by Jami Wagner
Tripp
Waking up alone the morning after a party is always nice. Especially when Sydney claimed early plans with her mom trumped staying with me. The same mother she keeps insisting I meet. I shut that conversation down quick.
I’ve never met a girl’s parents before, and I don’t plan to do so if I know it’s not going to last.
I lie in bed, scrolling through my phone. I’m going through Facebook when there’s a pounding at my door. I lower the phone and glance at the clock. It’s not even eight yet. When the pounding continues, I yank the covers off and pull on a pair of shorts.
I’m almost to the door when the pounding resumes for a third time.
“What?” I say, jerking the door open and yanking on a shirt.
“Are you Tripp McCain?” the man asks. He got on a suit, minus the jacket, and the grim look on his face is a good sign he isn’t here for a happy visit. The two men behind him look bored but ready to fight, if needed.
“Uh, yeah. What’s this about?” I ask the first guy.
He just hands me an envelope, and the three of them walk away.
I don’t question it because it’s too early and I don’t want to deal with people. I close the door and take the envelope to the counter, where I open it. There’s a small packet inside.
I read the first page quickly, and then I read it again.
The lease on my apartment is up, and I was supposed to vacate the property two days ago.
What the hell?
I head into my room and grab my cell off my nightstand, calling my father immediately. If he doesn’t answer—he hasn’t all week—I’ll keep calling till he does.
“Hello?”
I pause at the sound of my mother’s voice.
“Where’s Dad?” I manage to ask. She doesn’t answer right away, probably in reaction to my harsh tone.
“I’m guessing you got the letter today,” she says softly.
“You knew about this?” I ask. “I don’t remember talking about me finding a new apartment.”
“There isn’t an easy way to say this, Tripp, but your father and I have been thinking, and it’s time you learned some responsibility. We aren’t going to support you financially anymore.”
What the …?
“You can’t be serious,” I say. They’ve had twenty-two years to change their parenting skills and this, right now, is when they finally decide to pay attention to me?
“Your father sent you an email,” she says. “It’s time you got a job and started paying your own way.”
I huff. A fucking email? I didn’t get a fucking email.
“Your trust fund will still be yours on your twenty-fifth birthday, per your grandfather’s will, but until then, we’d like to see you learn how to handle money.”
“I know how to handle money just fine,” I shout.
“Money that isn’t yours, yes.”
“So you want me to be poor for the next three years?” I ask. This is a fucking joke. And their telling me over the phone? Parenting at its best, people, right here.
“The terms depend on you and your actions. Spend this time just getting by until you come into money or show us you can live life without it, and we’ll reconsider how the next few years go.”
“You want me to figure it all out on my own by starting out as homeless?” I ask to clarify.
“I know it seems extreme, Tripp.”
“So I’m just supposed to find a new place to live, get a job, get a car, and pretend like everything in my life is normal?”
“You can keep your car, that’s why we sent it, but everything else, yes. One day you’ll thank us.”
Well, we both know that isn’t going to happen.
“Tripp—”
I hang up before she can say anything else.
Until my first day of school, I spent more time with Amy, my nanny, than my parents. Once school started, it was mainly Amy and Arthur, my driver. I saw my parents only at dinnertime. I can count on one hand the actual number of my birthday parties my parents attended. The only thing I know about them is that they love their money and they love themselves. This recent decision of theirs should shock me, but it doesn’t.
Although, Mom agreeing with Dad … that is surprising. No matter how much I piss them off, she’s never raised her voice or said she was disappointed in me. She always has that look in her eye. The one that says she understands.
Walking out of my room, I look around. I never actually bought anything in this place. I didn’t pick out the leather couches or the artwork on the walls. I have no idea who the artist even is. I didn’t pick out my dishes or lamps or even the gray blanket draped over the couch.
Returning to my room, I pack a bag.
When I exit the apartment, I don’t look back.
***
“You can stay here as long as you want, Tripp,” Mark says, sitting on his bed, tossing a small rubber basketball back and forth in his hands and shaking his head. “Fuck, I don’t know what I would do if my parents cut me off.”
I didn’t even second-guess driving to the dorms to find Winston and Mark after I left my apartment. They are the family I know will always be here for me, money or no money. Plus they won’t tiptoe around the subject, which is something I hate.
“You’d find a way to go on, Mark, and you will too, Tripp,” Winston says. “Having a job isn’t so bad if you get the right one.”
Winston is the only one in the group with a job, and he seems to enjoy it. I mean, Lennox has a job, too, but she never talks about it. Or at least she doesn’t talk to me about it, and that’s just fine.
“I’m not getting a job,” I say. “I give it twenty-four hours, tops, and my mom will feel guilty and change her mind.”
“What if she doesn’t?” he asks.
“She will.” I fall back on Winston’s bed.
“But what if she doesn’t?” he asks one more time.
I shrug. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
I’m twenty-two years old, and I don’t know where to begin. It’s too late to take the statement back. The thought alone makes me wish I hadn’t told anyone what was going on until I had it all figured out.
