by Jamie Knight
I plead for Scout to relax and take it easy so that she’s not completely plastered when my parents arrive.
“Now, in order, you probably have a few minutes to keep drinking since they were supposed to be here ten minutes ago. They’re so self-absorbed they probably won’t ask you many questions that don’t somehow circle back to me or them. Again, you can keep drinking but take it easy. Don’t lie about your background, I’m sure they’ve already done some research on you. And again, please take it easy with the drinking, you’re going to give me an aneurysm.”
“I’m sorry,” she says pushing her glass of wine a bit further away from her reach. “It’s not fair that I’m drinking this wine when you’re stuck drinking tap water.”
“I mean, you’re not wrong. I just didn’t want to stop you from… whatever it is you feel you need to make yourself comfortable for dinner with my folks.”
She thanks me and holds my hand, but recoils immediately when she sees two figures walking toward us. Her instinct is right to do so. My parents are here, and they don’t seem happy to be here. The two of them hug me tight, but don’t say much to me.
“So, you’re Scout,” my mom sneers.
“Right,” I cut in, “Scout, these are my parents, Lincoln and Meg Anderson. Mom, Dad, this is Scout Thomason, my dear betrothed.”
“Your dear betrothed we’ve never heard of until earlier this week. Yes, it’s a.... Pleasure,” Mom mumbles.
The four of us sit down and I’m already hoping that the paparazzi Palir hired comes crashing through the front doors as soon as possible. If I can barely grin through the introductions, I don’t know how well Scout is going to hold up.
“So is Scout your nickname or is that something your parents considered a good name for a girl?” my dad asks without breaking his gaze from the menu.
“It’s my real name. My mom was a big fan of To Kill A Mockingbird,” she tells him.
“How silly. It makes you sound like a boy,” he shoots back.
With that answer, Scout thinks it a good idea to take another swig of her wine.
“You’re not another Kardashian, Scout, so please tell me why you’re with my son. I mean, I couldn’t even find an Instagram under your name,” my dad continues to scoff.
I’m well aware that Scout does not have an Instagram. It’s one of the reasons I like her, she doesn’t care about having a social media presence. Because of that, I am not surprised that my parents put so much weight on something so ridiculous as the number of followers or likes that someone has.
Another gulp of her wine makes my dad cross his arms and smile incredulously.
“Look at her, darling,” he laughs, nudging my mom, “She just won’t stop drinking. I’d be careful if I were you, Scout, lest you want to end up like Bryan did at that charity event. I’m starting to think you may not be a good influence on Bryan.”
Both Scout and I freeze in our seats. I could even say that we sank into our seats, unable to properly register an adequate response to this. It’s clear by the anxiety in Scout’s eyes that she can’t continue drinking from her glass of wine since that’s what brought on this situation. I, on the other hand, have an option; to stand up to my parents for once.
Time after time, my parents have shown very little care for me, and I’ve always just accepted their coldness. Their anger has been a recurring factor to my ever-dwindling self-esteem. I’ve been a slave to them my entire life. But I cannot and will not allow their abuse to extend to someone I care very deeply about. I’ve already had Palir block them from his phone number after they decided to berate him and treat him like garbage after the charity event debacle.
That damn charity event has been ruining my life when in reality — “IT WAS YOUR DAMN FAULT!”
If there is a single person in the restaurant who hasn’t noticed my being there, it is at that moment when they do.
“That whole… fuck up was your fault. Both of you,” I sneer at my parents. “You both bribed my teachers to keep my grades up, you… I’m deep in this shit because of you!”
“Bryan, at some point you have to come to terms with being at fault for your own problems. You can’t live your life blaming your parents for everything,” Mom says, clearly offended at my improper manners. “If you’re so upset by how we’ve raised you, haven’t you had enough time and resources to fix things on your own.”
I slam my fist down on the table. “You know what, Ma? You’re right. I should have fixed myself a long time ago. But it’s never too late. I’m going to start fixing my life, and I’m going to start by keeping you and Dad at an arm’s length.”
An argument explodes between us all, save for Scout. Both of my parents yell at me for making a scene at a restaurant with a good reputation. I yell back at them for caring more about their public appearance than their substance as people.
It feels like a blur mostly because I have adrenaline pouring through me. It’s a rush I’ve been waiting to feel my entire life. I feel as though someone took over my body to get all of these feelings out. It’s a shout that’s been over twenty years in the making. The astounded look on my parents’ faces is so pleasing I almost don’t notice Scout looking like she’s about to faint.
“I think I need to use the restroom,” Scout manages to say aloud. She looks pale.
“Let’s use my bathroom, Scout.”
I help her from her seat and walk her outside of the restaurant. She doesn’t try to bid my parents farewell but chooses instead to keep her mouth shut. Both of my parents do nothing to alleviate the situation, screaming at the top of their lungs for me to return to the table to explain my reasoning for blaming them for my faults.
