It came to a head while I used the bench press. Okay, the bench press can be tricksy. You’re lying on a bench with a bar perpendicular to your sternum, and your chest isn’t flat. It actually curves down toward your throat. If you drop that bar, it will roll down toward your throat and crush it. I mean, the bar alone weighed forty-five pounds, and if you’re a power lifter you’d better have a spotter, someone to catch that bar before your arms gave out. The thing is, I wasn’t a power lifter. Rowing requires lean muscle mass and endurance, not brute strength. Sure, at the level I hoped to achieve, some guys were big, but that was a fringe benefit. First and foremost, they possessed endurance. We all did.
I once saw something on one of those online sports forums, asking about what sport required the most cardiovascular fitness. It’s not marathons, it’s not long-distance cycling or swimming, it’s crew. Don’t get me wrong. All those athletes require exceedingly high levels of aerobic conditioning. But not only do world-class rowers possess the highest VO2 max of any athlete—the fact that I stood a decent chance of joining this elite in the next few years frankly scared the tar out of me—the sport was almost entirely mental. Yep, never mind the fact that Olympic-caliber rowers could extract the most oxygen per tortured gasp, they needed the titanic discipline not to psych themselves out.
Every race started with a sprint, which meant we started in an anaerobic hole—we started each race in the intense pain of a lactic acid burn. The precious mitochondria in every muscle cell—the energy plants that depended on oxygen—couldn’t produce the fuel our cells needed, so they switched to plan B, feeding on glycogen and other compounds stored in muscle cells. The problem was, glycogen was a poor substitute for adenosine triphosphate—the usual source of energy for the body—and produced lactic acid, and that shit burned. Muscles that weren’t working as hard—like our guts—shut down, while our legs and lats kept working beyond their capacities, and still the lactate levels climbed. As all that lactate-bearing blood flooded the only muscles working, as the other muscles shut down, blood shunted away from our brains, so thought became confused and our worlds tunneled. We didn’t need to think. We endured, focusing on our cox’n’s voice, and we pulled as we’d been trained to do.
Rowers had the highest levels of lactic acid tolerance of any high-performance athlete, and how did we push past that? Endurance training. Every practice, every erg piece, every session in the weight room built that endurance further. When people argued with me about whether or not crew was an endurance sport, my first impulse was violence.
Marathoners talked about hitting a wall toward the end of a race. Motherfuckers, we started there, thanks to those sprints at the beginning. Only it wasn’t a wall, it was a deep well of agony, and we pulled ourselves through with mental toughness and the terrible fear of being the only one in the boat not pulling hard enough.
So in the weight room that afternoon, I lifted a relatively light weight that I knew I could lift over and over again. That’s how I built endurance, or one of the ways. So when someone stood over me, his basket so close I could smell his sweat and musk?
So not suave.
“You shouldn’t lift without a spotter.” He looked down into my eyes.
I exhaled as I pushed the weight up and into his belly, then pulled one earbud out. “I’ll be fine.”
He grunted. “No, seriously….”
“No, seriously,” I said right back, “it’s a light weight, and you’re in my way.”
“C’mon, let me help you.”
Then the pieces clicked into place. I knew he wasn’t there to keep me from crushing my trachea. I sighed and racked the weight. He moved out of the way so I could sit up.
“I told you, I don’t need any help. As you can no doubt see, it’s a fairly light weight.”
Overly Helpful quirked a smile. “Can I sit down?”
“No, it’s a weight bench, not a park bench.”
“Whoa, someone’s cranky.” Oddly enough, that seemed to spark something in his eyes.
“Someone’s workout’s been interrupted. Was there something you wanted?” I made to replace the earbud.
Overly Helpful smiled. He looked attractive in a mussed, sweaty, in-the-middle-of-a-workout way. “Yeah, I wanted to talk to you. I’ve been watching you since you walked in. You’re a good-looking guy, and I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Thanks.” Okay, I didn’t always need to be a dick about things like this. It always turned out that way, however, so I smiled. “I’m only here on winter break visiting my grandparents. I’m also taken. Thanks for the compliment, though.”