“Well, I hate to be a downer, but if the landlord brought you that letter, more than likely, no one is changing their mind,” Mark says, the basketball sliding off the tips of his fingers to the tiny hoop attached to the back of their door.
He makes it.
I don’t have an answer. The reality of what he just said hits me. I could puke right now. I’m fucking homeless. I don’t have a place to live. I don’t have any money. Damn, it’s hot in here.
Winston claps his hand on my shoulder as he kneels to pick the ball up off the floor. “Like Mark said, you can stay here as long as you want.”
“Thanks.”
“But if you do want help finding a place of your own or talking with the admissions office about getting a dorm for next semester, I’ll help where I can,” Winston adds. He shoots the ball to the door, and he also makes it.
“Yeah, that’s if his parents are still paying for his degree. If they aren’t, then—” Mark notices Winston and me glaring at him.
There’s a good chance they stopped paying for that, too, but they wouldn’t deprive me of an education … would they?
“Fuck!” I yell. I’m going to have to do this. I’m going to have to make my own money and pay my own way. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know how to live without my parents’ help. I’ll just have to find a job. Find a job, make some money, move into a new place … it can’t be that hard. I’m an adult. I can do this.
Winston passes me the ball and I shoot.
It bounces off the rim.
Well, that’s not a good start.
Lennox
For the past two weeks, I’ve kept my attention on school, work, and, on Saturdays, visiting the children’s home where my mom left me before I went into the foster care program. Everything would be great except for c
reative writing. Tripp is annoying. So annoying.
First, there was the day he was too busy flirting with the girl in the seat next to me to notice when he knocked his coffee off his desk and into my backpack. Then there was the day he napped during class, which caused us to lose attendance points. I snapped and told Tripp “you may as well not show up” and guess what? He hasn’t been in class all week now.
It’s just flipping fantastic. Especially since Mr. Turner suggested I share my notes with Tripp to better our chances at passing the partnered test coming up. Yeah … I’ll get right on that.
To say my negative feelings for Tripp have grown is an understatement. They’ve freaking skyrocketed like the cork off a Champagne bottle.
Anyway, Tripp McCain aside, my focus has paid off. The letter confirming that they received my first essay and I am in the running for a spot in the summer journalism program is in my hand, and I couldn’t be happier. I mean, I could, if the price I pay without the school funding wasn’t more than a years’ worth of rent.
Failing isn’t an option. I’m going to get the funding, but just in case, I want to have the money ready. Right now, though, I’m not so sure how to do that.
“Hey, Lennox,” Winston says, approaching me outside the admissions building. He slides into the bench on the other side of the table where I’m sitting, and I offer him a smile. “You should be in class right now,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Nothing that you need to worry about,” he says through a sigh. “What class are you studying for now?”
“All of them. Twenty minutes each and I should be good. Then off to work I go,” I say, trying to sound happy. It’s not that I don’t like my job. I just sometimes wish I didn’t have to work so much but still got paid. A dream for most people in college, I think.
“You need to take a break,” he says.
“Success doesn’t come from taking breaks.”
“You know I usually wouldn’t be one to argue, but today, today tells me you could use the break.”
I slide the letter to him.
He reads, then looks up. “Yikes. That’s a lot of money.” I nod. “So, I’m guessing you’ll be working twice as hard now at everything,” he says.
I nod again. “What I want in life takes hard work.”
“Sometimes I think you’re too hard on yourself,” he says. “You’ve come a long way, and you should be proud.”
“I’ll be proud when I know for certain that I am the only one who has control over my life.”
“You have that now. You just don’t see it.”
I pause. It’s partially true, but like I said before, I don’t have anyone to go to if things don’t work out.
“Anyway,” I wave my hand in the air, “I’ll have to pick up more shifts at work if I want to get anywhere close to what I have to pay for this program.”
I hope payment plans are an option.
“That statement goes against everything I was just trying to explain to you,” Winston says, shaking his head.
“How else am I going to save an extra three hundred and fifty dollars a month?” I stare at him when a thought occurs to me. “I mean, I guess I could get a roommate. Then I wouldn’t need more shifts, and it would cut all my other bills in half, too.”
Winston’s face lights up. Clearly, I made a choice that he can finally agree with.
“I think that is a brilliant idea,” he says.
“Really?”
He sounds overly excited.
“In fact, I know the perfect candidate to move with you.”
His smile beams, and he sits up straighter.
“You!” I shout and clap my hands together. “How did I never think of that? You’d be the best roommate.”
His smile drops. “Um, actually no, sorry. I like the dorms. It’s easier for my class schedule, and it’s free with my scholarship.”
Wish that was the case with me.
“Then who is this so-perfect candidate?” I ask. I know everyone he knows, for the most part anyway. The only other person we both know that would be perfect is Kass, but when she moves out of the dorms, it will be to live with Mark.
The look of a child who just snuck a piece of candy into his pocket at the store and got caught takes over Winston’s face. Then he looks away.
“Winston …”
“It’s Tripp,” he says quickly.
