The Fall of January Cooper

by Audrey Bell

  I sort of wanted to smack that prim look off her dumb face.

  “Not to me.” I sipped on my Grey Goose and tonic slowly. “Anyway, I’ve missed you.”

  “I missed you, too. I’m glad I’m done with law school stuff now and we can have fun.” She smiled broadly. We ordered guacamole and chips and we talked about how annoying the freshmen girls were and how boring everyone in our class had gotten and it almost felt like old times, except for I couldn’t shake the fact that she thought it was obvious that Clarissa kind of hated me.

  Granted, Clarissa and I had not spent a lot of time together without either Katelyn or Olivia, but still, we had been friends for three years. I had not known it was obvious she hated me because she was my friend. I mean, seriously. The fuck? Why had nobody told me this and why hadn’t I noticed?

  “Is something wrong?” Olivia asked when we got the check.

  “No,” I said, waving her off. “Just tired I think.” I dropped my credit card on the receipt.

  “You’re not as snappy as usual.”

  “Well, it’s a Friday,” I said. “And I’m tired. And I’ve been through a lot lately.”

  Olivia smirked. “Poor little January.”

  I looked at Olivia levelly. “Look, I’m not asking you to feel sorry for me. But if you’d had your best friend sleep with your boyfriend and your fiancé get arrested and go to rehab in the last six months, you might be a little less snappy too.”

  The waitress took our credit cards and Olivia shrugged. “You always said you didn’t even like Tyler. I mean, everyone thought you were doing that just to piss off your parents.”

  “I liked him,” I said defensively. I was annoyed with Olivia now too. “We were engaged. It wasn’t some made-up thing. Look, I know it’s not as hard as applying to law school, but try a little public humiliation sometime and let me know how it goes.”

  Olivia smiled thinly. “I’m not trying to be unsympathetic.”

  “Whatever. Let’s just drop it,” I said.

  The waitress came back, with an awkward expression on her face, “Um. January? So, your credit card declined.”

  Olivia half-gasped.

  “What?” I said. I reached into my wallet. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “We tried it a few times.”

  “There must be something wrong with your machine,” I said, handing her the last three twenties in my wallet and taking back the black American Express.

  “I can get it if you want,” Olivia offered.

  “I just gave her cash, Olivia.” Condescending freak. Why was everyone so absolutely terrible?

  As soon as I got back to my apartment, I called my father. And then my mother. And then the house. Nobody answered, which was beyond strange. And for some inexplicable reason, I couldn’t log onto my stupid fucking online banking system which was supposed to be foolproof. I mean, even Angelica Snow could online bank.

  I decided something terrible had happened and didn’t fall asleep until three in the morning and when I finally did, I dreamed about Clarissa and the rodeo. It was deeply twisted.

  January

  Vancouver and Alaska were driving me up a freaking wall. I'd gone to the barn tense and worried about my credit cards and the things Olivia had said about Clarissa. I hoped riding would calm me down. Soothe my nerves. But not today.

  After two hours, I’d given up. Neither of my hunters wanted to jump and my trainer, Pierce, told me I should accept that it probably wasn’t going to happen.

  I so did not want to accept that. “What am I doing wrong?” I asked.

  I had a show the next weekend and I hated approaching a show feeling like I wasn’t in a good place with my horses. Say what you want about horseback riding, but horses are intelligent creatures. And if you feel like they’re not completely with you, they sense you’re uneasy. And they’re a hell of a lot less likely to clear a four foot jump if they can tell you don’t know what you’re doing.

  “You need to relax,” he said. “They’re just not feeling the workout.” He smiled. “Don’t worry too much, January.”

  I frowned. “I mean, I’m relaxed though.”

  “You seem tense.”

  “Okay, well, I’m tense because I’m not riding well.”

  “But you’re not riding well because you’re tense. Don’t obsess. You’ll be back tomorrow and things will be better,” he said. He always was too relaxed. Maybe that’s why he was an Olympic rider.

