by Steve Bloom
“I don’t need your help,” I say angrily. “I’ve got my own money! Almost ten grand!”
“You have almost ten thousand dollars?” he says, surprised.
“And I can make more!” But I’m reeling, flooded with helplessness.
“It’s still not even half, Brooks,” he says. “And that’s just this year. What about next year and the two more after that? We’re talking hundreds of thousands. We can’t swing it. I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m sorry.”
I shakily sit at the table, my dreams dashed just as they come true. Charlie picks up another opened envelope.
“The good news is that you’ve been accepted into the Honors Program at Rutgers with almost a full ride, which leaves just room and board, which is doable . . .”
Choking back emotion, blinking back bitter tears, I look at him. I feel so tired, so old.
“You are sorry, Charlie,” I say. “A sorry excuse for a father.”
It’s like I hit him. He flinches, backs from me, turns away to block the barrage but I’m relentless.
“I’m your only kid. You could have put something aside. You could have planned. You could have at least fucking tried. Most parents want better for their kids. But not you, Charlie, you want me to have it even crappier.”
I say it. I say it and a lot more. I tell him as soon as I can I’m leaving and never coming back, just like Mom did. I tell him to take a shower, that he smells. I tell him I hate him. Everything I never said before. I let him have it with both barrels right between the eyes. And then I leave.
I drive and drive and then drive some more. I don’t know where I’m going, I just go as fast as I can. Away from Pritchard, from Charlie, from grim reality, away into the waning light. Eventually I find myself cruising up and down the stately, impeccable streets of Green Meadow. Past the glittering palaces safe and snug behind their imposing gates. How can some have so much and others so little? It’s all about Money. My place at Columbia will be taken by some rich snot whose family can afford it. So much for a level playing field, for so-called equal opportunity, for the concept of fairness. To the victors go all the spoils. I reach the driveway to Shelby’s spread, where I fight the urge to witness its splendor just once more, but that would be too painful.
I need to talk to someone, to pour out my crushed heart to a sympathetic ear, but there is no one. No one who’d get it anyway, who’d give a flying fart. Not even The Murf. ’Cuz there is no Murf for me anymore. I’ve seen to that. For a second, I actually even consider calling Celia Lieberman. Yes, I am indeed that far gone.
It’s getting late. I keep driving, away from the place I have no reason being, speeding toward the towering, shimmering skyline of Manhattan, to the chaos and refuge of the City.
Van Am Quad’s dark, quiet, and still when I get there. Smoking my tenth cigarette in a row, I settle heavily on a bench beneath the softly glowing Rotunda. Unscrewing a pint of cheap vodka wrapped in a crinkled paper bag that I picked up at a dump I know that doesn’t card, I take a long, gut-burning swallow. I stare out at the majestic rectangle of green lawn ringed by the massive stone and brick edifices that constitute just a small part of what makes Columbia University. Touching greatness. It was all such a cruel joke.
My iPhone blips with an incoming text. Forcing down another slug, I absently check the display.
“Hey,” a bright green thought bubble announces, followed by a little smiley face.
It’s from Shelby.
Do I answer? Dare I tell her what has happened, who I really am? Where and what I truly come from? And if I did, is there the remotest chance she’d understand?
I don’t answer.
---
“Hey!” a harsh voice intrudes through the murk.
There’s a sharp, hard poke in my side. I sit up with a start. It’s later but still night, and I’ve passed out, stone cold on the bench. My vision’s fuzzy but clear enough to make out the shape of a beefy campus security guard prodding me with a billy club.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he glowers.
“Drinking myself into oblivion,” I answer truthfully.
“Well, do it someplace else!” he says.
---
Shelby texts again the next day and Snapchats me twice the day after that. But as much as I want to, I still don’t answer. I mean, come on, what am I going to tell her? That I’m a phony and a fake? That the game’s been rigged from the start and there never was a chance in hell we were ever going to be classmates? That, unlike her and all her friends in their gilded, gated bubble worlds, I’m going nowhere? No thanks. Better to take the coward’s way out. To just melt away like the mirage I am. I tell myself it’s for the best. For her. For me.
