by Nick Nolan
“Sometimes. Unless you try to make yourself fall in love with the wrong person. Just remember, you can’t make yourself hungry when you’ve stuffed yourself, or convince yourself you’re not hungry when you’re starving. Unless of course you have an eating disorder.”
“If you know so much, then how come you’re not married?”
“How do you know I’m not?”
“Well, you live here, don’t you? And I haven’t seen any maids besides you.”
“You’re correct. I’m a single man, as I’ve been, unfortunately, for some time now.”
“Then you were married?”
“In every sense of the word, except legally. My spouse passed away.”
“How?”
“I’d rather not say. It’s hard for me to talk about it.”
At first Jeremy didn’t know what to say; he’d never known anyone besides himself who owned a tragedy. “It’s OK. I know what you mean,” the boy said finally. “It seems like everyone here in Ballena Beach dies young, like my dad and both my grandparents. None of them even got to thirty.”
“Well, fortunately that doesn’t always have to be the case, as is evidenced by my presence here this evening.” Arthur laughed, rising from his chair to switch on the chandelier overhead. Jeremy also pushed himself up, as he sensed that their conversation had grown too intimate for them to remain in this room together.
“Can I see the rest of the house now, Arthur?”
“I’m afraid I am neglecting my ‘maid’ duties, Jeremy. And besides, this talk of love and death has left me a bit melancholy. Maybe tomorrow morning.”
“But tomorrow I start school,” Jeremy reminded. Not that he really cared about seeing the rest of the house, but he did have more questions to ask. And he liked the man’s company.
“Tomorrow afternoon, then, so I can hear all about your first day of school. In the meantime, I expect you’ll want those shopping bags emptied and the heaping contents laundered?”
“You don’t have to wash them,” Jeremy laughed. “Nobody’s worn them.”
“Yes, of course. I’d forgotten.” He grinned.
“Arthur?”
“Yes, young man?”
“Do you know anything about my father’s accident?”
His smile vanished. “Jeremy, at one time just about everyone in Ballena Beach had their own theory of what happened that night. All I can say is you’ve got enough to deal with without listening to rumors or imagining things about a tragedy that happened so long ago. Just believe in the fact that the truth always comes out. And the important thing is that you’re here now, and you’re safe. I’ll make sure of that. Now what do you want for dinner?”
Chapter Eleven
The pounding on the door rescued him from his recurring dream of having to pull his complaining mother around the beach in a little red wagon, the tiny wheels sticking in the sand like ice skates in wet cement.
“Jeremy, wake up.”
“Yeah,” he answered, muffled and sleepy. He half cracked open an eye. It was still dark.
“It’s Arthur. May I come in?”
“OK.” He turned over and propped himself up against the headboard as the door swung open and Arthur entered backward, his biceps straining under the weight of the heaping bed tray piled high and chinkling with silver and crystal.
“Wow, where’s the princess?” Jeremy asked, rubbing his eyes.
“That would be you. Your aunt wants you to get an early start for school. She’ll drive you there herself, but says you’ve got to eat a good breakfast first.”
“I don’t eat breakfast,” Jeremy stated, while bunching the covers around his lap to camouflage his morning erection.
“Your aunt expected you’d say that, so she told me to tell you that from now on you’ll be eating a full breakfast every morning. Now straighten out your covers so I can put this down. It’s heavy.”
Carefully, he pulled the bedclothes evenly around him, and Arthur, bending from the waist, settled the large tray on the bed, trapping the boy’s legs underneath.
“I’ll kill you if you spill anything on that comforter. It fills up the whole back of the Rover when I take it to the cleaners,” he said.
“I’ll try not to.”
“And don’t get used to this breakfast-in-bed business. This is strictly a back-to-school present.”
“Don’t worry. So what’s in here that’s so important to eat?”
“Per Mrs. Tyler’s orders: a fresh basil and sun-dried tomato omelet with mozzarella and turkey sausage, homemade biscuits with butter and marmalade, fresh grapefruit juice, and freshly ground Starbucks coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“You should know that your aunt is of the opinion that people who don’t drink coffee shouldn’t be trusted. I suggest you use the sugar in that bowl.” He pointed.
The boy rolled his eyes.
“You’d better get used to this.”
“Yeah, I know, I know. I guess there are worse things.” He surveyed the food before him and decided to try the biscuits. He knifed some butter and pushed it on the steaming bread, then popped it in his mouth. “Are there any other orders from her?” he mumbled through crumbs.
“As a matter of fact, there are. She says you are to wear khakis and a white long-sleeve Oxford, brown leather shoes, and a matching belt.”
“What are khakis?” Jeremy asked.
“Beige twill pants.”
“What’s twill?”
“Not denim, or jeans.”
“And when do I have to be ready by?”
“7:15 sharp. Class today starts at eight, but tomorrow you’ll need to be up and ready by six for swim team tryouts.”
“Six?”
“Six.”
“I’ll be ready. And thanks for the breakfast.”
“You’re welcome. Just leave the tray on the table over there and I’ll pick it up later. And good luck today.”