The flashes of cameras await us as soon as we step outside of the restaurant. These are the times I wish Palir was less of a PR genius and more of an actual psychic. I don’t want Scout to appear on covers stumbling outside of a restaurant, using every ounce of her power to walk.
I smile for the cameras despite the emotional storm raging inside me and try to play this off as a quirky, funny event. It’s worked for other celebrities.
This was a bad plan.
Chapter Seventeen
Bryan
Every part of the plan Palir and I concocted backfired. I didn’t see a single camera flash while we were inside of the restaurant, so my parents weren’t caught on film, thus making their being there absolutely pointless. Scout nearly passed out, so I don’t have the pleasure of her company. And now we’re being photographed in our worst possible state. I don’t know how competent I am at faking a smile.
I continue leading Scout to an Uber where I carefully sit her down on the backseat and slide in next to her, like a criminal speeding away from the scene of the crime. I accidentally sat on my phone which has hiding in my back pocket. I try to move it around by fidgeting in my seat until I get annoyed and just pick it out of my slacks and place it on the seat next to me. I tell the driver my address.
“Can I open my eyes now?”
“I don’t know how much opening your eyes in a moving car is going to help your nausea, Scout.”
She sighs, “then I’ll keep them closed.”
“Keep ‘em closed as long as you need. You are a lifesaver, you know that?”
“How do you figure? I mean, I’m falling in and out of existence so please explain thoroughly,” she insists.
“I’m not as brave as you may think I am, Scout. My parents have controlled my life from the second I was born. There are times I feel like I’m not even human, just a robot created by two evil scientists, and my only purpose is to earn them money and notoriety. Everything I’ve done in life has been for them. Anything that didn’t benefit them was tossed by the wayside… that’s why this whole thing has been their fault.”
“Hold on,” she slurs slamming her eyes open, “you said that in the restaurant. Why is it their fault, what’s their fault?”
The first step of freeing myself from my parents’ shackles is admitting the truth
. It helps that I’m telling this to the one person who may not only believe me but understand where I’m coming from. With a deep breath, I’m able to slow my heart rate enough to reach deep into the depths of my soul and bring forth the truth.
“Did I seem drunk to you?” I ask Scout who’s leaning on me.
“What, back at the restaurant? No.”
“No,” I groan, “back at the charity event. Think really hard. Did I act like a person who was drunk? Or would you say it something different?”
“I mean, that was so long ago, Bryan. I don’t try to think of that night often.”
“I know, but could you try to remember how I acted?” I plead.
“You were... weird. But you’re right, you weren’t drunk. Or you didn’t seem drunk but —”
I turn to her. “You’re right! I didn’t seem drunk because I wasn’t drunk!”
Our driver pulls up in front of my estate and I help her out of the car. We stumble up the steps to my place with Scout still leaning heavily on me. I unlock her door and guide her inside.
“But you — What? What about the alcoholics anonymous meetings and the public apologies?”
“I had to! It was the only way I could go through life without the world knowing I’m dyslexic.”
My ears start ringing as the earth-shattering truth escapes from my lips. I keep my eyes shut tight and hope that the world around me hasn’t crumbled into pieces. When I open my eyes, I see Scout stifling a hearty laugh. She slumps onto the couch, leaning awkwardly.
“What’s so funny?”
“Dyslexia, Bryan,” she chuckles, “all of this happened because you suffer from dyslexia? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. It’d be depressing if it weren’t so ridiculous!”
Scout’s laughter grows louder and louder as my words really sink into her brain. “Bryan, I’m sorry for laughing, but this is insane. This entire time you took the role of a celebrity drunkard when you could have just explained that you’re dyslexic and avoided all of this bad press. We both could be in a better position than we are now!”
“You’re not mad?” I ask her solemnly and I pace around my living room.
She pauses to sit up, “Are you telling the truth this time?”
“I am.”
“Then I can’t be mad, can I?” she says, “I’m not a fan of drunks or liars. And if that’s the reason you’ve been lying this whole time then, I can’t say I would have done the same in your situation, but I can understand why someone with your standing would resort to doing that.”
“It wasn’t even me who chose to resort to lying,” I explain, “it was my parents. Palir and I both thought of admitting the truth, but my parents equate dyslexia to stupidity or a form of autism, which isn’t anything to be ashamed of. I don’t know where I grew this spine but I’m glad I did. I just wish I could have grown it earlier.”
“Better late than never, right?” Scout asks.
She leans forward and I sit down next to her. I rub her back and lose myself in my thoughts of all the times I could have stood up to my parents. But there is something I can’t blame my parents for. They refused to see my dyslexia as a problem, but I’ve had money most of my adult life, I should have gotten help on my own.
Back in college, I had a bunch of friends who loved going to movies, but I couldn’t join them whenever it was a foreign film that wasn’t dubbed. The subtitles just moved too fast. I can slowly recognize some words but even sometimes that’s a problem. Especially when the words look or sound similar. Overall, it’s just very hard for me to read and I can’t do it quickly. I pay Palir to handle my social media accounts, so I don’t have to do any reading. I have to be told what’s at a restaurant I’m going to just so I don’t embarrass myself by having a hard time reading the menu.
