by F N Manning
What started as tense and uncomfortable had become fun and easy, but the peacefulness of the evening came to an abrupt end when Cal’s father strolled into the room. The spell broke as the older man stared at us. No one said anything.
“Calvin,” he said after an unbearably long silence, “A word, now.”
Cal excused himself with a tense smile and followed after his father. April and Brendan worried.
“We’re sorry,” April told me the moment they left.
“We just wanted you to get along again,” Brendan continued.
“Relax,” I told them. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He looked mad.” April frowned. “Well, he looked fine, but there was suddenly a lot of ‘mad’ in the room.
“He’s always like that,” I replied. Brendan nodded his agreement.
“I wanted to send myself to my room without dessert,” April mused.
“Yeah, the punishment is always better than just having him stare at you.” Brendan sounded familiar with facing the brunt of his father’s stern aura.
They turned their eyes to me.
I tried to calm them. “Guys, I’m sure he’s fine.”
Mr. Winthrop-Scott’s glare melted souls, but the combined puppy dog eyes of two adorable kids were effective at getting results too.
“Fine, I’ll go check on him,” I relented.
I didn’t get very far before I heard Mr. Winthrop-Scott’s tight and angry voice. I slowed down, not wanting to eavesdrop but not wanting to make things worse by alerting the older man to my presence. “How is inviting them here and wasting time valuable?” A rhetorical question apparently because he continued, “Since you seem to be lacking in intelligence lately, Brendan is the one in the competition. He’s the one who needs to be practicing.”
“We were just having some fun,” Cal said softly.
“Oh, you want fun? I thought you wanted to go college.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Why even apply to school then? You could be a high school dropout. Go work at a carnival, find something in Atlantic city? Have all the fun you want.” Jesus, his dad went straight for the kill.
“I’ll get back on track,” Cal assured in a weak voice.
“I don’t want you to be put out,” he said mockingly. “What about having fun?”
“There’s more important things than fun,” Cal tried.
“That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say,” his father said cooly.
There was silence and I heard someone walking away.
I waited for a moment, ready to turn back and pretend I hadn’t heard anything if Cal’s footsteps came my way, but I didn’t hear anything. I walked into the hallway to see Cal slumped against the wall, which seemed to be the only thing supporting him. He didn’t look embarrassed or surprised when he saw me, just defeated.
“How much of that did you hear?” he questioned in a resigned tone.
“Enough,” I admitted.
“Well,” he started, trying to sound jovial but it fell flat, “this has been a lovely evening, but—"
I interrupted. “You dad’s kinda a dick, huh?”
Cal ran a hand over his face. “He just wants what’s best for Brendan and me.” I didn’t say anything to that. Cal sighed. “He has high standards,” he tried again. I understood why Cal prioritized studying over the occasional break. Still, Cal’s dad needed to fucking chill. Cal stared down at his feet. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “He’s kind of a dick.”
I didn’t have much experience comforting anyone other than April, and I wasn’t sure cute cat videos and a big hug would work on Cal. I wanted to say something and be reassuring. I just didn’t know how. Should I open up about my own awful father? Could I do that? I couldn’t even man up and apologize before. The kids entered the hallway while I debated the right move.
When they didn’t see Cal’s dad, April said, “Hey, we’re not done.”
“Max, your word was balletomane,” Brendan said. They seemed unsure but had decided to plow forward and pick up where we left off. Normally, that would be what Cal did too, even though he had a shitty poker face. Instead he just stayed there on the wall, not even putting on a brave face for the kids.
“I quit,” I said, not looking away from Cal.
“You can’t do that,” April argued.
“Okay.” I tried again. “Balletomane. K-Z-R-7-L-3. Balletomane.” I felt their confused eyes. They didn’t bother saying I was wrong because it was so obvious, so I concluded, “Cal wins.”
“Well, no,” Brendan said slowly. “He still has to spell a word, right?” It didn’t sound like he cared but was falling back on the proper rules.
