This is what your life has become, Emery. Twenty-two years of fine etiquette, prep schools, and higher education has led you to the pity and charity of a four-year-old wearing her shirt backward.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Lexi.”
“Thanks, Lexi.” I accepted the granola bar but slid it back into her backpack along with one of the plaid teddy bears I had stitched for Stella.
Relief inched its way across my body. I leaned back, finally free from Nash’s Sisyphus task. The past two weeks had been spent traveling from art gallery to art gallery, searching for a statue that fit Nash’s description.
This trip placed me too close to Blithe Beach, where Dad lived. Visiting him tempted me, but I didn’t cave.
I would never.
Still, I yearned like I shouldn’t and pretended I didn’t, because above all else, I was a talented liar. The email from Virginia idled in my inbox, unread for the past six hours. The alert taunted me each time I checked my phone for messages from Ben.
Hunger pains continued their relentless assault. I watched the girl share the granola bar with her mother. I pretended I was back in elementary school. Reed once tattled to Nash that Virginia never gave me lunch money or packed me food.
Lunches give pretty girls spare tires until they’re no longer pretty, she’d say. Don’t you want to be pretty, Emery?
Nash stopped by our table every day with the brown lunch sacks Betty packed him. He never said anything as he gave up his lunch for me, but he always scratched out the I-love-you notes Betty left him, scrawled something ridiculous on the back, and tucked them back inside the bags.
If multi-player dreaming existed, whose dreams would you play in? Yours or Reed’s?
Nash
Ma bought an eighteen-pack of socks yesterday. Dad said he didn’t know why anyone needed eighteen pairs of identical socks. I told him they reincarnated into Tupperware lids every time Ma lost one.
(Then, I asked myself why we have more lids than containers. I know you stole them to paint stories on. Give me one to gift Ma for Mother’s Day, and we’ll call it even.)
Nash
Do you ever get more excited about being uninvited somewhere than invited? Like, if Virginia ever asked you to go to a charity gala with a hundred of her closest enemies then uninvited you, wouldn’t you be celebrating that shit with a fuck ton of alcohol juice pouches?
Nash
People get surgery to change the body they were born into, but what if we could change our personalities? If some surgeon walked up to you and said, “I can operate on your brain. Recovery time is about the same as a tonsillectomy, and it’s totally safe,” would you?
No offense, dude, but I’d give Virginia a personality transplant—along with new batteries for her heart. Think she’ll let Ma take a break after her tonsil removal? Yeah, me neither.
Nash
I saw a cat and his owner playing with a laser yesterday. Think about that shit. Lasers used to be this huge fucking scientific breakthrough, and now some dumbass cat lover in a designer knit beanie is using one to drive his cat nuts. If I invented the Tide Pod and had to watch someone swallow it, I’d probably haunt them from the grave.
Nash
Saw some douche jackass turd berate a worker at McDonald’s the other day. Could you imagine if Virginia had to work a year at McDonald’s? She’d either be more insane or more tolerable. Now that’s a thought.
Nash
I never answered Nash’s questions. He never asked me to. But I kept the notes, tucked inside my box in my nightstand at the Winthrop Estate. I hoped whoever bought the house hadn’t tossed my things.
The idea of my memories lying in a dumpster frayed my heart. I hadn’t realized it back then, but small moments matter most. Millions of raindrops dance together to form a storm, but a single drop is just a tear.
Lonely.
Tiny.
Insignificant.
I couldn’t watch Lexi eat her granola without wanting to snatch it and swallow it whole, so I opened Virginia’s email as a distraction.
From: [email protected]
Subject: 4th of July Brunch
Emery,
Allow me to prelude this email by informing you your response is unwanted. I am writing to remind you of the details for the Fourth of July brunch. We’ll be celebrating at the country club at ten in the morning. Be on time.
Able Cartwright is dining with us. Remember him? He is lovely, that boy. Last week, he started up at his father’s law firm while he continues with his Juris Doctorate. The talent in that family is remarkable. I am sure you would agree if only you’d consider a date with sweet Able.
I will be at brunch, accompanied by your Uncle Balthazar. Unfortunately, Eric Cartwright has left for the South of France with his wife, but every other important Eastridge family is attending. Please, do not embarrass me with your dramatics.
I strongly urge you not to wear that horrible dress with the dead flowers. If you would like, I can have a wonderful Oscar De La Renta dress shipped to your dorm room by sunrise. My team of stylists are mobile and can get your hair back to the shiny blonde halo in under an hour.
Allow me to remind you I control whether or not your trust fund is dispensed to you in a timely manner—or dispensed at all. That said, I expect you to be on your best behavior. Don’t be late for tee time.
Sincerely,
Virginia, Chairwoman
Eastridge Junior Society
My head fell against the window with a thud. Virginia still didn’t know I had graduated, and she thought I lived in the overpriced dorms. That alone made me want to wear the dress she hated, not to mention the trust fund threat.
With Dad off the grid, Virginia controlled my trust fund payments. Meaning, unless I obeyed every single demand of hers, I wouldn’t see a dime of it. I wouldn’t blow through the trust fund money if I had access, but at the very least, I would donate most of it, pay off Wilton University and my Clifton University student loans, and spend just enough to keep myself fed and sheltered.
Each time I visited the soup kitchen, I felt like I had taken a meal away from someone who needed it more. But the scholarship fund hung over my head. A parrot who haunted me with the same line.
Squawk! It’s the right thing to do.
Squawk! It’s the right thing to do.
Squawk! It’s the right thing to do.
It would be over soon. One more year, and Demi graduated. I would survive another year of this.
Lola waved at me when I heaved the Jana Sport over my shoulder and bounded down the bus stairs at the next stop. It let off in front of the soup kitchen, a little earlier than I had planned. I tried to avoid peak hours because hungry families came in crowds and caused food shortages.