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His knuckles around the stem of his wineglass are pretty much the same color as his father’s. All leached out and white. Bloodless.
He doesn’t even spare me a glance. I wish he would. Because my eyes would drip the same anger that his gaze holds. They’re all talking around him like he doesn’t even exist.
I hear Mrs. Howard’s airy laughter. “Everyone’s a troublemaker when they’re at school, George. He was just being a boy.”
Mr. Prince takes a sip of his wine. “Troublemaker or not, Zach is a Prince. And every Prince is born with a certain set of traits, a certain intelligence, a certain intellect. Going to Oxford is just a part of it. I went. My father went. My father’s father went. And if Zach hadn’t, then he wouldn’t have been one of us.”
Then, he smiles at the table in general as his eyes remain pinned on his son. “And that was just unacceptable to me. And to my wife.” He turns to Mrs. Prince and kisses the back of her hand.
More chuckles go around the table.
Fuckers.
Every single one of them.
I can bet anything that Zach’s father wasn’t supportive of his dyslexia. Which is so unfair and archaic.
It’s not Zach’s fault that he has a learning disability. Not to mention, it’s easily treatable. This is the twenty-first century, people.
Zach was right.
He’s expendable. An afterthought. To his dad, at least.
Because according to his dad, he isn’t a Prince. He’s defective.
He’s a reject.
Isn’t that what bullies say to you? You’re too fat. You’re too short. You’re a nerd. You’re a loser. You eat too much. You eat too little.
It’s not Zach. It’s his dad. He’s the bully.
I can almost see him bullying Zach into believing that he doesn’t belong in this family. The family of perfectionists and architects who build estates and palace-like mansions and are town-founders in their spare time.
I can almost see Zach as a little boy trapped in a tower with a glass window, where he can see the stars but never touch them.
Because he was made to believe he couldn’t.
***
After dinner, I see him.
Zach’s walking down the winding pathway that cuts directly across the cottages and along the side of the woods.
I’m in the kitchen, cleaning up. But at the sight of him, I wash my hands and say my goodbyes. And I run out after him.
Ever since he came back, almost every night I hear him take off on his bike. I don’t know where he goes. Maybe he just rides, feels the wind in his face, but after what happened tonight, I don’t want him to be alone.
My running ability is kind of hampered though, because I’m wearing two-inch-heeled Mary Janes instead of my best friends: my leather combat boots.
But I follow him, nonetheless.
I want to call out his name but something is preventing me. Probably it’s the tightness in his posture. His fisted hands and the fact that I know he wouldn’t like it if I called out his name and asked him to let me be with him so he’s not alone.
In fact, I’m sure he would downright hate it if I stuck my nose in his business.
Cruel is what I’ll do to you if you don’t stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.
Whatever.
