This is the more important written portion of the two. This is what the professors and admissions officers for the architecture program will see, and will determine whether I secure one of the coveted spots in the major.
I nod at Dad, who pops another blueberry in his mouth. “Trying to talk about how my favorite architects have influenced my style. It’s just so general. I don’t want to highlight too few, because then I feel like they’ll think I don’t know enough. But I don’t want to highlight too many and look like a try-hard.”
Dad looks over what I’ve written thus far, and I see him chewing over a thought in his head. I work to emulate the man; he can internalize things so well and only say exactly what he means or thinks. I’m prone to fly off the handle or over-explain. I’ve always admired that Dad never seems to waste words, and the ones he does speak mean so much.
“Highlight one architect. Just one, your favorite. Go into depths on their projects, the design they use, their process. These professors and advisors want to see the kind of student their program will be able to mold. If you make it known just how passionate you are on one style, what you might bring to the world of architecture, I know I’d personally value that much more than lumping together a bunch of big names in the industry and muddling together what you like about multiple styles.”
I weigh that in my head, and also sour at the idea. “But I already wrote so much of this.”
And honestly, it’s been difficult for exactly the reasons Dad has just said. There are too many architects I’ve written about, even though I’ve whittled the list down. The paragraphs seem rushed, and I am trying to cram every bit of information I know into the essay to try to impress them. Every other student applying is probably trying to do the same thing. Dad’s suggestion would set me apart and show my real knowledge in the field.
Dad gives me a wry smile. “If you want to gamble with your future by submitting subpar work, then be my guest. But I know I didn’t raise my son that way. It will take some extra effort, but by erasing these words and writing better ones, I think you’ll have the best shot possible of getting into the program.”
As annoying as it is, I know he’s right. With one last sad, fleeting look at my document, I highlight every single word and erase them.
“I think we’re going to need more blueberries,” I joke, settling my hands on the keyboard to start all over again.
Inside, I know it’s the right decision. Instead of feeling exhausted and drained from having to start the essay from scratch, there is an excitement in my chest. Because I know I’m doing this the way it should have been done from the beginning.
Mom walks in as I finish up my intro paragraph, and she’s carrying a massive turkey.
“Tom, help me?” She struggles to say, and Dad swiftly gets up after setting his cell phone down at the sound of her voice.
“Jeez, Mallory, are we feeding a small country?” Dad asks as he heaves the frozen bird up onto the kitchen counter.
Mom is busy bringing in bag after bag of groceries, of what I’m guessing are all the fixings of our Thanksgiving meal happening in a week.
“Todd and Blair are coming for Thanksgiving this year, since his mother moved to the senior community in Florida. They’re going to be eating dinner with us, and I know how much you men like to eat. Also, I expect you to be on your best behavior.” My mom wags a finger at me.
That woman might be a sweetheart, but I do not want to be on her bad side. My mom is as fair and loving as they come; the scales of justice with a gooey center.
But I’m her son, and it’s only natural I push her buttons. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mom shoots me a look as if to say, don’t play with me, boy. “You know darn well what that means. I’m not blind, I see how you’ve treated that sweet girl the past couple of years. I’m not sure what happened between you two, but Blair is one of the kindest souls, and I won’t have you disrespecting her under my roof. After what she’s had to endure on family holidays, she deserves the most peaceful day. And I didn’t raise a son who would be rude to anyone, much less a girl he used to like very much.”
What was all this talk about raising a son who doesn’t do X, Y and Z? My parents are really lathering on the guilt today.
But I guess it’s working, since a pang of regret hits me right in the gut. I know all too well how much Blair has gone through with her bitch of a mother. I don’t say that about most females, rarely any, even if they annoy the shit out of me or are generally mean. But Blair’s mother? She’s vile. She’s the most selfish person I’ve ever met, when she’s bothered to show up for her kid or husband. It’s been years since she’s truly meant anything to either people in her little family unit, but she still manages to fuck with her daughter’s head. That kind of sickness can’t be cured, and yet I wish she’d just fuck off and leave them both alone. As my mom said, leave them to their peace.
“Fine, I’ll be good.” I almost stick my tongue out at her, but then decide I’ll only look as immature as she’s accusing me of being.
Although, she has no idea just how unkind I’ve been to Blair, especially lately.
In the end, Mr. Fennis was not accepting anything other than the original pairs he put together. Which means Blair is stuck with me, and I am stuck with her. I saw red after she chewed me out in the hallway, stooping so low as to attack my future career choice with our fathers and their firm. She knows how important it is to me to carry on their legacy. Even if we aren’t friends anymore, she still knows that.
So when Hailey knocked her to the floor, I … I went just as low. No, I went lower. I saw the humiliated blush stain her cheeks. I could see the set of her shoulders, how she was holding sobs, which looked heavier than the world, back. I did that. The comment about her underwear was so mean, I wanted to bend down and scramble to take it back. But she just fired shots at me, about the project and about my future with the family business, so I didn’t.
