"Mom, I think you should go find something else to do." I walk across my room, un-crumple the report card and push past her. "You're not going to want to listen to this."
"Maybe you should wait until after dinner--"
"He's not going to be any less disappointed in me on a full stomach, Ma."
She just sighs. "Maybe you should change your shirt first?"
I glance down. My Rage Against the Machine T-shirt is heavily stained with my blood. I shrug. "It doesn't matter."
Since there's nothing more she can say, she lets me go in silence.
Dad is down in his office, which is no surprise: on the occasions when he's at home, the great senator is always in his office working.
A public servant's work is never done, son, he'll say.
Yeah, well, neither is a father's, but what do I know?
I hate his goddamned office. The French doors from the foyer open inward, revealing a battleship of a desk. It's made of polished dark wood, spotless but for a few things: computer, keyboard, mouse, a desktop blotter/calendar, and a fancy silver pen in a stand. Bookshelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with hardcover copies of classic literature along with four-inch-thick law tomes in equal number. Thick pile carpeting underfoot. Blinds drawn to keep the room cool and in constant shadow. An antique vinyl record player sits under his framed degrees from U of M, Brown, and Harvard. Yeah, he's got an Ivy League doctorate, but he doesn't talk about it very often. He doesn't go by Dr. Calloway. He's humble that way.
As I enter the room I see his face is lit by the computer screen, a whitish glow on his classically handsome features; he's a real silver fox, my pops. Even home on break, he's dressed nice enough to stroll into any five-star restaurant. Pressed and creased tan slacks, crisp white button-down, slim navy tie.
We couldn't be any more different. I'm in baggy khakis--which have blood, ink, and oil on them--and a bloodstained rock band T-shirt. I've got tattoos on my biceps and on my forearms. I've got diamond studs in my ears. My hair is shaggy, uncut, messy, and sweaty.
Shit, my eye is black, my lip is split, and my nose is crusty with dried blood.
He glances up at me, frowns. "Don't bleed on my carpet, son."
"Yeah, thanks, I'm fine." I cross the carpet, lift the hem of my T-shirt and dab at my nose with it--the shirt comes away dry, so I guess I'm not bleeding anymore. "Here." I toss the report card on his desk and turn to go.
"Wait." It's a command, the sharp crack of a man accustomed to being listened to.
I stop with my hand on the doorknob, hearing the paper crinkle as he smooths it out on his desk. I can see the motion in my mind's eye, palm sliding over the paper, pressing it against the desk compulsively; he hates mess, hates things out of order. Everything I am, basically.
"This isn't acceptable, Colton." He says this with a long-suffering sigh. "We agreed you were going to apply yourself this final semester."
I don't bother arguing. I don't bother pointing out how many hours I've spent in my room, studying, doing homework. I have applied myself. I guaran-fucking-tee you I've worked harder than anybody else in the entire school. I've worked my ass off just to get those grades. But he doesn't see that. He doesn't care.
"Calculus, C plus. Not bad." Of course he's going to go over every single grade, and make a snarky-ass comment about each one. And I just have to stand here and take it. I'm shaking with anger. Ten more seconds. I'll listen to his fucking bullshit for ten more seconds and then I'm out of here. "History of Western Civilization, D-minus. Barely passed that one. Fundamentals of Reading and Comprehension, E-minus. Lowest grade there is. I mean, it takes talent to get a grade that low. Jesus, Colton. How do you manage that? It's baffling."
"By being fucking dyslexic?" I spin back to face him, palms slapping on his fancy-ass desk. "What part of that don't you get, cocksucker? I--cannot--READ! It doesn't matter how hard I try--and I fucking swear on your dead mother's soul I've worked like a dog my entire life--I'll never be able to read the way you can. It's not laziness, there's something wrong with my brain that can't be fixed."
"You're just lazy. You're blaming your failure on a minor disability that could be easily overcome if you cared to apply yourself." He's not even fazed by my shouts, doesn't even hear me. My vulgar insult doesn't register. He's used to them by now. "Let's see...Human Anatomy, C. Independent Study in Advanced Automotive Repair, A plus. Economics, D."
I twist the knob and pull open the door. "Finished?"