I could have fixed all that, but I didn’t, because I haven’t wanted to admit that there was any kind of problem. After a while it just seemed easier to ignore than to fix.
All that wasted time.
Chapter Eighteen
Scout
“How did you make it this far in life, Bryan?”
Getting back to Bryan’s place really helps my mind get back in order. I remember the past hour of my life being a bit blurry but it’s all starting to come back to me. Bryan asked me if I was upset and as my senses are returning, I’m starting to fully register the conversation we’ve just had, one-sided as it was.
“I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”
“A little bit, yeah,” he mutters trying not to make eye contact.
“I just don’t understand how you could get this far in life without any training or lessons. Dyslexia is a learning disorder, Bryan, it doesn’t just go away with some chicken noodle soup and bed rest.”
“I know that, but it’s too late now. There’s speech to text, I have Palir handling most things that require reading, and thanks to technological advancements, it’s easy to live with dyslexia now,” he argues.
Refuting with that paper-thin argument, I propose he use some of his money to properly learn a way to deal with his dyslexia.
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t we have more pressing matters to deal with, Scout? How do you think I should come out to the public as someone with dyslexia and how I —”
“Don’t change the subject,” I snap, “even if you’re able to fix your public image, do you really want to go throughout your entire life without learning to read properly?”
“Is it that important?”
“Bryan, it’s reading,” I answer blandly, “you really think you can get by through life without reading? There are certain fonts that help people with dyslexia read more clearly, we could try one of those.”
“It’s a deal breaker for you, is it?” he sneers begrudgingly.
I extend my hand and put it over his.
“No, Bryan, it isn’t.”
Hearing Bryan speak about his learning disability reminds me of an aspect of my childhood that held me back for some time. It’s a part of me but I choose not to think of it much since it’s something that happened to me. It wasn’t traumatic, it wasn’t huge, it was just something I can’t change.
“You know, I didn’t learn how to read until I was nine years old.”
“Are you making fun of me or being serious?”
“When I was a child, I spent more time drawing than I did writing or reading. My mom bought me comics and thought I was reading them, but I was just looking at the drawings. I loved to draw. So much so that whenever I was at school, I would spend my time there doodling and not paying attention. I would just lose myself in my artwork. My teachers would get mad at me, even my friends would tell me that I needed to pay more attention in class. My mother, though, she never cared. She was just too busy with working two jobs. She was supportive of my drawing, though in hindsight, I would have appreciated her being more attentive to my development.”
Sharing my story with Bryan feels like a therapy session. This is something I haven’t shared with anybody else who wasn’t involved. The only people who know about this are my mother and, my former teacher, Mr. Forrest.
“Third grade came around and… then it came around again because I was held back. This is what finally caught my mom’s attention. My inability to read was holding me back. I was developing just fine with my physical health, and mental health, but being unable to read at even a second-grade level was keeping me from moving up in grades. My mother worked so much she wasn’t able to help me with my schoolwork. Thankfully, the second third grade teacher I was assigned to cared about his students, especially the one that wasn’t able to take in any of the material he was getting paid to teach me.
“Mr. Forrest was wondering whether or not I should be put in a special ed class but once he realized I was only unable to read but was as cognizant and able-minded as other students, he was kind hearted enough to stay after school for an extra hour and a half to not only make sure I get my homework done, but also learn how to do his homework. It was difficult at fir
st considering he was teaching me how to read whilst getting me to do homework I was mentally two years behind on.
“I owe everything in my education to Mr. Forrest. I still receive Christmas cards from him, but I wager that if I still lived in my hometown, I would see him rather often. He’s like a dear family member now.”
“He sounds like a good man,” Bryan says wistfully. “I’d love to have had someone like that in my life when I was a kid.”
“You still can,” I tell him.
“You want me to call Mr. Forrest?”
“No,” I scold him. “Me. I’d be happy to teach you. I did learn from the best after all and since then I’ve been trained in Dyslexia guidance.”
He’s hesitant on accepting my help and I can’t tell if it’s just his machismo or if he’s just really insecure about not being able to read quickly or well.
“You don’t have to be scared, Bryan.”
Still, he’s unreceptive.
“You don’t have to give me an answer right now either.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ignore you, it’s just a lot to think about. I mean, I’m not a child anymore. Look at me, Scout, I’m a full-grown man. Won’t you feel just a bit condescending teaching a full-grown man how to read. Try as I might, I really don’t know if I’ll feel all that comfortable reading ‘Green Eggs and Ham’ cover to cover for the first time.”
“You’re wrong. But again, you don’t have to answer right now.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because all I got from that is that you’re a full-grown man.”
My hand moves down from the top of his on the arm of the couch down to his thigh and up to his groin. Seems like Bryan has had just about enough of this subject and could use a proper distraction. There’s a bittersweet feeling emanating from this situation but I’m still not completely sober and after this night, I think we could both use a good fuck.