I feel lower than scum. It was also a lie, what I said. I find her so sexy that some days it’s all I can do to keep my hands to myself. In the privacy of my bedroom, I don’t. I’ve jacked off countless times in the last two weeks to nothing more than the memory of my arms wrapped around her in that hallway at homecoming. Not porn, not some Instagram model’s picture … no, I’ve been jerking it to a fucking memory of my fingers on her skin. How the hell has she managed to get me to do that?
And yet, I haven’t apologized. We keep going around in circles, hurting one another until the other person bleeds just a little more. Just a little deeper.
I have so much anger in my heart when it comes to her, and yet, I also want to lay our weapons down. But there is still no explanation for what she did two years ago. And until I have one, I’m not sure we can ever do that.
Instead of thinking about this emotional shit, I turn my focus on my essay.
This is something I can control, at least until it’s out of my hands and with the admissions office. Then they’ll have it, and it’s just all of my hopes and dreams on the line.
16
Blair
“Pancakes or waffles?”
Dad shoots me a smile as I pad into the kitchen, my hair still sticking up from the good night’s sleep I had.
“I hope there are chocolate chips in that batter. Other than that, I don’t care which way you make them.” I point a finger at the mixing bowl dusted with flour that Dad is currently stirring.
“Waffles it is, because I’ve got a craving.” He sets the bowl down and pats his stomach, then walks over to the freezer.
“You’ll ruin your appetite putting ice cream on those,” I admonish him in the fakest way possible.
This is our schtick; me acting like he’s the child and I need to teach him exactly what a balanced meal is. In reality, we’ll both put a scoop of vanilla ice cream on our chocolate chip waffles at ten a.m. and be perfectly happy with our decision.
Sunday mornings are reserved for Dad’s expert breakfast
skills, one of the only decent meals he can make, and lounging around watching recorded daytime television shows. Except that this morning, Dad hits me with a bombshell as I pour my orange juice.
“I talked to your mom this morning.”
It’s the sentence I always dread most when it comes to my father. I love him so deeply, but his soft spot for the woman he married is his biggest flaw. It’s the thing that makes me resent him—the only thing.
“Why?” My voice is full of judgment and annoyance. “I don’t even know why you pick up her phone calls anymore.”
I don’t know why I do either, I should add, but don’t say it. It seems we’re both a bit weak-willed when it comes to that woman.
Dad sighs. “Someday, you’ll understand that even though we aren’t together, she is still the mother of my child. I signed off, when we created you, to have a relationship with her in whatever way that evolved. I still have to parent with her, and you deserve to have the most normal balance we can create for you.”
“No, I understand that completely. Dad, there are enough kids from divorced families in Chester for me to write a case study on co-parenting. But you have to want to be a parent in order to do that. My mother doesn’t want any part of that, so I’m not sure why you’re still trying.”
“Don’t say that, she loves you in her own way.” He says this as if he’s trying to convince us both.
I love my dad, but he seems to still assume I can be convinced of things simply because I’m his child. Him telling me that my mother wants to be involved with my life is the same thing as him trying to still tell me that the Easter Bunny or Santa exist.
He finally divorced her a year ago, after six years of staying married to a woman who didn’t share his bed, let alone his home or his zip code. For years, I and everyone else around him begged for him to cut the cancer out, but he had to do it in his own time. She caused a shit storm, of course, even though she was the one who left in the first place.
I want to see my dad happy. I want to see him fall in love with someone who is worthy of that, and yet. he put his life on hold to respect a woman who can’t even show up for the flesh and blood that they created together. I hope, in my going off to college, it gives him the room to finally do something for himself. I suspect, since I know how his brain ticks, that he’s been putting his own happiness on hold to raise me the best he can. Sometimes I want to tell him he can take a night off the job, but I think it’ll only heighten his anxiety about finding someone who might fully love him.
In my seventeen short years on this earth, I’ve observed all kinds of love. And my dad chooses, aside from me, to let people love him who can do so from a safe distance. Friends, coworkers, his buddies who go on ski trips and kayaking adventures with him. He was burned so badly by the woman he would have loved for the rest of his life if she let him, that he’s terrified to try again.
In some ways, that’s what I feel with Sawyer. It’s why I’ve never bothered trying to date, or even have a crush on anyone else. I loved that boy completely, and he shredded my heart without even knowing.
What would happen if I allow someone to love me and they leave me even more jagged than he had?
“She wants to come visit for Christmas.” Dad’s statement interrupts my thoughts about my former best friend.
“Um, what?” My voice is incredulous. “I hope you said no.”
Dad shrugs as he ladles batter into the waffle maker. “She’s your mother, Blair. She has a right to see you, and if she wants to spend a holiday with you, I don’t see how that is a bad thing.”
My temper is rising, because I don’t understand how he can be so naive after all this time. “Um, maybe because she hasn’t spent a holiday with us in, I don’t know, five years? She’s usually jet-setting to Paris or on some yoga retreat in Thailand. Why this year? And why should we have to forgo our usual traditions, traditions which I love, to accommodate her? She’ll just talk about herself the whole time and end up making me feel depressed, Dad.”