He stands up; I hear casters rolling on the plastic mat underneath his chair. "No, I'm not finished."
"Too fucking bad. I don't wanna hear any more." I haul ass for the back door, for the old barn at the back of the property.
He follows me. "Get back here, Colton Calloway. I have more to say to you."
"You always have more to say, you old windbag. I quit giving a shit a long time ago." I turn and walk in silence across the manicured backyard, through the hedge and into the stand of woods hiding the barn that is my workshop.
I feel him behind me but I don't bother looking back. I hover over the combination lock securing the only door to the barn, twist it to the correct numbers, and yank it free. I push aside the latch, squat, and shove up the roll-up door. I switch on the lights, which flicker-flicker-flicker, then catch with a hum, bathing the workshop in a fluorescent white glow. The exhaust system for the Camaro is laid out in pieces on the workbench. A brand new Flowmaster American Thunder. Once this bitch is on my Camaro, it'll be even more powerful and a shitload louder. This baby will snarl like a damn lion. Not as good as a custom exhaust system would be, but that's a little out of my reach just yet.
I go to work, pull the cover off the Camaro, toss it aside, grab the tools I'll need along with one of the exhaust parts, then I lay down on my roller board. I slide under the Camaro, which is pulled up onto a set of blocks to allow for a few more inches of clearance.
Dad just watches me for a while. "If only you could apply yourself to school the way you do this car." He sounds honestly morose. Sad.
I don't stop working. "It's not about applying myself, Dad. If I wasn't applying myself, those grades would all be E's. If I wasn't applying myself, I'd be captain of the football team. I'd be playing ball with my friends right now--shit, if I wasn't applying myself, I'd have friends. If I wasn't applying myself, I wouldn't spend four or five hours a day on fucking homework. I don't go to bed until after two in the morning, Dad. Doing homework. And then I'm up again at eight, and I spend my lunch breaks in the library, studying. I see a tutor on Wednesdays..." I trail off with a sigh. I don't know why I'm telling him this. He knows all about it. He just doesn't care. "I'm fucking trying. I'm sorry my best isn't ever going to be good enough for you."
"You spend all your time in here, working on this car."
"Because it's the only thing in my life that I actually enjoy. It's what I'm good at."
"But you're a Calloway. You're my son."
"Nothing wrong with working a trade, Dad. I can take apart an engine and put it back together with my eyes closed. I can name every single part of a car, from bolts to headers. I can custom tune any car you put in front of me."
"That's great, Colton, but it's no kind of future for any son of mine." He sighs. "I just wish you could be more like your brother. He's had straight A's for the last three years in a row, and he's eleven."
I'm tempted to throw this fucking ratchet at his head. I take a few deep breaths so I don't end up in jail for patricide; and, yes, I do know what patricide means. "Well, I'm sorry I can't be more like your precious perfect golden boy, sweet little Kyle. I'm sorry to be such a disappointment to you."
I note his lack of disagreement with my last statement. Or the one before it, for that matter. Kyle is perfect, and I'm a big disappointment.
I hear him exhale a breath of resignation. "Well, even with these grades, I'm sure with a generous donation and a few phone calls, I can still get you into NYU or Harvard."
I
laugh out loud. "Harvard? You still honestly think that? You must smoke more pot than me if you think that's ever going to happen."
Silence. He's trying to decide whether or not to address my blatant admission that I smoke pot. "You're going to college. Or you're on your own."
"Fine by me. I can make my own way."
"I'm serious, Colt. You'll get nothing from me if you don't pursue your education. Not a dime. And you cannot take anything I've paid for. Which includes that car."
Fuck him. I built this car with my own two hands from a rusty pile of shit in a junkyard to the mint beauty she is now. I've paid for every single part and tool with money earned changing oil and mowing lawns and shoveling driveways and cleaning out cars and mucking horse stalls. He paid two thousand bucks for the shell and the seized-up, rusted-out engine. It didn't even have a transmission. It was more rust than metal or paint. And he's gonna take it from me if I don't go to a goddamned Ivy League university?
Fuck him.
"I have personal assurances from the deans of Harvard, NYU, and Stanford that you'll be admitted as long as you apply by February at the very latest.