“Okay, what is it?” I asked.
April and Brendan shared a glance. “We hadn’t decided a final word yet,” she said.
“Well, pick one,” I instructed them.
Brendan gestured back to the kitchen. “We have a list.”
“Just give him a word,” I ordered. It was almost a good thing Cal wasn’t really paying attention because he definitely would have scolded me if he heard me whisper at them to, “Hurry the hell up and pick a damn word.”
“Okay, okay,” April said while Brendan replied, “Um.”
I turned back to Cal. “Alright, Cal, spell ‘um’ to win.”
Cal rolled his eyes and didn’t say anything. I stared at him and tapped my foot impatiently. He glanced at me to check if I was being serious and rolled his eyes again. “Um. U-M. Um.”
“There you go, Cal wins,” I told the kids. “We’re talking, so get lost.”
They got lost. “You didn’t have to do that,” Cal said eventually.
“Kinda felt like you needed a win,” I replied lightly. I sighed and felt ridiculous as I closed my eyes, but I managed to continue. “I’m sorry for how I was acting.”
“You’re able to apologize now?” Cal’s head thunked on the wall behind him. “Am I that pathetic?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said without thinking. I winced but Cal laughed. The sound was weak and hollow but better than nothing. Still… “I would rather have forced my way through a grudging, godawful apology than have you go through that with your dad.” I didn’t look at him as I said it, but my tone was earnest.
Actually, the sincerity in my voice sickened me a bit, but it was worth it for the way Cal smiled when I did look at him. A small and fragile but so tender smile. “You’re forgiven.”
We sat in the hall across from each other and our legs stretched out next to each other. “This dating thing,” I said after a few moments of quiet. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” That wasn’t so hard to admit. Maybe because it was so obvious.
He shook his head. “That’s okay. I have no idea what I’m doing in general.”
I nudged his leg with mine. “You seem to have it together.”
He smiled without mirth. “I’m a good student. I try to be a good son.” His tone and the scene earlier implied he usually failed at the second part, in his father’s estimation, but he tried anyway. “It’s easy to get caught up in tasks, to not think about what I want for myself. That party was one of the few things I did just because I wanted to. On a school night, no less. I just needed to let off steam. Have fun.”
“And look how bad that went.” I meant it as a joke. I think.
His eyes met mine. “I actually think it worked out okay.”
“Our reunion is everything you dreamed it would be?”
He snorted. “I can honestly say the reality was completely unexpected, but maybe it’s better than I imagined. I’ve got you, don’t I?”
Okay, that was obvious too, but not as easy to admit. Yet it felt good to say, “Yeah, I guess so.”
Cal
I never stopped worrying, unfortunately, but I was able to worry less as Brendan and I went into overdrive preparing for his Regional competition. Not having to stress about where I stood with Max was a small consolation as I didn’t have much opportunity to see him. It made it easier t
o focus. Or did it just leave more time for me to obsess about how well Brendan needed to do and how much pressure my parents had put on me lately? Their expectations never lessened, even as my college dreams were finally within reach. Would enough ever be enough for them?
Brendan and I spent so much time preparing for Regionals, yet we spent no time readying for this moment. The time before the bee when the contestants congregated backstage. I thought I’d taught Brendan so much; all I could think about was everything he had to learn as he conversed with Eric Wu. Everything I was unfit to teach him.
“Are you nervous?” Eric asked Brendan. He had cello lessons on Thursdays with another lesson twice a month on Mondays and twice a month on Tuesdays. His parents were divorced but both had a musical background and that’s how the schedule had worked out so that they could each take turns taking him to lessons. Why did I know all that? Well, his parents talked a lot and their text messages were more like short novels.
“No,” Brendan frowned. “But I understand if you are.”
Eric’s brow wrinkled but he pressed on. “I remember my first Regionals competition. It was intense.” Eric met with Brendan’s study group every time he had cello on Mondays and met with another group when he had cello on Tuesdays.