He turns to me, a sad expression on his face. He knows what she is, an undiagnosed narcissist, but at the same time, Dad is one of those people who is always willing to give someone like Mom a second chance. He simply can’t see past the woman he fell in love with, to realize how terribly she wounds me every time she comes around.
Again, this is his one downfall.
“Just consider it, okay? She sounded really sincere this time.”
I haven’t told him about her phone call the other week at school. She sounded sincere then, too. And look how that conversation had ended.
I sigh loudly, signaling to him that I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Instead, I try a different tactic.
“Actually, I was thinking maybe you and I could take a trip over Christmas. So, we wouldn’t even be here.”
“Oh? And who is paying for this trip?” Dad smiles wryly.
I shrug, half-ignoring him. “I kind of thought it would be cool if I showed you Haiti. I’ve been emailing with the director of my program, and they’re doing a two-week build over Christmas. They need volunteers …”
Ever since I came back to the States, I’ve been itching to go back to Haiti. The summer was tough, wonderful, eye-opening and emotional all wrapped into one. I miss the little girls I built that school for; I miss the full-time non-profit workers who are doing so much good over there. If I have an opportunity to go back, to show Dad just what he’d allowed me to experience over the summer months, I think it would open his eyes, too.
“Hmm …” He taps a finger to his chin. “I would love to see just what kind of place made my daughter better with a hammer and saw than I am. I’ll think about it. But for now, we need to see what this new Drew Barrymore show is all about, and if you think she’ll outlast Bethenny Frankel.”
He aims the remote at the TV, and our Sunday morning routine lives on.
Thoughts of Mom, Haiti, and Christmas swim in my head.
First things first, though, I have to get through Thanksgiving. Which includes an entire day in the presence of the boy who I simultaneously want to hold and hit.
17
Blair
Thanksgiving, surprisingly, hasn’t been entirely awful.
Mallory greets us with open arms the minute we arrive, ushering me into the kitchen with her where we women cook and chat without interruption from the men. Dad broke away and went to watch football with Thomas and Sawyer, and that’s perfectly fine with me. I assist my surrogate mom in basting the turkey, whipping the mashed potatoes, and wrapping all the dishes in tinfoil so that they stay piping hot.
By the time we all sit down to the table, the three men are discussing architecture, of course. The conversation flows easily, turns to my summer in Haiti, and then to some local gossip Mallory has about a hairdresser who was caught sleeping with her husband’s adult nephew.
All in all, Sawyer and I aren’t exactly friendly, but we make it through the day without ripping each other’s throats out. I don’t have to talk to him, and he barely looks my way, but we coexist peacefully for our parent’s sake, and I’m left with a full stomach and not much animosity in my veins.
I walk into the kitchen after dinner, my plate and Dad’s plate in hand, ready to clean, and stop short when I see Sawyer standing at the counter.
His back is to me, and for some reason he hasn’t heard me come in. I watch as he wraps up the apple pie, a dessert that should be going out on the table. In past years, aside from the one we spent with Grandma, the Thanksgiving spread at the Roarke’s has noticeably missed the apple pie, or at least I’ve realized it. But whenever I dig into the leftovers bag that Mallory sends home with us, there it is. I thought maybe she just knows how much I like it and saves it for me, but as I watch Sawyer gently wrap it in the same orange saran wrap it goes back to our house in every year, my view begins to shift.
“What are you doing?”
Sawyer jumps at the sound of my voice. “Nothing.”
That one
word is spoken way too swiftly not to be suspicious. “Are you … do you plan on putting that in our leftovers bag?”
It all clicks into place now. He is the one who has been pilfering the apple pie and hiding it in our take-home bag. But why?
Sawyer doesn’t answer me, just dumbly stands there with the pie in his hand as if he’s unsure what to do with it now.
“Why would you do that?” My heart is thumping too quickly. “Are you the one who has done it in past years?”
His green eyes regard me intensely, and I’m aware of every inch of my body.
“Apple pie reminds you of your mom.” He shrugs.
The cracks in my heart, the ones that have always existed but I’ve tried to superglue over, widen like chasms. The entire Grand Canyon exists in my chest, and I feel the ache of unreturned love heavy on my soul.
“It’s the only dessert she ever used to make for me, before she left,” I whisper, trying to keep the tears, making my eyes glassy, from falling.
He remembers that. Even after all the bad blood between us, he remembers my one sincere connection with the woman who is supposed to love me unconditionally, but just can’t. Even in all the years he’s hated me, Sawyer has given me this small gesture of love, of comfort on a day when my mother should have been present.
“You deserve the whole thing because of that, I’d say.” His voice is low, and it makes me want to cry even more.
“But … why? How did I never know?” I shake my head, trying to make sense of the shifting universe transforming before me.
Sawyer walks slowly to me, his feet seeming to move in slow motion. But one second he’s across the room, holding that godforsaken pie, and the next he’s in front of me.
“What do you want me to say, Blair? That even after everything, I can’t give you up?”
I swear, I must dream him saying that. I also must dream him putting his palms to my cheeks, and the way my chin tips up and my tongue darts out to wet my lips.
Foes & Cons Page 9