  I fed Amsterdam an apple. Amsterdam was good. She was always good. She nuzzled my hand and I smiled into her eyes, got into my car, and drove back to the apartment to see if my parents had emerged from wherever they’d disappeared to.

  They still weren’t answering my calls. And I called all of their numbers twice on my way from the parking lot to my apartment.

  I opened the door to my apartment, shucking off the uncomfortable blazer and undoing the leather boots.

  “Hello, January.”

  I jumped half out of my skin. “What the hell?”

  It was the landlord. Millicent Carpenter, six feet tall in her sky-high heels, with her dark hair in a tight bun à la Miss Trunchbull from Matilda.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, catching my breath. “You just absolutely terrified me for a second there.”

  “Did I now? Well, I am sorry,” she said in the least apologetic tone anyone has ever used. “Listen, January. I was wondering when you were going to be paying your rent. It’s due the fifteenth. The check bounced. I notified your accountant and I haven’t heard from him since. Not for lack of trying.”

  “What?” I asked. I ran a hand through my hair. “Like, I literally have no idea why that would happen.”

  “Neither do I. But I suggest you find out. If rent’s not paid by the end of the week, I will evict you. And this is not the kind of building that typically runs into that sort of problem so I would really like to avoid it.”

  My throat went painfully dry as I flushed, furiously. I felt abjectly humiliated. “Right. I will find out. Trust me. You’ll get the rent.”

  “For your sake, Miss Cooper, I really hope so,” she said. She patted me on the shoulder and then left.

  At that moment, I thought I might be having a panic attack. What the hell was going on?

  Nobody was picking up their phone. I mean, nobody. I paced frenetically in my apartment and took a scalding shower to get my mind off the fact that something seemed to be seriously wrong with my finances.

  When I still couldn't get a hold of anyone, I started to cry. My phone rang just as I’d finally gotten ahold of myself. Only, it wasn't my mother or my father's number.

  "January. Yello!"

  Yello? Seriously. “Um, hi.”

  "It's Pat Gregory, we met a few weeks ago about your prenup, how you doing?"

  "I'm fine," I said frozenly. "Actually, have you been in touch with my parents? Because they've been totally AWOL. Oh, and I don't know if they told you, but we're not going to need a prenup anymore."

  "Yeah. Your dad told me. Anyways, I have been in touch. So, there's been a bit of a hiccup, if you will, over this auditing at his firm."

  I rolled my eyes. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, I don’t mean anything per se. That said, your father was arrested this morning on a laundry list of charges, stock fraud, wire fraud, securities fraud, mail fraud. Lot of fraud, really.”

  The hand holding my iPhone shook. "Wait? What? He was arrested?" I repeated.

  "Yes. So, your accounts have been frozen, given the state of things. Do you have any independent savings?"

  "What? Wait, is he guilty? What are you saying?"

  I staggered to the chaise and sat down, running a hand through my hair, which was still damp and knotted from the shower.

  "He will not be pleading guilty, no," he said.

  "Can I talk to him? I need to talk to him. I mean, is he in jail right now?"

  "Until his bail hearing. Still, there's reason to believe his phones are tapped.
I've counseled both him and your mother to not speak by phone or email with you."

  "But—”

  "Now, there might be a bit of press frenzy in the next few days and it's really important you say no comment. Repeat after me, okay. No comment."

  "I need to talk to my parents."

  "Repeat after me. No comment. January, come on."

  "This is fucking bullshit. They won't talk to me? What am I supposed to do?"

  "Try it out. No comment."

  "Listen, I need to know what I'm supposed to do. I have to talk to my parents.”

  "Say no comment."

  "Fine. I got that."

  "Say it with me."

  "No comment," I spat.

  "Beautiful. You're a natural." He exhaled. "Now, the other thing I need you to remember is 'I do not recall.' There's a chance the FBI comes up there and they're scary guys and they're going to try and get you to say something."

  "Look—”

  "I do not recall. Just try it."