Brendan nodded in acknowledgement. “Right, haven’t you lost two years in a row?”
Sure, they weren’t as close as Brendan and April, but Eric had also been at every club meeting with them. They’d likely get closer as Eric had tagged along to a few of Brendan’s club football practices and wanted to join the team.
“It happens,” Eric said. He frowned but recovered quickly. “Well, good luck.”
“I prefer being prepared to luck but sure, you too,” Brendan answered dismissively.
They were supposed to be friends or at least heading in that direction and on friendly terms. Eric seemed puzzled and a bit hurt by the cold way Brendan treated him now. Two of the homeschoolers from the club were participating in the competition and had just arrived. Eric moved to chat with them.
After I found him sleeping at the breakfast table, I’d try to impose moderation. I hadn’t even studied with him after 10 p.m. Yet I may have been a little lax as this competition approached. Still, I’d tried and couldn’t teach him everything. He played sports. Hadn’t his coaches taught him proper behavior?
“Brendan, sportsmanship applies to the bee too,” I scolded gently.
He looked unsure. Oh, maybe it had just been nerves. That would run in the family, though he at least looked much more confident than me as I had cowered a bit when faced with the stage and lights. Then he spoke, “I’m not as good at that thing you guys do.”
“What thing? Who?” With being polite? I thought that was something all rich people were born with; we read about social etiquette in the womb.
He waved a hand. “Where you say something nice like,” his voice took on a snooty, indulgent cadence, “‘Good luck, Eric Wu. I totally don’t hate you at all.” He dropped the tone. “Only it sounds like you’re saying, ‘you’re the worst, I hate you a lot.’”
I frowned. “Well, saying ‘I don’t hate you at all’ is kind of a giveaway.” I was too thrown off to comment on anything else.
Brendan thought for a moment. “Okay, remember last year when Nicholas Stewart had a higher GPA than you for a few months?” I opened my mouth to tell him I didn’t exactly need or appreciate the reminder, but he kept going, “And you were all like, ‘congrats, good job bro.’”
“Yes, that’s the sportsmanship part.” I didn’t bother mentioning that there was no way I said ‘bro.’
He shook his head. “No, because then you said,” his voice got ridiculous again, “‘that’s the bright side to not advancing in the debate finals, Nicholas. You had more time to devote to your studies.”
Oh god, it wasn’t nerves making Brendan cold to Eric. He thought that was the correct way to act? And he thought so because of watching me? This might be worse than him pushing himself because of how hard he saw me working. He was treating others poorly too, because of me. I could barely teach him the right lessons when I tried, how many incorrect things had I imparted without meaning to?
“Brendan, me and Nicholas have a weird friendship,” I tried to defend.
He rolled his eyes. “I know. He’s your Tinsley.” Who the hell was Tinsley? “But you and mom and dad do the polite meanness thing all the time.”
“You really don’t need to follow suit,” I instructed. He didn’t look convinced. Well, why would he? Passive aggression and condescension were normal in my world. When it came to Brendan, there had always been something about him. Not just youthful innocence but a liveliness, a sense of fun. I didn’t want him to become fake. Like our parents. Like me?
“I’m serious.” I tried again. “What happens if you and April end up competing next year? Would you do that to her?”
He looked horrified at the thought but shook it off. “Whatever, it’s almost time to start.” He scampered off.
“I had hoped his athletic endeavors had taught him good sportsmanship,” Professor Vincent commented as he appeared by my side. Wow. He was even better than my parents at expressing judgement without actually verbalizing it. Except it was different from ‘polite meaness,’ as Brendan called it. It had to be a teacher thing, a ‘I expected better from you’ tone.
“He’s nervous,” I defended.
His face took on the kind of long-suffering expression that only those who taught exasperating kids for years could wear, like he knew the truth, he’d seen it all before, so why did I insist on pretending? It wasn’t him I wanted to convince anyway. It was what I wanted to believe.