"Congress is back in session soon, but I expect you to submit your applications and the appropriate paperwork, including the essays, for the three universities we've discussed." A pause. "You have three months from the graduation, Colton. Three months, and you'll either head to college or you're on your own."
I'm still under the car but I hear him leave the barn; hear his feet crunch on gravel drive.
Except for the buzz of the fluorescent lights the barn is awash in silence.
He's serious, deadly serious. Either I go to an Ivy League college, or I'm disowned.
What kind of choice is that?
Chapter 2: So Much For Choices
I graduated, passed all my classes except the reading for dummies bullshit. And I didn't apply to any colleges, obviously. And I spent the summer cruising in my Camaro, working for Mr. Boyd--the Automotive teacher and the only adult who I've ever actually liked--with his summertime hobby, helping him restore a classic car. I learned a lot from him and he paid me pocket money, which I saved. Well, except for cigarettes and pints of whiskey and pot.
It was a good three months. Dad was gone most of the time, trips to Washington for who knows what reason. Mom left me alone and Kyle was away at football camp for most of the time, so I was on my own, which was cool with me. I kicked it with Lacey Myles for most of the summer. Hot stuff, that girl. Dumber than a box of rocks, but hot. Mouth like a Hoover. Apparently she had no problem with the fact that I'm a rougher sort of guy. Maybe it was the reason she kicked it with me in the first place--to get a taste of the wild side and stick it to her rich-ass parents. I mean, it wasn't because of my stellar sweet-talking skills, that's for damn sure. I was an asshole to her most of the time and that never changed from day one, so she can't say she didn't know it going in. I basically just picked her up at her house, watched her big juicy titties bounce around as she hopped down those four steps from her fancy front door to the sidewalk, and watched her hips sway as she approached my car. She always did this thing where she bent over at the waist, leaned into the open passenger window and gave me weird little wave where she wiggled her fingertips at me. I liked it, though, because she basically fell out of her shirt while she did it.
We would grab a bite to eat--another reason I liked Lacey is that she didn't give a shit about things like chivalry, so she paid for meals seeing as she was loaded, even though I always said I'd get it because, despite being an asshole, I'm not a complete asshole--and then we'd cruise around in the Camaro. Maybe head way down to Woodward Avenue for a while, or Gratiot. Eventually, we'd find a quiet spot somewhere and she'd help me with my belt and I'd help her with her shirt, and she'd swing over and ride me like she was practicing for barrel racing at the rodeo.
Honestly, she was a sweet little thing. Never gave me shit. Never expected anything more from me than what I was offering, which was a ride in my car, a swig off my whiskey and a puff of my dope, and a ride on my cock. We didn't talk much. We just cruised, smoked, drank, and fucked. But when she did talk she was sweet. She was just...ditzy. Not actually stupid, I don't think, just...a bit of a space cadet--the reason there's a stereotype regarding blondes.
But all good things come to an end. Lacey got ready to head off to MSU, probably to major in fellatio and journalism. Dad came home for the last break before the congressional season really kicked into gear in September. My complete dismissal of his demands for college apps three months ago teed off our big rumble. I knew I'd bitten off a pretty big chunk by refusing to apply to college; I was choosing disownment. Sucks. I was going to lose the Camaro, too, and that was, honestly, the hardest part to swallow.
At least they weren't selling it to some jackass, though. Dad clearly respected my skills, even if he didn't approve of them for "a Calloway", since he'd decided to give my Camaro to Kyle when he turned sixteen.
I even have a little talk with Kyle about it. I'm working in my shop, tweaking things here and there, and in comes Kyle, fresh from football camp. Skinny little shit, all of eleven, almost twelve, black hair cut tight to his scalp. He'd be a good-looking son of a bitch, though, you can already tell.
He tugs a stool out from underneath the workbench, turns down my Metallica CD, and kicks his feet. I know he's there, obviously, but I also know he's got something to say, and will spit it out when he was ready. He never comes out here to my shop; no one does unless they have to, but Kyle especially. I caught him in here one day when he was nine or ten, messing with my tools, trying to help probably. I don't know. I do know he'd fucked up a brand new set of spark plugs, though, and I lost my shit, told him I'd kill him in his sleep if I ever found him out here again.