  "I do not recall," I said through gritted teeth. "Now, would you tell me what the hell I am supposed to do?"

  "Lay low."

  "I have no money. What am I supposed to do? My rent check bounced and my credit card declined!"

  He was quiet. "Do you have friends you can stay with?"

  "No!" I said emphatically.

  He exhaled. "Your mother mentioned they paid for you to live in the dorms, before you reconsidered. Is that still the case?"

  I covered my eyes with one hand. "Is my dad seriously in jail?"

  "Yes.”

  "What's my mom doing?"

  "Staying with her sister."

  That sounded like the beginning of a book that ended in nuclear war. "That's not a good idea."

  He sighed. "January, you don't have very many options here."

  I let out a frustrated shriek. "Well, why don't you give me some? So far you've told me that I can't talk to my parents, that I have no money, that the only things I'm allowed to say are 'no comment' and 'I do not recall’. That's great, but what the hell are my actual options here? Where am I supposed to live?”

  "There's no one you could stay with?" he asked. "You can't move back into your dorm?"

  I exhaled. "I mean, I could. But it would be bad."

  "Worse than being forcibly evicted?"

  I exhaled and tried to think straight. No. No. It wouldn't be worse than that. "Okay, fine. What am I supposed to do about money?"

  "You're a smart girl, January. Find a job. Your tuition was paid through this semester, but you should be able to take out a loan for your final semester. And then, with a Harvard degree, there's no reason you won't be financially secure when you graduate in May."

  "Can I sell something?" I demanded. "I mean, my car or—"

  "Your car is going to be seized. Most of your jewelry will be seized. If you try to sell anything, the authorities will be more aggressive about what they seize."

  My chin shook. "Well, what if I just want to talk to my mom? And we don't talk about the case or anything. I mean, is that okay?" I couldn’t stop quivering. What was I going to do? What was I going to tell my landlord? Katelyn? What was I going to do?

  "Look. You need to listen to me," he said, sounding a bit annoyed for the first time. "This is an incredibly delicate situation and you could make things a lot worse. Keep your mouth shut. Keep your head down. Get a job. If you want to say anything to your mom, call me and I'll tell her.”

  "Okay," I said. My voice shook. "Yeah. Sure. Okay. I'll do that."

  When he hung up, I felt like I’d been pushed off a cliff.

  Christian

  Moving home had its advantages. Lasagna. Laundry. Free internet.

  I woke up the day of my birthday, however, faced with the starkest disadvantage. Dealing with my parents when I didn’t feel like it.

  My father had been working nonstop on a homicide case since my ceiling fell and he hadn't really talked to me since he told me how stupid I was to move into the shitty apartment in the first place.

  But Saturday was his day off and I could hear him outside, raking leaves, so I tried to go back to sleep.

  I gave it up around eight o'clock. I cracked my wrists, made my bed, and pulled on a pair of gym shorts, grabbing the resistance strap my physical therapist had given to me.

  I sat down and stretched out my aching leg, grimacing when I flexed my toes and found the tendons in my hamstring especially tight.

  "This is bullshit," I muttered. I tossed the strap onto my chair, and decided it was about time I stopped taking physical therapy so seriously. I mean, it wasn't like I'd ever play hockey again.

  I turned towards my dresser to grab a shirt and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, the smaller lacerations that had been neatly stitched up on my chest. I pulled on my shirt and saw the picture of Sam.

  I bit my lip looking at how hard he smiled. I picked it up, put it in the drawer, and closed it.

  Almost two years ago and I still felt like I was underwater. I walked downstairs. Even facing my dad was better than facing a photograph of Sam right now.

  "How you feeling, kid?" he asked, coming in from the backyard, breathing hard.

  "Pretty good," I said, ignoring the tremors in my knee. I went to the refrigerator and opened it and took out a carton of juice and took a sip from it.

  "Come on, Christian, get a glass."

  "I'll finish it."

  "I don't care. Get a glass. You're a human being. Act like one."

