by LaylaHagen3
“Which is nothing,” I say.
“That was your choice,” my dad says quietly. “Your grandfather set you up with enough money to last you a lifetime.”
“So, that’s it? No help from you?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Would you help if you were in my place?”
I look away from him without answering. I wouldn’t. Of course not. I gave up on me long ago. I just hoped those around me hadn’t.
“Continuing to support you financially wouldn’t do you any good. With the path you’ve taken, money can only harm you.”
This catches my attention. I was expecting some kind of punishment, not a lesson. That’s a first. My dad never cared enough to waste his time with lessons. But I suppose his oldest son shaming the family name he prizes much more than the family itself, warrants an effort from his side.
“Your next year at Stanford will be paid for, as will the visits to your therapist. If you choose to go to grad school, you’ll have to find a way to finance it. I will pay for nothing else. You’ll have to pay for your rent, your food, and everything else.”
He looks at me intently. I think he’s expecting some kind of outburst. Swearing. A fist slammed against the desk. I’m not sure why I’m not doing either of those things. Shock, probably.
After a long pause, I finally manage to ask, “Does Mom know?”
“No. I haven’t told her.”
I didn’t think he had, but I needed to make sure. He never tells her anything. Sometime in the years after I left home, they not only stopped fighting, they stopped talking to each other altogether.
“Good. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell her.”
Chances are, my mom won’t catch on to anything. She lives in her own world anyway. She has never visited me; no reason to think she will in the future. So she won’t see whatever rat hole I’ll have to move into.
Dad nods. “That will be all.”
When I’m at the door, he says, “By the way, Peter won’t be taking you to Stanford. You’re on your own starting now.”
That pisses me off. I bang the door as hard as I can behind me to let him know. Stanford and my place are three fucking hours from here. I don’t have enough cash on me to take a cab.
I’ll have to take a bus.
That’s a thought.
I’ve never taken the damn bus before.
A door opens and Dani skids out, wrapping her tiny arms around my waist when she sees me. I hug her tightly with one arm and ruffle her dark hair with the other. “Happy birthday, kid. You look like a princess.”
She really does. Fancy dress and all.
Then I realize what is missing, just as she takes a step back, frowning at me. “You didn’t bring me a tiara,” she says, sighing in disappointment.
“No, no, no,” I say quickly. “They didn’t have the special one that I wanted for you, but I promise I’ll get it for you as soon as they have it.”
Her eyes lighten up and she smiles again. I exhale, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. I’ll get that tiara for her. I don’t care if I disappoint Dad and half the universe, but I won’t disappoint her. She looks up to me as her older brother. The only person who still looks up to me. I will get her the tiara.
I just need a job first.
That’s another first. I never considered a job. It was assumed I would start working for Dad after college and then one day take over his company. Now, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t hire me as a janitor.
Even if he did, I wouldn’t accept it.
I have my pride.
Dani takes my hand and leads me to the front door. “Can we go watch a movie and eat popcorn?” she asks.
The last money I have on me will be enough for two movie tickets and a small bag of popcorn. I won’t even have money for a bus ticket. Fuck it, nothing makes Dani happier than watching a movie and eating popcorn.
I’ll walk back if I have to.
“Of course we can, kid,” I say.
Just as we step outside, she points at my eye and says, “What happened to your eye?”
I laugh, like I always do when she asks me something like this. “Walked into a door; you know me.”
She purses her tiny lips, then looks down at her own hands. “James, do you think you’ll stop tripping or walking into doors one day?”
A punch square in my face wouldn’t knock the air out of my goddamn lungs the way her words do.
My little Dani. Not so little anymore. As I look at her, balancing from one leg to another, it hits me. I can’t make up lame stories forever. Improving my bullshitting won’t do.
My cell phone buzzes, and I answer it as Dani tells me she has to go back inside the house. She forgot to change her shoes.
“What’s up?” Ralph asks. I’d called him a few times on the way here, in the car. I tell him what happened in a few words.