A few minutes pass, and Kyle just watches me work, kicking his feet.
Finally, I set down my wrench, turn to face him, arms crossed over my chest. "Well? Whaddya want, kiddo?"
"Are you leaving?"
I shrug, nod. "Yeah."
"Why?"
I sigh. "Hard to explain. Dad wants me to go to college, and I want to work on cars. And Dad said if I don't go to college, now that I've graduated high school, I can't live here anymore. So I'm leaving."
"Where are you gonna go?"
"Hell if I know, bud."
"When will you be back?"
I feel that one in the gut; I haven't been the best big brother to this little squirt, but he's a good kid. Better than me, that's for fucking sure. I can only shake my head. "I don't know. Shitty answer, but it's the truth."
"I heard Mom and Dad arguing about you last night."
I cock an eyebrow at him. "Oh yeah? What'd they say?"
"Well Mom is mad that Dad's making you leave, and he was all like 'he's made his bed, now he has to lie in it', whatever that means. And Mom is mad because Dad's not letting you keep your car, which I think is bullshit."
"You're not old enough to swear yet, kid." I toss a washer at him, which he catches and throws back, hard. Kid's got an arm, man.
"You swear all the time. And besides, it is bullshit. You did all the work on that car. Why can't you take it?"
"Because Dad paid for the shell. I built the engine myself, put in the transmission, the exhaust, the stereo, the seats, everything. But he paid for the shell, so he technically owns it. I could take all that stuff out, but then I'd have the parts for the car and nothing to put them in. Doesn't make any sense to wreck a work of art out of petulance, you know?"
"So what's gonna happen to it, then?"
"You'll get it." I shoot him a grin I don't really feel, but I can't hold anything against Kyle since he's innocent in all this.
"I will? Really?"
"Well yeah. You're gonna be sixteen in a few years, and you'll need a car. This way, they don't have to buy a new one. Bonus for you is, you'll have the sweetest ride at the entire school. Bitches are gonna be tripping over themselves to get a ride in it, bro."
Kyle frowns. "You shouldn't call women bitches, Colt. It's not nice."
I throw a hex nut at his head, not gently this time. "Neither am I, if you hadn't noticed."
Quick hands catch the nut, toss it aside casually. "You could be. You don't have to be a jerk all the time."
I rock back, stunned. "You think I'm a jerk?"
He shrugs. "Well, not to me, mostly. But then, you barely notice I exist most of the time. But you're a jerk to Dad."
"That's because he's a jerk to me. We don't see eye to eye on a lot of things, Kyle. Hopefully you'll never have to understand that."
I sigh, tug open the driver's door, gesture for him to get in. He scrambles off the stool and slides into the driver's seat, grabs the steering wheel with one hand, the shifter with the other.
"Man, this is so cool!" He grins at me. "I can't believe I'm gonna get to drive this!"
"You better take care of it, Kyle. She's a sweet ride, but you gotta take care of her. Any problems, Mr. Boyd will be able to help. He's the auto shop teacher at the high school. Do NOT let Mom or Dad take it to some fucking piece of shit garage, they'll just fuck it up. Take it to Mr. Boyd. Got it?"
He nods, serious. "Got it."
I hesitate, then spit it out. "Kyle, it's not that I didn't notice you. It's just...I had trouble in school, so I had to work a lot harder than everyone else at shit that comes easy to someone like you. And, honestly, I didn't want to pull you into my mess. I haven't been the best brother. I get that, and I'm sorry."
He meets my gaze, nods. His expression is knowing, and serious, and understanding. "It's okay, Colt. I could always tell that Dad's a lot harder on you than he is on me. It's not really fair, is it?"
I scrub my hands through my hair. "Not really. But he's good to you, so that's all you need to know about. I'm not gonna talk shit about Dad to you, because that's issues between him and me. It doesn't have anything to do with you, so don't worry about it."
"But he's making you leave, and you don't know where you're going, or when you'll be back."
"Pretty much. Although, if I'd let him make me go to some Ivy League university, I could have stayed here, kept the Camaro, all that. But I can't go to college. I just can't. So I made this choice. And like I said, I just hope you never have to understand why I left. Just know...it wasn't because of you, okay?"
Falling for Colton Page 2