Katharine was already outside warming up the Jaguar in the circular drive when Jeremy, in designated uniform, bounded down the flagstone steps toward the rear of the car with its twin plumes billowing from the tailpipes. He could see she was yammering into the little silver phone in her hand, and as he approached the car, she clipped the device shut and hit the switch for the passenger window to descend. She then snatched the sunglasses off her nose and glared at him.
“Stop,” she ordered.
He stopped.
“Open the door, but don’t get in. Let me see you.”
He obeyed, his right hand frozen on top of the car’s window frame.
She examined him from hair to shoes. “Let me see your socks.”
He raised up one foot and then the other for her to see from her position in the driver’s seat, not thinking that one foot would have sufficed.
“Turn around, slowly please.”
He revolved in response, and when he’d completed the circle, he saw, with relief, that she was smiling.
“Excellent! You look respectable and eager—the perfect prep school attendee. Now, please get in. We mustn’t be late—Principal Riley does not tolerate tardiness.”
As he buckled his seat belt, the car zigzagged down the cypress-lined driveway to the two iron gates that swung wide, releasing them onto the street. She cranked the wheel to the right, swinging them onto Zumirez Drive, then up to Pacific Coast Highway, where she nearly killed them both while making a left turn into the northbound lanes. Within moments, they were passing the other cars at double the speed limit.
“Damned tourists. I still haven’t figured out where to buy a good used stoplight I can install back there.”
“You really have to buy your own stoplights in Ballena Beach?”
She threw him a frown. “Of course not, dear. Are you nervous, or don’t you have a sense of humor?”
“I guess I’m a little nervous.”
“Thank God. And your being apprehensive is completely understandable, considering where you were a wee
k ago and all the change that has taken place since. I must say, you’re doing remarkably well, Jeremy. You’re holding up like a true Tyler. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Just remember who you are and where you’ve come from—consider it a type of boot camp if that helps. You’re much stronger than you know.”
“It’s just that I’m afraid I’ll be a little behind in the classes here, even though I was doing pretty good back in Fresno.” He was lying. He was lucky to maintain a C average, and here she was already talking about his being the perfect prep school attendee.
“Well, how could anyone be expected to make the dean’s list under such circumstances, half starved and wearing rags and having to spend your precious homework time looking after the one who should be looking after you, or searching the cabinets and toilet tanks for booze?” The car roared suddenly as she floored the accelerator to make the yellow light at Corral Canyon.
“We only had one toilet.”
“Of course…” She paused, apparently deep in thought. “As I recall, Arthur has a master’s degree in something. I’ll ask if he’d be willing to oversee your studies. Would that help you?”
“Sure, I like Arthur, and I get along with him.”
“Good. Just don’t get along with him too well.”
What was she implying?
“I don’t understand…”
“I mean that…that one should never lose sight of the true nature of the relationship between employer and employee, especially as it concerns domestics. One needs certain tasks accomplished, the other a paycheck. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Aunt Katharine.”
But be extra nice to the guys that park your car…
“Good. And if things go the way they should, I might even have Arthur teach you to drive. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Are you kidding?”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ my dear, and in the meantime you see to it that you satisfy the requirements for your learner’s permit. Arthur can teach you on that old black Range Rover Bill refuses to sell. It’s big and safe and slow as a school bus. It’ll be the perfect first car for you.”
“Do you mean that, Aunt Katharine? I could have my own car?”
“I don’t see why not. Just don’t get any ideas about sports cars. There will be no more sports cars in this family.” She smiled sadly at him and then slowed to take their place in a line of expensive cars turning right up a tree-lined street. “And here we are,” she announced as the driveway crested and a sign came into view.
Ballena Beach Senior High School
Home of the Orcas
His stomach twisted at the sight. Everywhere were doorways and sidewalks and balconies and cars and lawns teeming with teenagers of every race, size, and shape gabbing with one another in pairs or groups, ambling and shuffling toward their familiar morning destinations, all knowing where to go, what to do, and whom to do it with, except for him.
His legs began to twitch. His face flushed, and his armpits moistened, and he felt an embarrassing bubble of gas floating its way down to the end of his digestive tract.
She wheeled the car over to the curb. “Jeremy, dear, this is where the mother bird shoves her fledgling from the nest. I’m going to let you off here with your class schedule and a map of the school. And here’s a twenty for lunch. Arthur will be by to pick you up in front at three.”
“Yeah, Aunt Katharine?” he asked. “I don’t think I’m ready yet, if you don’t mind. I just think I need another day or two to get used to everything. Could you just stay here for a while so I can look around the campus?”
“Jeremy, look at me,” she began, taking one hand off the steering wheel to grasp his. “Clearly you have less faith in yourself than I have in you.” She peered over the top of her sunglasses at him, and he saw the kindness in her eyes. “I understand your fear. Your father’s death and your mother’s lack of control over her own life have taught you that this world is an unsafe place. But I intend to change this perception of yours.”
“How?”
“By giving you the same things I gave your father: love, guidance, discipline, structure, education, and privilege. Only this time, I won’t make the same fatal mistake.”