A chatty email arrives in my inbox on Wednesday, playful and flirty, filled with all the latest juicy gossip from the hallowed halls of Green Meadow Country Prep. Tommy’s being a big baby, threatening certain death to any member of the male persuasion who gets within five feet of her. Trent and Cassie are on again-again after being off again-again. Gwen Visser’s father is getting divorced for the fourth time in like five years. Brittany somebody’s wicked stepmom got another nip, lift, and tuck. Not exactly Pritchard fare. I don’t answer. I feel shitty about it because I’m being a total prick, but I know it’s for the best, that it’s what I have to do.
By the end of the week, all attempts at communication from Shelby have ceased. Although it’s what I expect, my ego’s bruised all the same. Deep inside, I’d hoped she’d give me at least until Friday afternoon or early Saturday. Late at night and numerous other times, I try not to picture those full lips, those endless legs, that toned body doing all sorts of nasty things to me in various configurations. I fight to suppress what could have been, if only I was the someone else she believed me to be. It’d be different if I was going to Columbia, I reason. Then I could have somehow eased the truth on her. But Rutgers. Let’s be real here, girls like Shelby don’t go out with guys who go to Rutgers, Honors Program not withstanding.
Spring Fling season staggers to its wobbly conclusion, which means Prom’s next up on the social schedule. Prom. The mother of all events, the final blow-up, signifying the end of the line, the point of no return. If you ask me, Prom’s right after being a bride in a girl’s fashion existence. I mean, the chicks go all out. Hair, toes, and every inch in between, sculpted, primped, and primed. And the get-ups. The plunging gowns, revealing backs, slanting shoes, sparkly accessories. You’d think it was the red carpet at the Oscars, not a high school dance.
Missing Prom’s the ultimate FOMO, so the calls keep pouring in. I’m like a switchboard, juggling dates. My calendar rapidly fills in, Friday and Saturday by Friday and Saturday. Hackensack. South Amboy. Keansburg. All over the map. And I take them. Because even though it’s hopeless, I haven’t given up hope. Besides, as the man once said, I needs the money.
In preparation for the coming campaign, I bring the Armani tux I’ve bought on installment at a consignment store in Metuchen to the cleaners for alterations and, while I’m at it, drop off the ol’ suit for one last fluff and dry before I retire it for the duration. I’ve grown quite fond of the suit. It’s proved to be a trusted friend and sturdy companion. My suit has served me well. Checking through the jacket pockets like I always do, I nod to Sanjay, who, reeking of cleaner fluid, faintly waves back. I pull out a little crumpled cocktail napkin. The name Shelby is embossed in elegant gold letters on the lower corner. It’s from her birthday gala at the club. The vision of that night returns. Her. Gliding in slow motion through the twirling bodies in the glittering ballroom. The short, sheer, clingy dress. The pronounced nipple outlines. Beauty, smarts, class, but more than that, radiating a supreme confidence that can only be inherited. Shelby’s the whole package. Mine, all mine. That is, of course, if I’d just been lucky enough to be born the right kind of person. The injustice of it roils through me.
HEY HO, LET’S GO! HEY HO, LET’S GO!!
It’s my iPho
ne. I resolve to buy a new ringtone. It refrains again. No doubt another frantic put-upon father. I click on.
“Rattigan and Associates,” I announce by rote over the rattle of rotating clothes racks.
“Hey,” a subdued female voice whispers.
Oh God, it’s her. It’s Shelby. She must have added my phone number to her address book when I called. I go cold. My heart stops. I hesitate.
“Hey, you,” I finally manage. “I’ve been meaning to call.”
“Haven’t heard from you for awhile,” her voice wavers. She’s trying to be nonchalant but failing. She’s confused and upset with me. I would be too if I were her. Actually, I’d be nuclear. What’s surprising is that she isn’t. “Everything cool?”
“Dandy,” I lie.
By the very fact she’s degraded herself by calling, I realize Shelby’s a finely tooled high-maintenance machine, not used to such a marginal level of attention, let alone outright rejection, which perversely only increases my attraction to her and hers to mine. She’s got everything in life worth having, but she’s still a chick. And chicks always go for the self-centered douche bags. I’ll never understand it.