***
Max
I looked presentable again by sticking to the same dress code as before even if I wasn’t related to one of the kid’s competing this time. Who cares? It certainly wasn’t because Cal’s parents would be here and I already looked like a bad influence and drove a motorcycle. I didn’t have to make it any more obvious that I wasn’t ‘good enough’ for their son.
Not that it mattered. The Winthrop-Scotts were a whole other level of pretentious because they looked at me as if I was wearing the leather jacket and had a tear drop tattoo. April had run ahead of me, so I was by myself when I walked towards them while they stood in line to register Brendan. Rich people, they’re just like the rest of us: they stand in line too. Did they ever considering hiring someone to stand in line for them?
I didn’t have to say hello.
“Hey Winthrop-Scotts,” I greeted. Dammit. I was going to exchange pleasantries. Isn’t that what these waspy types liked to do anyway?
They looked me over. Their faces were distinctly unimpressed. “Do we know you?” Cal’s mom said archly.
She might not know me, but Cal’s dad didn’t fill her in. “I’m Max Keller. I competed with Cal.”
That didn’t jog her memory or his. Oh, that’s how they wanted to play it? Ballsy, especially considering I’d been in their house a week or so ago. “There were so many kids,” Cal’s father dismissed me.
“I was the one who was his best friend.” I don’t know why I felt compelled to keep talking, but their snobby stoicism was irritating.
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Winthrop-Scott humored me in a tone that said she had no idea who I was and I should go away. Did rich people really just forget those they deemed unimportant? No, it would be pretty hard to forget my dad screaming at them. I know because I tried to forget that and couldn’t. This was just being petty without outright acting petty. At least my dad yelled and screamed and said he felt instead of pulling some bullshit like that. No, I wasn’t defending him.
“Well, I remember Cal,” I carried on pleasantly. “Nice kid, decent speller. I beat him four years in a row.”
“Three years,” Mr. Winthrop-Scott corrected.
I shook my head. “No, I’m pretty sure it was four.” They looked ready to protest. “But it’s not like you guys even remember.”
I could feel displeasure radiating from them, but I continued to smile innocently.
“Right,” Mrs. Winthrop-Scott said tensely after a pause. “Well, you’re here to…” she struggled for the polite way to put it, then decided it wasn’t worth it. “Why are you here? I wasn’t aware you and Calvin kept in touch.” The you better not keep in touch was barely even subtext.
“My sister and Brendan are friends.” I stared straight at Cal’s dad. We were in your freaking house last week. Was this some weird rich people form of being punked?
“Ah, yes,” he said mildly. There we go. “Your sister lost her regional competition a few weeks ago, didn’t she?”
Bastard. I didn’t comment on that. Instead, I said, “My sister’s still going to carry on the grand tradition.”
“Yes, the academics are a noble pursuit,” Cal’s father said gravely.
I grinned. “I meant beating Winthrop-Scotts.”
I should probably be afraid they were going to hire someone to kill me, but their angry glares brought me so much glee. Mr. Winthrop-Scott tipped his head. “Perhaps so.” Wow, was he being nice now? “You managed to best Cal three times. It’s very impressive.”
“I guess,” I agreed warily. Man, this felt like a trap. I didn’t speak enough uptight wasp to know how to avoid it.
“She could rally and take the whole thing last year,” he mused. “You were always so close to making the final round.” Yeah, but I never quite did, I get it. Except he kept talking. “And all while your coach, well, father, struggled with his drinking problem. Quiet inspiring.” How could he say that so mildly?
“Where the hell do you get off?” All pretense of being polite disappeared from my voice. They smiled like they won something because of it. What, he was going to casually drop a drinking problem bomb and I was just supposed to carry on like that was normal? That was a shitty thing to do, even if you could do it with a neutral expression and tone, that didn’t make it better.