“That’s the story of my life.” He didn’t look too crushed. “I was serious about the spotter, however. You really do need to be careful.”
I shook my head at his persistence, but only in a good-natured manner. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “My name’s Rick.”
“Remy. Fine, I’ll finish my workout with you. I’ll even meet you for workouts the rest of my time in Chicago if you want, but if you get handsy, be warned—I will drop the bar on you.”
Rick gulped. “Yes, sir.”
“No, Sir would be my boyfriend.” I smirked at him.
Rick’s eyes grew round. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”
“I’m feeling kind of clumsy today, Rick.”
He sighed. “I wish I could find someone like you.”
“I’m high-maintenance and so focused on rowing I’m blind to anything that doesn’t float. As long as I have access to a boat and water, I’m reasonably easy to get along with… until you piss me off. Then I stay angry, and my temper burns incandescent.” I shrugged. “Honestly? You can do a lot better.”
Rick sighed again, only it sounded kind of bitter this time. “You’re not helping. How old are you, anyway?”
“Too young for you.” Seriously, did he find these lines on bathroom walls in bars?
“You’d grow out of it,” he said hopefully.
I shook my head, because really, enough was enough. “Weights?”
“So where do you row?” Rick asked as we got to work. I pointed to my shirt. “Do you like it there?”
I nodded as I finished my set. “Surprisingly. I’d only intended to be there for my freshman year before transferring, but it’s working out really well.”
“That’s great.” Rick switched places with me. “Wait… you’re a freshman?”
I nodded. “I am.”
“I can’t believe I hit on a college freshman.” Rick shook his head. “I need a shower with a loofah.”
“I’ll need industrial-strength soap.”
He grinned. “Want someone to wash your back?”
“Get to work. I have someplace to be this evening.” I started adding weight plates on the end of the bar in the hope that he’d get the hint.
Rick added plates to bring the weight up to his level. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?”
“Is there some other way to go through life?”
We made it through the workout, but at a considerable test to my patience, and I resolved to be at the gym when it opened from then on. Back up at the condo, I rinsed off and took a nap. After my nap I took a real shower, one that involved shaving so I’d look my best for my grandparents.
“Tonight’s party won’t include a formal dinner, Jeremy,” Grandpa explained over dinner. “It’ll be the typical buffet and booze rodeo affair, but nothing you’d call nourishing. We don’t mind if you have a glass of champagne, but in general we expect you not to drink, as you’re underage.”
“Of course, I understand.” I laughed. “Geoff and I have had fake IDs for years, and we haven’t used them for alcohol yet, so you’ve nothing to worry about.”
Grandpa looked nonplussed, but I hid my smile. “Some things never change,” he said at last.
“Technology’s made it a lot easier, however.” They both looked at me. “What? It has.”
“I’m sure, dear. I’m
sure. We know you’ll be on your best behavior.”
“I haven’t let you down yet.” They didn’t point out I’d only been here a few days. I appreciated that. In return I didn’t roll my eyes at them. “Don’t worry, alcohol isn’t on my training plan.”
They glanced at each other, but it was Grandpa who spoke. “We still hope you’ll tell us all about that.”
“And I want to. There’s a great deal to tell.” I smiled.
Suddenly Grandma looked like a predator. “Oh? Anything we can use for bragging rights, dear?”
“Actually, yes. I went to the Youth Nationals twice in high school.”
She looked a bit let down. “Yes, dear. Your mother told us that. We’re going to need more than that.”
I stared at them levelly. Suddenly this social competition with me as a proxy struck me as bizarre on some level. Sure, I could play the game, but now I didn’t want to. “I’m at CalPac on a full-ride crew scholarship, and I started school as a freshman walk-on to the JV crew, which is almost unheard of, then—”
“Yes!” Grandpa said. “That’ll shut up that tiresome Henry Siciliano and his grandnephew who’s on the football development team at Penn.”