The second I finish, he says, “Don’t worry, man. I have you covered. I can lend you money, and you can crash at my place. I’m sure Natalie and everyone else in the group will help.”
I have no doubt they would. They’re good friends. Not so sure how much of a friend Natalie is anymore. We crossed the line one too many times in the past two years. The first time we had sex was after I got knocked out in the boxing ring. Ever since, she jumps in my bed whenever she’s between boyfriends, but nothing more. Natalie knows better than to want more from me. I’m permanently single, hopping from one one-night stand to another; I don’t mind the arrangement. Except when she brings up high school, or Lara.
“Thanks man, but no,” I tell Ralph. “I’ll figure something out on my own. I have to get my shit together. If I don’t do it now, it’ll never happen.”
All this time, I’ve just wandered around, not knowing or caring where I stood or where the fuck I was going.
I know now where I was going. Where I stand.
Rock bottom.
2013 – College Junior
“You’ll look like a schoolgirl, Serena,” Jess says, shaking her head in mock disapproval.
“Well, I will be surrounded by high school students at the award ceremony after all,” I say, buttoning up my shirt and then putting on my pencil skirt. In all honesty, I don’t think anyone at the ceremony will care how I dress. They don’t really have a dress code, and I’ve always worn jeans to the ceremony. But this year I’m giving a speech. A mentor in the math challenge must give a speech at the award ceremony each year. To my dismay, this year it’s my turn.
I won The Williamson National Math Challenge for Underprivileged Teens when I was in high school, and I’ve returned as a mentor every year. Winning the challenge played a big part in getting a scholarship to Stanford. I like to help others have a shot at improving their life.
“Then tonight at the party you’ll be dressed like a Stanford student, I hope. If you show up like this, I’ll just have to pretend I don’t know you.”
I smirk at her. “I’ll change into something else, all right?”
Jess follows me in the kitchen of our tiny apartment near Stanford, eying me doubtfully, as if fearing I might not show up at the party at all. She really should give me more credit. I’m still not a fan of parties, but I tag along with Jess now and again. I’ve been doing that since the last year of high school. An attempt, among many others, to break down the fortress I’d built around myself.
I like to think I succeeded in doing that. I haven’t had a panic attack in three years. A slightly unhealthy obsession with books and movies is the only obvious part remaining of the old me. And the tendency to exhaust myself, either with my class assignments or my part-time bookkeeping job.
But these past few days I’ve felt anything but successful. Tomorrow is the seventh anniversary of Kate’s death. I think it’s one of the reasons Jess insisted we go out today. It’s part of her annual effort to lift my mood when this day or Kate’s birthday approaches. It’s like an unspoken agreement. Neither of us mentions the reason I withdraw in my room, and why I don’t hav
e an appetite, not even for chocolate.
“Excellent, I’ll be gone before you get home, but I’ll leave some clothes for you on your bed.” I let out a sound, somewhere between a groan and a chuckle. I never wear the clothes Jess lays out for me. But she’s persistent. “Oh, by the way, we’re going cliff diving after the party.”
“What?” I ask, my cheeks suddenly hot. “I can’t—”
I stop because Jess bursts out laughing. “I . . . was . . . kidding,” she says through ragged breaths, still shaking from laughter. “You should have seen your face.” She straightens up. “You know, doing something adventurous now and again wouldn’t hurt you.”
“I know, you remind me of it every day.” And that’s another thing that hasn’t changed about me. I don’t plan to change it anytime soon, either.
“Is Michael coming to the party?” Jess asks, now dead serious.
“No. He’s watching a soccer game with some friends.” I take one last look in the mirror, then grab my stack of index cards. I memorized my entire speech, but wrote it out just in case.
Jess rolls her eyes. “Again? He’s going to announce his engagement to his friends soon. He’s been spending every other evening with them for months.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you’d be happy that he’s not coming.”
