“One problem,” the CEO says. “There is a forty-eight-hour waiting period on board personnel changes. For the purposes of this meeting, Mrs. Charlotte Fern Higgins Drake is still a board member, even if she resigns right now.”
My uncle sighs. “I guess we’ll have to compromise the old-fashioned way for an hour?”
“Sign first,” Charli prompts. “Then I’ll approve your egotistical parking lot. Do we at least get a roof over this thing? I wouldn’t want all those convertibles to get rained on.”
With a glower, my uncle signs the paper. He hands it to the CEO. “You hold this. If the girl doesn’t sign, tear it up.”
“The girl,” Charli says, her pen poised above the page. “Excuse me?”
Where is the popcorn when you need it?
“Pardon,” my uncle says, his eyes on her pen. “Slip of the tongue.”
With a shake of her bright hair, Charli signs the page. She passes it to the CEO for safekeeping. Then she picks up her martini and drains it. “Okay boys, let’s finish up.”
The CEO begins reading off the rest of the proposals, and we all dutifully vote for every single one. It’s less interesting without Charli’s acerbic commentary.
At least my proposal passes—a hundred-thousand-dollar grant to a laboratory that’s trying to build batteries that are both powerful enough and light enough to fly an electric plane.
“This technology is only fifty years away from practical application,” my uncle grumbles.
“You’ll have devastated the planet by then,” I agree. “But at least I tried.”
He doesn’t know that I’ve already invested millions in electrical tech. I want to fix the private-jet industry. This stray hundred thousand dollars is just to rub his nose in it.
“We’ve reached our last proposal,” the CEO announces. “Sixty-five thousand dollars for a sports complex to be shared between Miss Draper’s School and the boys of Parkhurst Prep.”
“Can’t imagine anyone objects to this one, since we all went to one or the other,” Cousin Fred says. “Although we don’t get naming rights. The complex will honor a retired soccer coach.”
Charli straightens up in her seat. “Wait. Which coach?” She picks up the sheaf of papers in front of her and flips to the last page.
“Clint Hauser.” My cousin smirks. “Who else? He coached more All-American athletes than any other coach in Parkhurst history.”
I glance at Charli, and then I do a double take. She’s going pale before my eyes.
“Shall we vote?” the CEO asks.
“Hold up.” I reach for her hand. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t like that man,” she says softly.
“You don’t have to like him,” my cousin says. “He’s just a name on a sports complex at a school you attended. And we have a deal on the table. Let’s vote.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE GUY IN YOUR CORNER
Charli
It took a lot to get me into this room. I find it easier to face down a bloodthirsty hockey team than Neil’s family.
So the first person I’d called after our game got canceled was Vera the stylist. By quickly producing the red suit and the mean-girl heels, she’d given me the courage to walk in here and play this role.
I’d coolly handed over Neil’s credit card, purchasing my armor. Treating this meeting like a military mission.
It had worked, too. I’d marched into this room feeling strong and happy to do my part helping Neil and his mom defeat the patriarchy.
The moment Neil looked up at me, I’d known how much it mattered, too. Nobody has ever looked at me with such love and gratitude. His glow of approval is more seductive to me than any drug will ever be.
Until now, when it’s all come to a crashing halt. I can’t vote to glorify Clint Hauser. I just can’t do it.
“Hey,” Neil whispers, stroking the back of my hand. “Tell me. What’s wrong?”
Everything. Just everything. I sit very still, and I try to breathe.
Neil waits. He doesn’t push. He just strokes my hand. I make myself turn and look him in the eye. All his focus is on me. As if there’s nobody else in this room.
It helps. It really does. I look into those steady eyes and feel a little tougher.
This is my Waterloo moment, whether I asked for it or not. Neil keeps asking me for the truth. I keep refusing to show it to him. I’ve always known that if Neil saw the real me—the scared kid and the hot mess—his infatuation would die a sudden death.
And now I guess I’ll find out.
I clear my throat. A quick glance confirms I have everyone’s attention. I start my tale. “When I was sixteen years old, I was a recruited player on the soccer team at Draper. It was my first semester there.” My voice comes out scratchy, and my throat is suddenly dry. “My big dream was Team USA. I had that Mia Hamm poster on my wall.”
Neil’s eyes smile at me, and I manage to carry on by telling this story as if he’s the only one in the room.
“Hauser was the boys’ coach over at Parkhurst. But he was also on the committee for the national U18 teams. Sometimes he would come across the road and watch the girls’ practice. I used to show off for him.”
You’d think, given my history, that I would be the least naïve kid at Draper. But you’d be wrong. I loved the attention I got for being a star on the soccer team. And I felt like I’d finally arrived somewhere that wanted me.
Neil waits.
“That season, the girls made it all the way to the finals, but the boys didn’t. Hauser watched all our playoffs games. The night before the final, I got called into his office…” I swallow hard, remembering my excitement. I’d wanted a chance at the U18. I’d showed up expecting to hear praise.
“Breathe,” Neil whispers.
I fill up my lungs with air, and then I wheeze out the truth. “He told me that if I gave him a blowjob, he’d add my name to the U18 long list.”
“Fuck,” Neil whispers.
Nobody else says a word. I have to wonder if the word blowjob has ever been uttered in this room before. Maybe not. Or maybe it has—by some corporate asshole asking his assistant for a favor. Does that kind of thing happen at Drake Enterprises?
Sometimes it’s hard to tell whether the whole world is cracked, or if it’s just your little slice of it. My slice has always had a lot of cracks.
Neil’s mother is the first one to break the silence. “What happened?”
Ah. The age-old question. “You’re asking whether or not I did it? Or whether I told anyone?”
She opens her mouth and the closes it again.
“Neither of those questions is fair. But because you asked—no and no. I walked out on Hauser, which was terrifying all by itself. You don’t storm out of a coach’s office and expect to live. Then I went back to my room, and I got into the bed with all my clothes on, and I stayed there for twenty-four hours. My team lost the final the next day, and I got kicked off the soccer team for failing to show up.”
That seems like the end of the story. Hauser never sought me out again. But my troubles were only beginning, because no one on the soccer team ever spoke to me again. And the soccer girls were very popular. Which meant that nobody at Draper dared to be my friend, either.