“You know, usually I’m never the one who has to call,” she jokes mildly.
Usually she wouldn’t have to. Usually I’d be panting after her like a rabid dog, like every other red-blooded teenage male in Westchester County. Which I suddenly further realize means usually I wouldn’t have a chance with her even if I was being me. Ironically, the fact that I’m not who she thinks I am and can’t act like I usually would is my biggest appeal. It’s insane.
“Sorry, I’ve had a lot on my plate,” I maintain, noncommittal.
“We still on for Friday?” she ventures.
Friday? I’ve forgotten all about Friday. What to do about Friday? The target’s within sight, yet somehow I can’t pull the trigger. Not under false pretenses. Okay, I’m a dick, but not that much of a dick, as too often I wish I could be. But what if I’m wrong about her? What if it’s the real Brooks Rattigan, the sensitive, considerate Brooks Rattigan deep underneath that Shelby instinctively yearns for? I’m not a bad-looking guy, I’ve done all right. A little uncouth around the edges compared to the fair-haired boys she’s used to, perhaps, but not without my charms. The industrial-sized washers churn around me. I’m in the cleaners. I interpret it as a metaphor, a portent on how to proceed. What if I come clean with her? Lay it all out there. Not about being Celia Lieberman’s paid escort. Never. But all the other stuff. What I’m really about, what I hope to become. What if by some miracle it doesn’t matter that my father’s a postal worker and I go to Pritchard High in New Jersey or that I’m matriculating at Rutgers? If there’s even an infinitesimal possibility, shouldn’t I reach for the grand prize? I must be out of my freakin’ mind.
“Well?” she presses.
I stare at the dainty napkin in my hand, conflicted. A beat, then . . .
“Absolutely.”
Coming Clean
Ablutions commence extra early Friday afternoon. I shower for like forever, shampoo, cream rinse, scrub in places I rarely if ever scrub. Shave twice so the cheeks and chin are baby soft. Towel and talc. Slap on the expensive cologne, topside and bottom. Sucking in my gut, I flex the abs and pecs and stare at my fogged-up image in the mirror. I’m looking and smelling mighty damn fine. With so much at stake, I have to be at my absolute best tonight.
I review the many eminent New Jerseyites I plan to run past Shelby when I make the Big Confession. The Boss. Sinatra. Bon Jovi. Jon Stewart. Whitney Houston. I mean, when it comes to celebrities, New Jersey takes a backseat to no state, except maybe New York, California, Texas, and possibly Tennessee. Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin, second man to walk on the moon, born and bred right here in Glen Ridge. Thomas Edison invented the lightbulb in Menlo Park and it doesn’t get any more historical than that. Sherwood Schwartz, creative genius behind Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch? Proud native of Passaic. Not good enough for you? Try Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia—actually, strike him. Okay, General Norman Schwarzkopf then, whoever the hell he is.
“Yeah, I’m from New Jersey,” I defiantly declare at myself. “What’s it to ya?”
Pumped, I swing open the bathroom door only to come face to face with stark, semi-naked reality. Like the Reaper himself, Charlie, woollier, groggier, and more stoned than ever, slouches in wait for me to emerge. I’ve barely seen the asshole since the blow-up. Just the unavoidable, fleeting glimpse here and there that comes with co-existing in such close quarters even as we endeavor to completely avoid the other. The sudden awful sight of him thoroughly demoralizes me.
“Least I was here,” he slurs. “Least I put a roof over your head and food on your fucking table.”
Apparently in his book doing the absolute minimum makes him some kind of hero, at least compared to the specter that is Mom. But not in mine.
“Don’t worry,” I say, brushing past him. “You won’t have to much longer.”
“Brooks, we need to talk,” he says, now all serious-like.
“You and me got nothing to talk about,” I snarl. Talk to him? I can’t stand even looking at him. Well, I’m not going to let him and his shit rub off on me. Asswipe’s not going to ruin my chances. Not anymore. Not this time.
“Mind explaining the almost ten grand you have saved up?” he says, lurching behind.
“I don’t have to explain anything to you.”
“If you’re dealing pot, Brooks, I swear I’ll . . .”