“I am happy. I just think you shouldn’t be so understanding about the whole thing. You two barely spend any time together.”
“Well, he is coming with me to the award ceremony. That’s more important to me than coming with me to a random party.”
“You deserve someone better,” Jess calls after me as I leave our apartment.
I arrive at the high school where the award ceremony is being held about an hour later. Michael waits for me at the front gate.
“Hi, babe,” he says, planting a quick kiss on my lips. Too quick. I would have liked his lips to linger on mine a bit more. I know that would do more for my mood than any party Jess will drag me to. I also long for him to hold me tightly in his arms and tell me he loves me. It’s been quite a while since he has.
But I can’t tell him that, so I just say, “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course. I can’t stay long, though. I need to get back to the office to finish some paperwork.”
“I thought you were watching a soccer game with the guys.”
He shakes his head. “Change of plans. We’re going camping tomorrow for the weekend, so I need to make up for the days I’ll be missing.”
“What? When did you decide that?”
Michael jumps slightly, his eyes widening. “A couple days ago. Didn’t I tell you about it?”
“No.”
“Funny. I could’ve sworn I mentioned it to you.”
I blink, swallowing hard. “No, must have slipped your mind.”
As did asking me to come with you.
But this isn’t what bothers me the most. It’s that he forgot, utterly and completely, about the anniversary of Kate’s passing. I hoped he’d spend tomorrow with me. Perhaps it’s better this way, though.
I finally told him about Kate, exactly one year ago. He shifted from one foot to the other the entire time I was talking. When I finished, he didn’t say a word, just awkwardly patted my back.
He didn’t bolt. He also didn’t call me out on being the coward I am, which has always been one of my biggest fears. My other biggest fear—that he realizes I’m not worthy of his love—might become a reality though. He started to become more distant soon after my confession, and to spend even less time with me than usual.
If he would just tell me again that he loves me, like he used to . . . I’d know we are okay.
As we enter the building, I watch him walk silently by my side, lost in thoughts he won’t share with me, and I’m certain I won’t mention Kate to him ever again. Some things are better dealt with alone.
2013
I can’t believe I suited up for this. At least I had the brains to not wear a tie. I’d look like an idiot. No one at the event is wearing a suit, let alone a tie. I’ll never get used to suits, though I’ve had the misfortune to have to wear one more times than I care to remember over the last six years, ever since my father told me I was on my own. They’re a pain in the ass. I swear silently, undoing the top button of my shirt, as I make my way to the dozen or so chairs in front of the improvised stage. Apparently not so silently, because one of the organizers, a young blonde dressed in a gray dress that looks as uncomfortable as my suit, smiles at me, then quickly lowers her gaze a bit, blushing. I’ll never get why, but suits turn women on. Still not worth wearing. Besides, I can turn women on just fine on my own.
I smile back at the blonde, and the red in her cheeks deepens.
“Thank God you aren’t a banker, right?” she says. “You’d have to wear a suit every day.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” I reply, then slump in a seat as she goes to the stage to check the microphone.
I almost did become a banker. That summer after Dad cut me off, I did exactly what everyone else majoring in Economics did. Got an internship at an investment bank. I was convinced I had to become a banker after graduation. It was the job paying the closest to what I was used to spending. Give or take one digit. The internship was an epic disaster. Long hours, and worse, boring as shit.
Turned out it wasn’t for me.
During the last year at Stanford I worked at a company in Silicon Valley. Long hours in the Valley too, but not at all boring. Dismal pay. Every moment I wasn’t at the company, or in a class, I took every odd job I could. I busted my ass but all I could afford was living in the shittiest rat-hole in California with a crackhead for a roommate and surviving on ramen noodles. Working until my eyes blurred and my brain bled from exhaustion turned out to be an excellent way to ensure I had no nightmares.
