by S. Celi
I frowned, and sat back further in my chair. “But I’m not slipping.”
“Have you given any real thought as to what you want to major in next year at Virginia?”
“Umm . . .”
Mr. Henderson squinted at me. “Well, you must have some sort of an idea of what you want to do with your life.”
“A little.” Sinking further into the chair, I rubbed my eyebrow. “I’ve thought about it some.”
“And what are you interested in the most?”
Jesus. Each question that came out of his mouth sounded loaded, as if at any moment he wanted to make me fall over a verbal land mine. “I like history. Russian History. Communism. World War Two.” I thought about it some more. “Maybe I’ll try to do something with that.”
“Something with Russian History?”
“Maybe. But I also like writing.”
“You’re good at Math, Mr. Miller.”
I licked my lips. “Yeah, Math is okay, I guess.”
“You’re in, what—AP Calculus and AP Bio this year?”
Oh. So he had read my transcript. Imagine that. “Yeah, Mr. Henderson, I am.”
“Seems like a kid like you should major in Engineering or Bio Chemistry. Maybe work for P&G when you grow up.” His voice sounded firm and final, as if he’d come to the answer of my future through one quick calculation in his head.
“Everyone around here works for P&G,” I pointed out. It wasn’t too much of a stretch from the truth. Most of my classmates lived in nice houses and went to summer camps on money made by their corporate-ladder ascending parents. P&G held the purse strings for most of Greater Cincinnati.
“It’s a perfectly good company,” he said, tapping his fingers on the desk. “Excellent company. Fortune 500. And that’s saying something.”
“I know, but—”
“You should be happy to work for a company like that one.” He tapped his fingers on the folder that held my life inside. “You know, seems to me like a waste of a perfectly good education if you go to Virginia and major in something other than Law, Business, Science or Engineering. Those kinds of degrees get a person somewhere in life.”
“Like a job here?”
Mr. Henderson narrowed his eyes. “Are you being funny with me, Mr. Miller?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I just don’t want to be stuck here in Cincinnati for the rest of my life.” I wrinkled my nose at the thought. “Yuck.”
“Most people wouldn’t call life here ‘being stuck.’”
“I would.”
“It sounds to me like you are being a little judgmental about the opportunities you have out there. Life isn’t about that.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll get a lot further if you stop and think about others. Stop, get to know them, and realize you aren’t better than anyone else.”
“I don’t think I am better than anyone else,” I insisted.
“What are you going to do with a degree in Russian History?” He blanched. “The Cold War’s over.”
“I know, but I think—”
“Virginia is an expensive school.” He glanced at the ceiling, as if doing another math problem in his head. “It could cost your parents about a hundred thousand dollars when you are finished.”
“But I got some scholarships.” I gulped. Just the week before, I’d shuddered when I’d seen the packet breakdown the school sent me of expected expenses for the 2014 freshman class. Books alone could cost $700 bucks—used. “I know. It’s not cheap.”
“The point is, if you’re going to spend money like that it is important to think about what value you’re getting. Just getting a degree in history won’t pay the bills, Mr. Miller. You have to have a plan, and execute it. That’s the best way to get things done.”
“You don’t know that.”
He laughed. “Oh, I most certainly do. I’ve been in the adult world longer than you. I know a thing or two about how things work.”
“So what are you saying?”
“If you are confused about your major, I suggest you reconsider Virginia. Why spend all that money?” He leaned forward, his beady eyes locked on mine. “Have you thought about Gateway Technical College?”
“Technical college?” I almost spat out the words.
He sized me up again. “What? Think you’re too good for technical college? What did I just say about thinking you’re better than anyone else?”
“Well, but I am better,” I struggled with my answer. “Um. Yeah. I’m salutatorian.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Number two. Not number one.”
“But I mean, I got into Virginia,” I replied, aghast. “Virginia! Doesn’t that mean something to you?”
“It shows me you know how to write a good essay. And perform well on a standardized test.”
“Wasn’t this conversation supposed to . . . suppose to help me?”
“It’s not helping you, Mr. Miller?”
Why was he always calling me Mr. Miller? God, it was as bad as “Geoff Megadeth.” Couldn’t these people be more creative? “Well, I don’t think it is. I’m not trying to limit myself at all. I’m trying to get away from Robert Hill, and Cincinnati. For good.”
“Technical colleges are a good place to go for someone who can’t decide on their future, and who doesn’t have a plan, Mr. Miller. When you get out in the real world, you’ll discover that it’s not where you went, but what you know, and how you use it. Not just book knowledge. Practical knowledge.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Just tell me you’ll consider it.”
I sucked in a deep breath, and leaned in closer to his desk. “Okay,” I lied. “I’ll consider it.”
“And you mean that?”
“Yes,” I lied again. “I’ll consider it. You’re right. Why limit myself?”
A satisfied look came over his face. “That’s what I like to hear, Mr. Miller, that’s what I like to hear.” He nodded at the door. “You can go back to class now.”
