceps, hitting a particularly nasty bruise, as he juts his chin in the direction of a group of girls coming straight at us. He acts as if we’re in a monastery where we don’t see girls every single fucking day. He drawls under his breath in his sickening Texas talk, “Eight point five, six point four, and a couple of sevens.”
On our way to practice, the last thing we need is to get sidetracked by George’s easily excited dick or his dickhead attitude.
“Leave it alone.” I use my commander voice, the same one I use in the huddle to direct the team as if they’re troops. As if. It’s arrogant, stolen swagger, but it gets the job done. I keep walking, carrying George and Tristan in my wake, feeling every pound of the burden. Fuck. The season hasn’t even started yet. I refocus on the moment, the here and now.
The fieldhouse, some twenty yards off, like the rest of the campus, is covered in green ivy and made with lots of fucking green money built into the classic red bricks and mortar. Seated in the hills of bucolic northern New Hampshire, in the comfort of privilege like an angel sleeping in the clouds, the campus picture is deceptive. Because I haven’t met any angels here but I have met more than a few devils masquerading as men of wealth and taste—as prophesied by the sympathetic Mick Jagger.
The girls titter and I religiously keep my eyes on our destination. But in my periphery—because I have damn good peripheral vision, one of the gifts that makes me a fucking good QB—I can see there are four of them walking in a tight bunch. So tight that when they reach us and one of the girls—the one in front—stops, they all stumble to a stop. And one of them trips and falls to the ground.
Snapping out of my morose headspace, I move quickly to help her up off the ground.
“Shit, are you okay?” I push the sunglasses off my eyes to take a closer look, pulling her to a stand. She leans into me, or tries to, but I hold her at a distance, hot to let go of her altogether as if she’s the proverbial hand-burning potato. George snickers and I elbow him as he comes to stand at my side. The other girls are agog and talking all at once saying who knows what.
“I-I think so,” the girl says. I’m not convinced, so I look her over and she has a scrape on her knee.
“You may want to get that taken care of,” I point to the small trickle of blood.
Her friend dressed in yellow lets out a screech.
“You’re so—so—Jack Hunter.” It’s not the first time my name has been used as an adjective and I almost want to stop and ask her what the fuck my name means to her, but neither of us needs the embarrassment and she doesn’t deserve it.
George nudges me back and I hold onto my patience. The girl is an innocent. Clearly. And I’m not. At all. Not even a little bit. This is the reason I keep my mouth zipped and in neutral position.
Big Man on Campus: an Enemies to Lovers College Romance (Big Men on Campus Book 1) Page 2