What, no fist pump? “I’m not done. I was bumped up to varsity in the middle of finals.”
Grandpa’s grin became beatific. “Excellent.”
He sounded like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. Creepy.
“I haven’t officially decided if I’m going to do this, but I’ve been scouted by USRowing, and my coaches want me to train and compete for a spot on the Under 23 team, with the goal of rowing at the World Championships next summer. I have to give my coaches an answer right after break.”
I watched my grandparents’ eyes grow wide as I spoke.
“Oh, and I have a four-pointer. Can you work with any of that?”
This unseemly gloating? It couldn’t be healthy.
I excused myself to put on my tuxedo. No way was I risking it by eating in it. Was this all I represented to my grandparents? A means of jockeying for position? They’d seemed so warm and welcoming. I’d come up with something positive to say about Geoff on the ride to the party, even if I had to lie, because I had no clue what his grades were or what else he’d been up to at UC San Diego. But they should be proud of both of their grandsons, not only the rowing impresario. I’d come looking for love and welcome, but I’d found money. Being an adult, I was coming to learn, was a very complicated thing.
Pictures were taken. I texted one to Michael, along with a brief commentary on the evening thus far. No reply. That worried me. He never failed to reply, and it made me wonder if I’d offended him in some way. So I was walking into a society party—basically a shark tank—offended and worried. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 16
ON THE ride over, my grandparents provided me a rundown of who we’d meet that night. They’d hired a car service to take us, partly for purposes of display and partly so they could freely imbibe. It sounded like one of those “events of the season” parties. All I knew was that we were all swathed to our chins in topcoats or wraps we planned to wear only for the length of the drives to and from. I shrugged inside the armor of wool. Rich people. What could I do?
At least we wouldn’t be announced. I hoped.
“Mr. and Mrs. Snobby Asshole, and their pawn, Hapless Dupe.” Yeah, I could see it now. Not suave at all.
We drove for a while, making only chitchat that meant nothing. Good practice for the evening to come, I supposed. Never had I wished more that my HIV meds contained a sedative.
The car had long since left the Gold Coast when it pulled off the highway, and before long we drove through a neighborhood—if that term applied to a place where mansions sat in splendid isolation, separated from their putative neighbors by acres and ivy-covered walls—where people’s cooks drove ten minutes to get to next door to borrow the proverbial cup of sugar. At least the light displays looked tastefully understated. I made a mental note to compliment our hosts’ gardeners when we arrived.
My grandparents’ hired car waited in the queue to drop us off, but not for long. Apparently this class of people—or their drivers and valets—knew how to make short work of a traffic jam. I wondered what drivers did while they waited? Oh well, soon someone opened our car door, and we made our entrance. Once inside a butler quickly divested us of our outerwear, and that was that. I felt like I was about to be thrown to the wolves.
And the first wolf spotted us in record time.
“Evelyn! Howard!” squealed a woman in an unspeakable fuchsia dress. It left me speechless. Thank whatever dark power was responsible for its creation that she knew my grandparents, because I had no idea what to say. “I’m so glad you made it!”
“Pandora!” My grandmother opened her arms to greet her. “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
The two women stopped short of touching and kissed the air roughly an inch above each other’s cheeks. Maybe their makeup would’ve triggered a cross-reaction?
After Grandpa had greeted Pandora, he turned to me. “This is our grandson, Jeremy Babcock. He’s visiting from California during his winter break from college.”
Pandora shook my hand. “How do you do, Jeremy? You must be Dina’s son!”
“One of them, yes, but please, call me Remy. My brother Geoffrey sends his regrets. He was detained at school over the break, a project he didn’t quite finish in time.” Okay, maybe not the best line to come up with off the top of my head, but I was determined my brother wouldn’t be totally erased. I might’ve been mad—furious, even—at him, but we were still brothers.