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23
A TEXT FROM Josh broke up the monotony of polishing the silver, a chore I did every Saturday. David and my mom had so much of it, with an antique silver service for six, multiple trays, and a silver spoon collection. Between the silver, mopping the tiled floors, cleaning the bathrooms, mowing the lawn in the summer, shoveling snow in the winter, and washing the large windows in the mansion, I made $200 a month. Blake and Bruce were also required to do that kind of work, but they always wanted to get out of it, and often paid me huge chunks of their allowance so they had more free time.
David had told my mother that these chores would be good for me. “It’ll teach him some structure. Help him, since he’s grown up without a father for so long.” I’d overheard them in the living room not long after the wedding. “He needs this. This is what I do with my boys, how I raise them, too. We’re all required to help out around here. Trust me.”
To my dismay, my mother had agreed. At least it paid well.
2:30PM
Josh: Dude are you going out tonight?
Me: IDK
Josh: I asked Allison out. She said she’d meet us at the Levee for a movie.
Me: You asked Allison out??
Josh: Yeah. Don’t bug me about it.
Me: Wow. Good call on that
Josh: Ugh. U coming to the movie or not?
Me: Which movie?
Josh: Beautiful Creatures
Me: Doesn’t look good.
Josh: Come on, help me out. It’s Allison. Invited Nathan and Mark, too. Group thing.
I laughed. Ever since Allison surprised Josh with that box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day, he’d struggled with asking her out. He kept trying out options on us at lunch, desperate to sound cool and noncommittal all at once. All three of us just told him to man up and ask her out.
Looked like he’d finally taken our advice.
Me: Fine. What time?
Josh: 7:30. Movie starts at 8.
Me: Meet u there?
Josh: Yep
I put the phone down and turned back to the array of spoons in front of me. David had inherited so many of them from his grandmother, who he’d said traveled the world in her fifties and sixties, and collected the spoons because they didn’t take up much space in her luggage. He had ones from China, Holland, England and Canada. Some had pearls, and rhinestones, and other decor. A few looked ancient. I liked to make up stories about where they came from as I polished each one. It helped to break up the tedium, but not the resentment.
“Stop shifting your weight. Just stop. She’ll think something is off,” I told Josh, who looked like he might vomit at any second as we waited outside the movie theater credit card kiosk later that night.
“Yeah, you look weird,” Mark added, the only other person in our group. Nathan canceled about two hours before, saying he had the stomach flu.
“Well, I am kinda nervous,” Josh replied. He’d dressed for this “date” in a pair of dark jeans and a gray sweater with a half-zip, but before he picked it out he’d sent me about six Snapchat photos with different outfits, something he’d never ever done before. For once, his shoes had no trace of mud on them. He’d even slicked his hair back, and covered himself in some kind of strong smelling cologne.
“Don’t blame you. Allison makes me nervous,” Mark muttered.
I laughed. Allison Nichols made a lot people nervous. Whippet thin and petite, she dressed in thrift store chic and liked to stare at people with eyes layered in black kohl. One time, I’d caught her walking through the hallway, pulling down student council election posters and putting them in the trash. When I asked her about it, she glared at me, and hadn’t given me an answer.
“One time I saw her eating raw eggs for lunch in the cafeteria,” Mark said.
“Really?” I said with a skeptical look. I’d heard plenty of gossip over the years about Allison, but that sounded extreme, even for her. “That’s not healthy.”
Mark held up his hands. “True story. I saw it last year, with my own eyes.”
“Scary.”
“Shut up, Geoff,” Josh said, throwing me a glare. “You too, Mark. She just acts like that so people will leave her the fuck alone. She likes that people make up stuff about her. And you know how people at Heritage are.”
Oh, I knew. We all knew.
“I see how it is,” I replied. “Now that she likes you, you defend her.”
“Yeah, that’s how it is.”
Mark popped his chin. “Here she comes.”
We all turned to face her as she walked up the parking garage steps to the lobby of The Levee. She wore a scowl on her face, black boots, red jeans, and a long gray sweater as she walked through the wide complex rimmed with restaurants, bars, and boutiques that never seemed to stay open for longer than six months. Allison looked pissed and satisfied all at once, and a long pink streak running through the hair on top of her head topped off the look. I wondered how that would go over with the teachers on Monday morning.
“Thanks for inviting me,” she said to Josh once she reached him. She smelled like incense. “Really wanted to see this movie.”
“Um, yeah,” he struggled. “I really wanted to see this, too.”
Liar.
“I’ve read all the books,” she said to all of us. “They’re really good. Sooooooo awesome.”
“Went on ahead and bought your ticket this afternoon online,” Josh said, handing her a small slip. He sounded proud to be able to do this for her.
And that’s when I saw the opportunity. “Speaking of books, I need to check out something at Barnes and Noble.” I gestured my thumb at the store, like this was an important mission. “Yeah. I need to do that, like, right now.”
“I should probably go with him,” Mark added.
“What?” Josh frowned at me. “But you can’t—”
“Barnes and Noble. Yep, I heard you say something about that earlier.”
“It’s about my debit card,” I said, fumbling to come up with some kind of reasonable excuse. It sounded lame, but whatever. I went with it anyway. “Yeah. I should check this out right away.”
