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Static. Tuija clears her throat. "You rang?"
"Did I ever order a background check on Leontine Reeves?"
"Not as an individual, no." She sighs. "It'll be on your desk in the morning."
"I want everything from her kindergarten scribbles to the files from her gynaecologist. Oh—and she's expecting a call about a dress. Find her something couture. Tight."
"Slutty?" she says hopefully.
"I'm thinking red carpet." Red for so many things. "Send her lingerie, too. But no panties."
"Your fucked-up wish is my regrettable command."
You see how I get away with this shit? Tuij is so used to my asshole act, it's water off a duck's back. She even finds it funny.
If I had a conscience, it would weep itself hoarse.
TWENTY FOUR YEARS AGO
Farrow Middle School, New York
Aged Eight
"This is the second incident in a week." Principal Barnes sits back in his old office chair, arms folded against his bobbled navy suit. He fixes on my mother with suspicious eyes.
"I don't understand." She glances between the Principal and me. "Aeron was meant to be performing in the recital this morning. He—"
"We made the decision to withdraw that privilege," the old principal cuts in sharply. "His behaviour during rehearsals has been less than satisfactory. Less than safe, Mrs Lore. First, he lost his temper during choir practise and slammed the piano case on Mrs Pinter's fingers. At least one of them is broken. And then," he cuts his stoic gaze to me, "he shoved an entire line of fourth graders down the staircase in the lobby. They went down like dominoes." He takes a deep breath, as if to prompt my mother to join him.
"Jesus." My mother picks at the belt of her red trench coat; I know this cue. "Are the girls okay?"
"They were shocked. A few bruises. Fortunately, it's not a long staircase." He turns to me again, zeroes in with those yellowing, beady eyes. "It could have been a lot worse. I think you know that, don't you, Aeron?"
My school blazer feels stuff, heavy. Makes it hard to shrug. "It was an accident," I say quietly.
"And yet three other students—and your teacher—report that they distinctly saw you push."
My teacher. Miss Weisz. Rage simmers in my clenched fists.
"Principle Barnes." My mother reaches over to take one of my fists. She picks it apart, finger by finger, as if to demonstrate my harmless bravado. "He wouldn't be the first eight-year-old to do something silly in the heat of the moment. Or to have a temper."
"I need you to take these incidents seriously, Mrs Lore."
"Miss Lore," she corrects, her voice perfectly cool.
"Miss. My apologies."
"Of course." She deposits my hand back in my lap almost too quickly. Disowns it. "I'll speak to Aeron at home. He knows that he can't behave this way."
I bow my head. "I'm sorry, Mama."
"Well." The principal clasps the edge of his desk. "As I explained earlier, Aeron is suspended until Monday. We'll see him then."
Suspended. A dirty word, one my mother is furious to hear. She hides it well in the principal's office, but I felt the tremble of her wrist when she touched me. And as we walk out through the lobby—fast, wide steps toward the car outside—her anger begins to pierce the skin. Little ripples, flashes of red on her cheeks. Pink, white. A shudder of matted black eyelashes against blotchy flesh.
It's cold outside. Rain seeps into my blazer, blown deep into the fabric by wind. The anticipation is like toothache. Soon, pain will take her like a molar pushing through.
"In." She holds open the car door and spits the word like a bullet.
I climb into the front seat, shivering. In a small act of rebellion, I don't fasten my seatbelt; she doesn't check. Never has.
The engine disturbs our silence, as does the sound of tires grating along gravel. I watch the raindrops race down the windscreen before the wipers scrape them away.
"You," my mother says through her teeth, "have not been listening."
"I'm listening now," I mutter. There's a piece of torn white skin beside my thumb nail; I give it a tug.
"What have I told you about controlling your anger?"
The skin comes loose. A thrill streaks through me like hot pepper, warming the valley of my spine. A single bead of crimson oozes across my nail.
Mother glances over at me and makes a harsh, frustrated sound. "Why the hell have you been acting out like that?"
I suck the blood from my thumb with a satisfying pop. "Because they deserved it."
"Irrelevant. What was it going to achieve?"
"Consequences," I say, staring at the rain. "Like you told me, Mama. If you do something and then bad stuff happens, you won't do it again." The bitter aftertaste of blood pulls my tongue to the roof of my mouth. "Mrs Pinter sucks at piano. And Jessica and Moira in the hall weren't listening to the teacher, they weren't—"
"It's not up to you to punish people," she says, exasperated. "All that happens is that you're noticed. Or worse, suspended. You want that on your record? Really?"
"But they deserved it!"
"You don't shit on the bottom of the food chain, Aeron. Not when you're the one at the top. Sooner or later, you'll eat your way through, and what will be left for you then? They're already shitting all over themselves."
I watch new blood emerge from the wound on my thumb. Thick and glossy. If I squint, I can see a little of my reflection in the tiny dome. "Then maybe I'll just spit them out."
Mother lowers her tone. "You'll get nowhere if you can't hide. Only place that kind of attitude will take you is prison. I can't have you there. Not happening."
We pull off the freeway into a road lined with tall pine trees. The car grows dark in their shadows, and we drive for long minutes toward the little town where we bought the new house.
"Daddy played piano better than Mrs Pinter," I say quietly.
The car pulls to a sudden stop. I jerk forward, bracing my hands against the dashboard and narrowly avoiding a swift trip into the misted glass.
"Out," hisses my mother. The pain is back, writhing across her face like smoke.
"Out where...?"
"I said, out. You're walking."
I glance out of the window, suddenly wary. I don't even know my way home from here.
"I told you not to mention him. This is an obsession, it's unhealthy...we talked about this, I told you..."
"Is he here?" My voice breaks as I take in the forest either side of us, the bracket of overbearing trunks and sinister green. "We left him by the trees."
Mother throws herself over me, yanking open the passenger door. "Out!" she screeches. "Or God help me, Aeron..."
I climb out on to the edge of the road, my school shoes crunching on autumn leaves. It's colder than I remember.
"Dinner's at six," my mother mumbles. And then she pulls the door shut, flicks the radio on loud, and speeds off down the narrow road. As the orchestra music fades, so does she.
I breathe in the scent of gasoline and wet grass. Survey the endless stretch of trees. Close my eyes a little.
When I open them, my thumb has bled a spider web of crimson on my scuffed black shoes.
#3
Obsession (noun): a bullshit psychobabble word for focus
The single key to my success is obsession.
People get uncomfortable that word. They consider it extreme, that it's a sign you should worry. Let me tell you, sports fans, the only time you should worry about something is if you fucking fail. And if you're obsessed by something, your chance of failure is significantly lower. Your brain just won't let it happen.
Maybe I'm more prone to preoccupation than most. The devil is in the detail, they say; I guess the devil and I get along rather well. But I was obsessed with blending in, with seeming neurotypical, and now I'm known throughout the industry for being firm but fair. I was obsessed with being the best in this business, and that gave me wings to fly. Sure, other things fall by the wayside in the wake of obsession—relationships, mostly—but that only matters if you care about them. And I don't.
I like the view from the top. Even with all the shitting beige I have to put up with, I've made up for that in shadows. With crimson and scarlet and deep, wine red.