Pandora tittered. “You never told me that Dina’s boys had grown up into such handsome young men,” she said to my grandmother.
“We hardly knew ourselves.” That would’ve been my grandfather.
Pandora waved it away. “Come in, all of you.” Still attached to my arm, she leaned in and said, “There are any number of people your age here, but I dare say you’re one of the comeliest.”
I looked good, and I knew it, maybe better than I’d ever looked before, but what was the point? Michael couldn’t share it with me, and Geoff wasn’t here to grumble with. I groaned inside. I so needed to resolve that issue. But I was the total package from my shoes to my glasses and hair. I didn’t say that often. Actually, I’m not sure I’d ever said that. So why couldn’t I sit back and rock it? Because I’m me, that’s why. Instead, my grandparents’ weird interest in anything and everything they could and would use to advance their social position ate at me, along with Michael’s radio silence.
For some reason all I could think of were the lyrics to ABC’s “Vanity Kills.” That song told the story of a beautiful person entranced by her own reflection, a modern Narcissus, but Codeine Velvet Club’s song of the same name? That one was a cautionary tale. Screw it. I was hot.
I tagged along with my grandparents for an unpleasant hour or so before they released me into the wild, which in a way was worse. As the three of us had circulated about the rooms of the enormous house, I’d felt the eyes of my peers on me and caught the calculating gazes out of the corner of my eyes.
I hated being alone at parties. What had Geoff called me once? The Ice Princess? That’s what happened when I was alone in unfamiliar situations. I turned aloof and isolated myself. Oh hey, icy hauteur for the win! I was already halfway there, feeling like I was nothing but a game piece for my grandparents’ social advancement.
So I pulled out my phone and texted Michael.
I’m alone @ a party full of strangers. U know how I get. Save me from myself.
As I had come to expect, he didn’t reply. I sighed. Since I lacked the balls to read on my phone in a room full of people, I put it away. I knew no one, and while my grandparents’ social climbing on the back of my rowing achievements weirded me out, I nonetheless was reluctant to embarrass them. They’d been so kind to me, after all….
Then I looked up. Someone met my
eyes from across the room. My playmate from the other night. Had it really only been last night? Was this the rich peoples’ party circuit or something?
So yeah, he was there, along with a cadre of the young and beautiful from what I presumed was Chicago society, or at least gathered from around the country by Chicago high society. I couldn’t figure out my problem. It wasn’t as if I’d see these people again once I flew home. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. I knew exactly what my issue was—incurable introversion. That, and the fact that I’d grown accustomed to hiding behind Michael.
But these guys? What were they going to do? Run to their parents and grandparents and whine, “Some guy in a dinner jacket snubbed me?”
No wonder I was in therapy. I still wasn’t housebroken if I couldn’t be taken to a party and behave for several hours.
Then I looked up from where I was trying to hide behind a light-festooned ficus tree. My playmate from last night approached. Not only that, he looked determined. So much for hiding deeper into the potted ficus.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello.”
“So who are you, mysterious cover boy?”
“What?” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. It was such an absurd conceit.
“I am quite sure that I’ve seen you on the cover of Paris Vogue or maybe even DNA.”
I gave him an are you fucking kidding me? look over my glasses. “As far as pick-up lines go, that has to be one of the cheesiest I’ve ever heard. You write it yourself?”
“I was going to say Architectural Digest, because you’re that well built, but I didn’t think you’d fall for it.” He grinned. “Are any of them working?”
That forced a laugh out of me. “Oh my God…. You did not say that.”
“I’m Lance. I saw you last night.”
“I saw you seeing me last night. I’m Remy.”
“As in Martín?”
“As in Jeremy.”
“So who do you keep texting?”
I froze as I reached for my phone. “I’ve only texted someone once since I’ve been here.”
“I’m including last night.”
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