  I raised my eyebrows and took down a glass and put the nearly empty container back in the refrigerator.

  "You said you were going to finish it,” he said accusingly.

  "I will," I said.

  He folded his arms and leaned against the counter. "What do you want to do for your birthday?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  "Oh, come on."

  "Nothing. I'm serious," I said. “I have work tonight anyways.”

  He nodded. I sat down at the table with coffee, flipping through the Boston Globe for the sports section.

  "The Sox are breaking my heart," I said off-handedly.

  He ignored me. "What about Gio's tomorrow, then?”

  "Dad. I don't want to do anything."

  "Well, your mom's not going to like that."

  "Well, it's my birthday," I said.

  He nodded like he was accepting no for an answer for the first time in his life.

  "Your mom said you started the new physical therapy," he said quietly. His voice strained to suppress his disappointment and disapproval. He pursed his lips. "I'm sorry about this whole mess. Ferry was my idea and it was a mistake.”

  I knew he was sorry. He looked like he'd had his heart ripped out. I shrugged. "I'll live.”

  "Well, there’s this doctor out west. I called him. He thinks he could do what Ferry couldn’t. He thinks he could help.”

  He couldn't be serious. I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand. He could not be serious. He could not be. It had to be a joke. "I hope you're joking,” I said. I took a breath to keep from exploding.

  “You've got two years of eligibility left. There are seniors on your team who are four years older than you, Christian.”

  "Dad."

  "Well, there are. Aren't there? How old is that Collins kid?"

  "Dad."

  "How old is he? Twenty-six?"

  "That's irrelevant. He’s not crippled.”

  "Don’t say that about yourself,” he barked.

  I stepped back, surprised at the volume of his voice.

  My father exhaled. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to yell at you. I don’t want to fight. But you gotta listen to me. And I talked to Taylor. He thought it might be worth a try. You're eligible for two more years.”

  "What?" I demanded. "When did you talk to Taylor?"

  “I called him yesterday. He said you should come in and meet. They’ve got some great resources.”

  "You called him?" I said, ou
traged. "Ah, come on. Tell me that’s a joke.”

  "Don't act like that."

  I shook my head in disbelief. "You're aware that I'm twenty-one, not nine, right?”

  “Well, I knew you weren't going to talk to him.”

  “Why would I need to talk to a hockey coach, Dad? I can’t play hockey anymore.”

  “So he can hold your spot another year,” he said. “Then you can go to business school while you rehab.”

  “I’m not going to screw over my team like that. They should’ve given my scholarship away two years ago when the doctors said there wasn’t anything else they could do. And every surgeon since has told us I don’t have a goddamn prayer. And you just—”

  "Taylor told me we should go back to the orthopedist and see—”

  "Stop," I said. "You have got to stop, Dad." I looked at him. "I tried. I tried and I got four more surgeries after dozens of doctors told me it was hopeless. Because you wanted it. Alright? But it’s done now. There aren’t going to be any miracles and you've got to stop now. Just fucking stop.”

  "Hey. Don't swear at me. I know you're disappointed. But don't make bad choices just because you're bitter."

  "Bad choices? My leg fucking shattered, Dad. I can't play. Do you get that? I can't do it. It’s over. There aren’t any choices here," I had hit a detonation point, and he knew it.

  "Christian," he growled. "Watch yourself."

  I shook my head at him, and tried to walk past him. He put a hand on my chest to stop me and grabbed my arm to stop me.

  "Hey," he said. “We’re not done here.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “You owe it—”

  "You had better let me go," I said harshly.

  He met my eyes and stared me down. “Taylor wants you to go talk to him.”

  “Let me the fuck go before I do something I regret, Dad.” My throat constricted tightly around the tension of my own fury; I barely managed to get the words out.

  My father released my arm and shook his head at me. For half a second, I thought he was going to hit me, or tell me to step outside, but he just looked me up and down for a long moment and then he stepped aside.

  January

  It took so long to box up the things I needed and I knew most of them wouldn’t even fit into my dorm room.