“Really?” Now Josh sounded pissed.
“Yeah, I don’t want to get into trouble with David and Mom.”
“Me too,” Mark said. “I should go with him. You know, for moral support.”
“I’m sorry I can’t make the movie,” I said. “You guys have fun.”
“Okay . . .”Allison trailed off, a suspicious look on her face.
“I hate you guys,” Josh said, clearly nervous and embarrassed.
“No you don’t,” I replied taking one quick step backward, and then another. “Have fun at the movie.” Mark followed me when I gestured to him.
“Are we going to meet up with them after?” Mark asked as I pushed opened the wide doors of the Levee building and walked into the courtyard that led to Barnes and Noble.
“Probably not,” I replied. “I mean, isn’t this their date, or whatever?”
“I guess it’s a date. He likes her a lot.” Mark stopped and frowned, deep in thought. “You didn’t have any problems with your debit card at Barnes and Noble, right?”
I frowned, and shook my head. “No way. I know that was stupid, but I just said that because I wanted to give them some excuse to be alone.”
“Never thought he’d have a crush on Allison Nichols.”
I shrugged. “Well, she is kinda hot, if you like that artsy type.” I nodded in the direction of the two-story bookstore. “I still want to go there and check it out.”
“Yeah, okay,” Mark said, and we walked toward the store again. “I wanted to look for a couple of new books.”
I chuckled. “What the hell else are we going to do on a Friday night in Cincinnati?”
“I know. God, I wish I was twenty-one. Life doesn’t start until you’re twenty-one.”
“Three more years,” I replied, as I flung open the door of the store. “Three more years and we’ll dominate this town.”
I liked to read. A lot. History. Politics. The modern classics. F. Scott Fitzgerald. John Grisham. I had a rewards card at Barnes and Noble, and for me, going there was like going to a buffet for a really fat person. I gorged myself on books. Plus, that store was always quiet, so I liked to go there and just think.
These days, I had a lot to think about. What did I really want do with my life? What did I want to major in? Who did I want to be? And what the fuck was going on with me?
I walked straight to the escalator, destined for the political science section. Mark separated from me with a small wave before he disappeared into the music section. I didn’t know if I’d see him later or not. Maybe I didn’t really care, anyway. I decided not to stress over it, and stopped in front of a long row of books about Republicans vs. Democrats. Books on either side called out the other—shouting, angry titles that always attracted me. I liked books with crazy covers, too
I selected a couple of new books, sat down in an overstuffed chair in the corner, and pulled my phone out of my pocket. I didn’t make it through a reading of the first chapter before I decided to check it. Well, “check it” meant I decided to check Facebook. And “checking Facebook” really meant checking Laine Phillip’s page.
I did that about six times a day.
This wasn’t really my fault, though. She made it all so tempting. Once Laine friended me on her social networks, I might as well have turned into a crack addict who knew a cheap place to get smack. I stalked her page at least twice a day, and most days, even more than that. One night, I skimmed through all the photo albums on her page. Another night, I memorized all the likes and interests. I noticed every new photo she posted on Instagram. My mind cataloged every Twitter reply. Each Facebook check-in acted like a window to her world. All of it went into a big file in my head with her name on it.
My finger unlocked the phone and found the Facebook app. Once it popped up, I scrolled through the usual news feed drivel of mindless statues, photos, complaints and check-in
s. When I didn’t see her name, I typed it into the search feature. She updated her status 2.5 times a day on average—yes, I did that math in my head. She must have something new to say.
I sucked in a long, winded breath when my eyes saw that she had. She had a new check-in. At the Starbucks. In this Barnes and Noble. “Best peppermint hot chocolate in the world,” the status said.
Oh, holy shit.
What were the odds of this kind of luck?
From my place in the comfortable chair, I couldn’t see the open-air Starbucks that overlooked the Ohio River, but that didn’t matter at all. The air changed all around me, as if electricity now pulsed through it. My heartbeat sped up, then threatened to drop to my knees. Even the way things smelled suddenly seemed different to me—almost metallic—as thoughts raced through my mind.
Should I go talk to her? Did she have friends with her? Would she want company? What if Evan was with her? Did she like to read? Why did she pick a hot chocolate over a café mocha, or a cappuccino? Did she use non-fat milk? Did she like whipped cream?
I had to find it all out. I had to know, and I couldn’t let this chance pass. No way. There was only one thing I could do—one thing I had to do. And I could do it.
Right?
Channeling all my energy, I forced myself out of the chair and took a slow walk over to the coffee bar. A few customers lounged in seats near the wall-to-ceiling windows, and four people chatted around a table covered in designer coffee drinks and expensive chocolate desserts. Typical night. I disregarded them and kept my focus on the vision of tumbling blonde hair in front of me.
There, at a center table, Laine sat in front of a venti-sized drink, reading a paperback. She didn’t notice me until I stood right next to her, like some sort of a creepy stalker. Well, maybe I was one.
But, whatever.
“Hey, Laine.”
She jumped, and closed the book. “Oh, hey. How are you, Geoff?”