“What?” No one would need to tell me I look shocked. I feel my eyes stretch and my mouth hanging open.
“What about me?”
Both of our gazes move toward the building; Tripp is approaching us. He looks tired and his usual upbeat, I-don’t-give-a-shit vibe is not surrounding him.
I glare at the side of Winston’s face. He isn’t telling me something.
“I asked, what about me?” Tripp repeats, taking a seat next to Winston at the table.
Well, Tripp’s grumpy self seems to have stuck around. He doesn’t look at me. I might as well not be here, and this is a solid point I will mention when Winston asks me why I won’t let Tripp live with me.
“I was just asking Lennox if—”
“He wasn’t asking me anything because the answer is no,” I say. “No, Tripp can’t move in with me.”
That got Tripp’s attention. He looks at me and then he looks down before he addresses Winston.
“You guys don’t want me staying with you anymore?” he asks.
Tripp is staying with Winston and Mark? In their dorm?
What the hell did I miss?
“Look, it’s not like that. Lennox just mentioned that she needs to save some cash and brought up the idea of getting a roommate, since she has a spare room,” Winston points out and stares at me. “I just thought you two could help each other out.”
“No, thanks.”
“Yeah, right.”
Tripp and I glare at each other.
“Okay.” Winston stands and points between us. “You both need something, and you each have what the other person needs. I didn’t say you had to be goddamn best friends. I said you two both need help, and it would be nice if, for once, you’d just … get along. Help the other out while they need it and then go back to hating each other, I don’t care. But there is a solution for both of you here, and you’re goddamn idiots if you pass it up because you can’t be nice to each other.”
I jerk my head back. His chest is rising and falling quickly with each breath, and his jaw ticks. I have no words. Winston has never raised his voice to me.
“Whatever,” he says, his hands flying in the air as he storms off.
This leaves me and Tripp alone.
I want to ask him why he needs a place to live. What happened to his apartment? Does it have anything to do with why he hasn’t been in class?
Not that I care. I’m just curious.
He looks up, and my gaze meets his. More silence, but neither of us moves. A roommate would be helpful, and I sort of already know Tripp, so it wouldn’t be like I had to worry. Plus, the fact we hate each other means I wouldn’t have to make a friend or put in all this extra social effort.
“How long would you need to live with me?” I ask.
He doesn’t give any indication he’s going to answer, but he’s also still sitting across from me, so I wait.
And I wait.
I’m not sure how much time passes before he says, “I don’t know, but not any longer than I have to.”
The extra money would be really nice.
“Okay. I work until 9:30 tonight and won’t be home till around ten or so. Winston has a key. Have him make you a copy and help you move in whatever,” I say begrudgingly, but definitely the decision has been made.
I stand then and start to walk away.
“This doesn’t mean we’re friends, Lennox.”
I nod and spin to face him.
“Not now, not ever, Tripp,” I say and head home to change.
As I turn the corner out of his view, I know one thing is for sure. I either just made m
y life easier or a whole hell of a lot harder.
Chapter Four
Tripp
What the hell was I thinking?
I keep asking myself that as I stare at the ceiling. I don’t even know when I last saw a popcorn ceiling. Do they still even put that in houses?
A door slamming startles me, forcing my body to spring into a seated position. I stare at my door and wait for someone to come charging through, ready for murder.
When Winston and I arrived at Lennox’s apartment, I was glad she wasn’t here. The building looks as if it’s falling apart, and there isn’t even a lock on the mail doors. The landscaping is bricks and dirt, and I’m guessing the address should say 282, but the 8 is missing. Then there’s the whole air conditioner unit in the window bit. Never have I ever set foot in a place like this, and now I’ve slept a whole night here.
My plan before I even walked through the door was to make sure the two of us see and speak to each other as little as possible. It’s exhausting to dislike someone so much, but had she been here, we would have taken dislike to whole new level.
I yelled at Winston more than I should have for someone who is trying to help me. He just kept telling me I am over-reacting and I’ll be fine. Sharing a bathroom. Not fine. One couch—no, a loveseat. Not fine. No dishwasher. Not fine. No TV. Not fine. Living with Lennox. Definitely. Not. Fine.
The idea of how she even came into a place like this, or why Winston would let her, is a mystery to me. I’d ask him about it, but that might imply I care, and I’d ask her, but that implies we speak. I’ll just have to settle never knowing the answer.
Now dressed in my shorts and T-shirt, I exit my room, which is on the opposite side of the apartment as Lennox’s room, and head down short hallway. The white paint on the walls is chipped in spots, but you can see that she has hung pictures to hide most of the flaws. I tilt a photo of a park bench with a fall background. Behind this is a hole the side of my thumb. I let the frame swing back to place and stare straight ahead to the kitchen table. Except, I wouldn’t exactly call it that. It’s more like one of those small, round tables that hold the drinks at the parties my mother puts on, only shorter and sans the tablecloth. Across from the kitchen is the living room. There is a laptop on the coffee table and DVD case of “Step Brothers” next to it. At least she has good taste in movies.
