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Today, though, he has no electronic nearby. In a powder blue button-down and expensive slacks, he’s seated beside my mom. My dad has always looked a lot like a fifty-something Jeremy Irons. Not physically intimidating, but his resolute expression is less friendly than my mom’s gentle one.
I have no idea what this is about. Ever since my mom joined this new church when I was ten, we don’t open presents on Christmas Day. We attend church on Christmas morning, but it’s always insanely packed, so we have to show up hours early just to secure a chair.
Because of that, we open gifts on Christmas Eve.
Even last night, I was reminded that I’m on the “naughty” list for my family. Good to my dad’s word, he didn’t allow anyone to give me a single gift. Punishment for vandalizing Loren Hale’s mailbox and then squirting punch on some of Lo’s roommates. His sister-in-law, Rose Calloway, was one of them.
I didn’t fight the punishment because I deserved it.
Watching my three brothers open their gifts while I was left with nothing—that was the least of what could’ve happened.
“Take a seat.” My dad points to the chair across from them.
I don’t sit. My gaze falls to a white envelope on the table’s glossy surface. I stuff my hands into my black hoodie. “What’s this about?”
“Sit, please.” He never raises his voice with me. Doesn’t physically hit me. Doesn’t do much of anything.
He’s not a big force in my life like my mom. His million-dollar tech company leeches his time and energy, and this holiday, I only saw him smile once. When Davis asked him to throw a football outside.
He found the time to play a quick game with all three of my brothers.
I sat out, and maybe he’s here to lecture or scold me. But what’s with this envelope?
I teeter, stuck between sitting and standing, not knowing which to take. I decide to sit before he repeats the request.
Maybe this isn’t about me. Maybe they’ve decided to split up or something. Uncertainty binds my lungs, and I’m not even sure how I’d feel about a divorce.
My mom slides the envelope closer to me. “This is your Christmas gift.” She seems more nervous than excited.
I reluctantly pry the envelope off the table. Frowning, I haphazardly tear open the paper and find a sleek brochure inside.
Faust Boarding School for Young Boys
I stare blankly at the photograph. A gothic New England building landscapes an upstate New York setting. Teenage guys in suits smile and hold books, some propped near a large stone statue. It looks like an Ivy League institution made for teenagers preparing for life at Yale, Princeton, and Harvard.
My stomach sinks the longer I stare.
“What is this?” I mutter under my breath, already knowing the answer in my heart.
“We’ve pulled you out of Dalton Academy,” my dad says. “You’re not excelling there, and after what happened to your friends…” He clears his throat. “Your mom and I think that Faust will provide the proper guidance you need to finish your senior year.”
My brain flies a million miles a minute. Too many questions. I unleash one thing. “What about lacrosse?”
I grimace at my words. Seriously? Lacrosse.
I don’t even like lacrosse. I pause, that sentiment not sitting right in my stomach. I hate lacrosse. I don’t know if I really do. The thought of not playing feels strange. Feels wrong. I frown deeply. I’m not sure of anything anymore.
“Unfortunately, Faust doesn’t have a lacrosse team,” my dad tells me while giving my mom a look. This might’ve been a point of contention in their final decision.
My stomach cramps, and the brochure crinkles under my tight grip.
Mom scoots forward, hands outstretched towards me. “But Faust has a chess club and cross-country, tennis, and even swimming. You can be involved in plenty of other sports or an extracurricular.”
I’ll graduate at the end of May. I barely have any school left. It’s not like I can just walk onto the cross-country team. It’s not like I want to.
Why are we even discussing sports like this is actually happening? Who’d make their kid switch schools in the middle of their last year?
“This can’t really be up for discussion,” I say dryly.
“Of course it is,” my mom says. “You can choose whichever sport you want. We won’t make that decision for you.”
“No,” I snap. “Not sports. I’m talking about this.” I wave the brochure that’s battered between my fingers, no longer crisp and pristine. “Faust. I don’t get a say?” I hear my own rebuttal before my parent’s launch theirs.
You’re rich. You’ve been given everything in life. You’re complaining about a boarding school, you asshole. You spoiled, ungrateful brat.
Guilt tears up my insides. I feel like I have no room to complain. No room to scream or throw shit. No room to combat, even though I’m eighteen.