“Which was?”
“I gave your father freedom. You can’t mix freedom with such powerful ingredients—it makes for a lethal recipe when one is young. I knew better, yet I still allowed it. Having done so, regrettably, I believe his death was my fault as much as his own.”
“Do you really blame yourself for what happened to him?” He began to feel calmer the more she spoke about something other than himself. Maybe if he could get her to keep talking, he might miss his first class.
Her face hardened. “Only in the abstract, dear one. Sooner or later the true culprit will be made to pay.” She nodded thoughtfully. “But enough about that. You need to be on your way. And Jeremy, darling, as you walk through this school today, I want you to stop at every mirror, every plate-glass window, every puddle on the ground and take a good look at yourself and ask, ‘What does Aunt Katharine see in me? How will I achieve my destiny? And how ever will I suffer through the adoration when the world falls in love with me?’” She squeezed his hand. “Now, off you go. I have to be at the gallery by eight to meet with a client.”
“Really?”
“Really. Go.”
He blew out a sigh, grabbed his book bag, and pushed himself up and out of the car. He made a tiny good-bye wave as she threw the car into drive.
“Three o’clock out front!” she yelled as the car lurched away from the curb and nudged its way into the snarled line of cars heading their way back down toward PCH.
He was nearly paralyzed with dread. He could always cut class, as he had on occasion in Fresno, but back then he had only his drunken mother to lie to.
His aunt was a different story entirely.
There was just too much at stake; he had a real chance now and wouldn’t screw it up.
So where should he begin? He held up the class schedule and groaned out loud. Each successive entry was worse than the previous: U.S. Government, English Literature, Geometry, Biology, and Spanish. At least his PE class at Zero Period tomorrow should be fun: Men’s Swimming. He loved to swim.
An electronic chime blasted, and groups of students at once fell into ambling lines, like ants drawn by the scent of a dead bird. He rechecked his schedule and glanced at the crinkled map in his hand, then made his way toward the throng, hoping to disappear into it.
Chapter Twelve
Jeremy turned the map upside down and sideways in an attempt to figure out which of the rectangles corresponded with the rows of buildings in front of him that held the classroom in which he was supposed to be, at that very moment, introducing himself to his first teacher. Unfortunately, the creator of the map had neglected to include any fixed landmarks, such as a hillside or even the ocean, to help decipher the drawing. Building A could just as easily have been Building F or Men’s Gym or Administration Building.
“Fuckity fuck!” he exclaimed, wholly exasperated.
“You look lost. Can we help?”
He looked up to see two pretty girls smiling identical smiles, their books held across their chests in exactly the same pose. There was something so similar about the pair that they appeared sisterly, except that one was fair with nearly platinum hair, while the other was dark and exotic, like she had African or Middle Eastern blood.
“Yeah, I sure could use some help. I need to get to room A-32, for U.S. Government.”
“With Miss Irwin?”
“That’s the name on my schedule.”
“We’re going there now. Come on.” The blonde girl grabbed him by the arm. “She’s a total bitch if you’re late. Makes you recite the Preamble in front of the class.”
“Actually, she’s just a total bitch,” said the other. “By the way, I’m Reed; she’s Ellie.”
�
��I’m Jeremy.” The threesome dodged oncoming students as they headed toward the farthest building.
“Where are you from, Jeremy?”
“Fresno, up north. I just moved here a few days ago.”
“Fresno?” they chorused.
“How’d you move from Fresno to Ballena Beach? Sue somebody?” asked Ellie, flipping her hair.
“Actually I came here to live with my aunt and uncle,” he mumbled.
“Don’t pay any attention to what she says. Ellie’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of the Dumpster she was born in.”
“That’s all good and fine coming from a girl who’s so poor she recycles her tampons,” snapped Ellie.
“Ooooh! Ellie girl, you kiss your granny with that mouth? No wonder Coby dumped your classless self!” Reed swung her pink backpack, barely missing the side of her head, and Ellie swung back with her own purse, and they both squealed with laughter. Jeremy grinned apprehensively.
The door to room A-32 had been propped open with an overflowing wastebasket, and as Jeremy and the girls approached, he caught the nasal drone of the teacher, a homely silver-haired woman with buck teeth and glasses thick as English muffins. The girls scooted directly to their seats as the teacher scrawled The Intolerable Acts of King George III on the chalkboard. He stood just inside the doorway with backpack in hand, not wishing to interrupt and waiting for some sort of acknowledgment from her, while at the same time doing his best to ignore the thirty pairs of eyes on him like branding irons, ready to mark him according to the high school caste system.
“Raise your hand if you can think of three repercussions of the British having closed the Port of Boston after…” the woman stopped, shot Jeremy a glance, pointed to an empty chair-desk in the back, then continued “…the Boston Tea Party.”
All eyes followed him as he sidled down the narrow aisle to the vacant seat. He removed his backpack and slid into the cramped desk, ran a hand through his hair, leaned back in the flimsy plastic seat, and aimed his eyes straight at the teacher while affecting the bored expression and slumped shoulders that suggested he’d been sitting there for weeks.