I’m not sure when work became an addiction, but it was my first safe addiction, so I kept it up. After I graduated, I started my own company, with some money from my cousin, Parker, and Natalie. Parker went to boarding school with me, but went to college in England. Ralph wanted to chip in, but backed out at the last minute. No hard feelings. The odds of going bankrupt were sky-high, as they always were in the Valley. But I didn’t go bankrupt. I sold the company after two years for thirty million dollars and started three new companies. Now, four years later, one of them is valued at half a billion dollars; the rest are under one hundred million each. The papers call me Stanford’s Mark Zuckerberg. I’d be flattered if the guy was better looking.
Dad is proud and disappointed at the same time. I think he always assumed that if I got my shit together, I’d eventually work for him. I could do that, but I enjoy being my own boss too much. Means I can get away with not wearing suits very often.
It’s my own fault I’m here, wearing one now. Honestly . . . I wanted to be here, or I would’ve sent someone else in my place. We choose a few charities to donate to every year. I found out about this math contest running for high school kids from underprivileged backgrounds a while ago, and though not exactly a typical charity thing, I convinced my team to sponsor it. As I watch the students and parents settle into their seats, I’m certain this was the right decision. No one’s wearing a suit, which makes me feel even more of an ass for wearing one. But suits are mandatory at the charity events I usually attend. They also involve expensive dinners that cost almost as much as the amount raised.
Not this one. The award ceremony is being held in a classroom at one of the participating high schools, and there aren’t even refreshments available. The brochure reads The Williamson National Math Challenge for Underprivileged Teens. I have no idea who Williamson was or is, but kudos to him for starting this.
I like this word. Underprivileged. It can mean a lot of things. No money. No luck. No chances.
But also fucked-up. The organizers told me as much when I first spoke to them. Pretty much every single one of the participating kids had some kind of tragedy in their past. Goes with the territory
of being poor, they said. I didn’t tell them that you don’t have to be poor to be fucked-up. My college years prove that. But I learned that being piss-poor makes being fucked-up a lot harder.
But these kids . . . It amazes me that they discovered at such a young age how to channel their anger, frustration, and pain in work, not destructive bullshit like I did. I sometimes can’t believe all the crap I did.
I’m different now. Better. Though the word Natalie uses to describe me is tamed. I suppose exchanging racing cars for skydiving and exchanging boxing for reckless business investments can come off as tame. But I like it this way. And apparently, so does Natalie. I put a stop to our one-night stands a while ago, when I realized she wanted more. We’re just business partners now.
I’m not ready for more.
That’s one thing that hasn’t changed one bit. It never will, though it’s the one thing I wanted to change the most about myself. Still want it, I just don’t know how to go about it. What I do know is that if I ever change, it won’t be for Natalie. She still insists of reminding me of the past every now and then. And I never felt it for her . . . no idea exactly what I’m expecting to feel, but I know I won’t find what I’m looking for in her.
My cell phone vibrates and the old lady next to me—someone’s grandmother I suspect—gives me an ugly look as I take out the phone to look at the message.
“I’ll turn it off immediately,” I whisper to her, and that seems to soften her up a bit. I snicker when I see the message. It’s from Dani. Can I hang around at your penthouse this weekend?
That pretty much means she’ll watch movies until morning hours and eat a truckload of popcorn. At seventeen, she still loves movies as much as she did when she was eleven. When I got my penthouse I installed a screening room for her. I must admit, watching so many movies with her started rubbing off on me and, at some point over the last few years, I became as obsessed as she is with them. Then again, I’ve had worse obsessions.
I write back to Dani that I’ll pick her up from home, and switch off my phone under the suspicious stare of the old lady. Then I turn my attention to the stage, which is empty right now. The head organizer just finished giving out the prizes to the kids, and according to the brochure, one of the mentors in the contest is supposed to give a speech next. Serena McLewis, student at Stanford University. There’s nothing else about the mentor on the brochure, but she must be a fuck-up herself. At least was, because only previous winners of the contest are mentoring. Decent of her to participate in this and help others.