The irony of this halts me dead in my tracks. I turn to him.
“What? You’ll buy some? Sorry, Charlie, I don’t give family discounts.”
Then I slam my door on him.
Fifteen minutes later when I come out of my room, dressed and groomed for battle, Charlie’s still rooted where I left him. He looks away, ashamed as I step around him.
“Don’t wait up,” I state flatly. “I’ll be out late.”
---
Shelby and the Truth await, both equally terrifying. Traffic’s as crappy as my mood, so it takes almost two hours to reach Blue Meadow and another twenty minutes to find the train station. It’s just after six thirty. Fortunately, not leaving anything to chance, I’ve allotted myself plenty of time. I park the Beast. I’ve thought it all out. Blue Meadow’s just two stops from Green Meadow, but I still can’t chance anyone I know spotting me there in a late-model American-made clunker, especially one with Jersey plates, so I park at the far end of the lot. Unlike in Pritchard, the Blue Meadow terminal’s tidy and upscale, with a cheery medieval theme. Alone on the platform, I feel like a spy going undercover deep into enemy territory. When the northbound five thirty-seven groans up, I hurry on.
The doors slide shut conclusively behind me. The train lurches forward. The car’s deserted. An old guy knitting a dog sweater. A tired mom with one comatose kid and one hyper one. And, in the back, piled high on a seat, a small mountain of cute little shopping bags with handles, and sitting cross-legged beside them is none other than Celia Lieberman, intently reading a book cradled in her lap. She looks different. It’s the glasses. She’s got on the studious yet slightly retro frames we picked together. Okay, I picked. But I stand by my choice. And I note with equal approval the short pleated skirt I foisted on her, which she swore she’d never ever wear. I find myself smiling. I am glad to see her. I am actually glad to see Celia Lieberman. Then, to my great dismay, I relive the drink tossed and front door slammed in my face. Our last parting wasn’t exactly on the friendliest of terms.
Before I can decide on an appropriate course of action, I recognize the faded blue paperback that she’s so absorbed in. Sensing she’s being observed, Celia Lieberman looks up from Skies of Stone and sees me. Taken off guard, she quickly slams shut Charlie’s opus and, for good measure, sits on it. I pretend not to notice. Composing herself, she returns her frosty attention to me.
“Brooks.”
Exploiting the fact that she’s too flustered to reme
mber to be pissed at me, I trundle down the aisle. “Pardon, Madame,” I bow debonairly, “but is this seat taken?”
If I was truly forgiven, she’d remove her packages so I could sit beside her. She doesn’t. But she doesn’t tell me to eat shit and die either, which I take as promising. I plant myself onto the bench right behind her. Now that the ice has been accidentally broken, she can’t exactly act like I’m not there.
“Brooks,” she repeats frostily, keeping her back to me. “What are you doing here?”
“Meeting Shelby,” I answer.
“You didn’t drive?” she inquires, her back like a wall.
“I live in the City, remember? People from the City take trains.”
I don’t need to see Celia Lieberman’s expression to know that she remembers all too well my web of deceit and furthermore doesn’t much approve of it. She pointedly changes the subject.
“So did you hear from Columbia?”
“I got in.”
She immediately whirls around to me, smiling widely, genuinely excited by my momentous news. Could it be that Celia Lieberman alone recognizes what I’ve accomplished, how much it means to me?
“That’s so great, Brooks!”
“Yeah, yay me,” I smile wanly.
“It’s not so great?” she asks, registering the deliberate tepidness of my response.
“Can’t go. Don’t have the dough, baby,” I say, doing a lame Bogart. I shrug like it’s no biggie, but she knows better.
“But you have to go!” she protests, suitably outraged on my behalf. “Isn’t there something you can do? What about all the money you made?”
“I’m not even in the ballpark,” I laugh harshly. “Hell, I’m not even in the neighborhood.”
“What about your father?”
I feel myself go cold, so cold it scares me.
“Fuck my father.”
I look away from her. She nods, not pushing it.
“Hey, hating your parents. That’s my line,” she observes.
“Yeah, well, guess you’re rubbing off on me,” I say gruffly. “What about you? Everything good with Franklin?”