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I look down into my lap and nod, and for that I get another chaste kiss. “Good, I’m glad that’s settled. Logan is having a thing tonight, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather skip it and just do something low key like grab take-out and watch a movie. Sound good?”
While I know that I’m being played to a certain degree, there is a part of me that’s grateful for the gesture. Because let’s face it, for my boyfriend, skipping a party at Logan’s house is like the Pope ducking out of Easter Mass at St. Peter’s.
“As long as I get to pick the movie.”
“Fine,” he leans over and nuzzles into that spot beneath my ear where he knows I’m ticklish, “but then I’m taking lead on chow. Do you want to hang out now, or just see me later on? I know you like to get your act together on Saturdays, and that back there was just a ploy to get you out of the house.”
“I do need to study, so yeah, I’ll see you around seven?”
He gives my hand another gentle squeeze and whispers, “Love you,” when I turn to get out of the car.
“Love you, too,” I parrot back.
Same as always.
Chapter Five
LIAM
It’s all I can do not to rev my engine and tear out of the parking lot at the end of my shift, but as much as I play the part of ungrateful ward, I do love my aunt and uncle, so I refrain from doing anything to jeopardize Uncle Danny’s job at this uppity, fucktard-infested club.
How does he do it? Catering to these people for a few measly hours has me on edge—like literally on the verge of breaking shit—but my uncle has been serving the ultra-rich for years with a smile on his face, and an attitude that seems genuinely warm. He talks about them to my Aunt Maeve, telling funny stories about the horse-crazy kids, or the parents who try their hand at riding lessons for a hot minute as a part of some mid-life quest to fill their empty days and add purpose to their lives.
And today was nothing. Just had to deal with the ladies who lunch crowd, all on strict, no-carb diets, and a few father-son tables fresh off the links. I recognized one of the kids from the shore. Some jerk who owns a big-ass sailboat that probably costs upwards of a hundred grand. In truth, I have no idea what it costs, but it’s a Beneteau and I know that’s the top of the line.
My buddy Mike works at the marina, maintaining boats and filling gas tanks for people who think nothing of dropping over five-hundred bucks in fuel for a one-day pleasure ride. He knows some of those kids, considers them friends. He’s even invited them to a few of the parties us locals throw down on the beach.
I don’t like to go assuming the worst about people who are different from me—seriously, it’s something I’m working on—but I couldn’t help but study their faces as they took in the scene last summer. They’re all the same, scanning the crowd around the bonfire and smiling, but I see the superiority in their eyes.
I sigh mulling it over, admitting to myself that maybe I read into the class warfare crap too intently. Is it possible that they just want to cut loose sometimes? Trade the polo shirt in for a ratty tee and drink non-craft beer? I try to convince myself that I need to give people the benefit of the doubt, but when they can’t manage to rustle up a t-shirt that doesn’t have that pretentious little whale on the chest pocket, they don’t make it easy on guys like me. No, they like to slum it once in a while. That’s the conclusion I’ve drawn.
I hooked up with one of their girls last summer. She was on the arm of one of them when they made their way down the dunes, but sidled up to me after the guy I thought was her man found someone else to entertain him. Can’t remember her name, can’t even remember the details of her face. I just remember that she was aggressive and none too pleased when I passed on her offer.
I don’t like being used or being the butt of a joke.
Shaking my head as I turn onto the main road, I wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn’t kicked and screamed my way out of accepting that scholarship.
I remember my mother insisting on that button-down shirt—the one she’d done a piss poor job of cleaning and ironing. It had that ring around the collar that laughs in the face of the strongest stain removers, and being that it belonged to Jeff, it was too small around my armpits and my neck in a way that reminded me of the way he treated me back then. My pants were also an inch too short.
I’d like to say I can look back on that visual and laugh, but it still stings. Pulling on my collar, I remember sweating in the headmaster’s office as he rattled off my academic achievements and my stellar score on the state-wide test for gifted and talented students. Homing in on the banter of the kids who passed in the hallway as he gave me the grand tour, I could feel my heart racing and knew I was sweating through the pits of that cheap plaid shirt. Some ignored me, some gave me curious looks, turning their heads for no more than a split second. I wasn’t slighted in an obvious way, there were no snickers or people covering their laughter as they took in my cheap clothes. It was nothing like what you see in those stupid teen movies. But I felt like a fish out of water, and wanted out of there, pronto. Made my decision even before the headmaster asked me about my future goals and I stammered out some incoherent nonsense like an imbecile.
The kids who attend those school are practiced in the art of conversation and social graces. Giving a firm handshake and maintaining eye contact are second nature to them. Their education begins at an early age. They learn at the dinner table, on the golf and tennis courts, from the copies of The Economist and The New York Times that arrive at their homes and wait to be devoured. They don’t scarf their cereal down, reading the nutritional panel on the box over and over again just to block out the arguing coming from some corner of their shoebox-sized home.
It’s not a caste system, but your station in life isn’t exactly fluid either. In this world it’s us and them—always has and always will be.Fuck them, I say in my head. I wouldn’t want to be one of those stuck-up, self-important assholes. But then I remember the look on my face, how red I was, sweating as I walked back to my mother’s beat-up minivan. I saw my reflection in the window, impatient as my mom took her sweet time leaning over to undo the passenger-side lock. She was looking to be supportive when she asked how it went, I knew that, but I lashed out at her anyway.What a beautiful school, she offered up as a gesture of peace. And I practically spat at her in return, telling her she was dumb for making me go on that stupid interview because acceptance or not, I was never going there.
Ashamed and inferior, that’s how I felt. My cheap, ill-fitting clothes, my teeth, which I suddenly noticed were crooked in comparison—I even remember thinking that those kids smelled better than I did. And today, just having to smile and ask, “And how would you like your steak cooked?” Damn, I have to grip the steering wheel and breathe deep as it all comes rushing back.
I don’t have the luxury of walking away. People who need money—people like me—have to swallow it down, paste on a smile and suppress our emotions. It’s just the way it is.
Chapter Six
SARAH
My mother is waiting at the door when I come home from school today. Two weeks have passed since that day in science class, but I still haven’t worked up the nerve to ask her or my father what I so desperately want to know.
I went digging instead. I asked my mother for my birth certificate, and she handed it over without blinking an eye. I’ve seen it before, and I don’t recall seeing anything unusual about it, but now I want to scour every detail on that paper. It doesn’t get me anywhere. My parents are listed under mother and father, there’s no indication of a name change, birthday is what I’ve always been told. Nothing to see there. But a little internet sleuthing uncovers some interesting information. For one, New Jersey is a sealed records state, but a law was passed fairly recently allowing adoptees access to their original birth certificate.Originalbirth certificate? A little more digging informs me that there would be no discernible difference between the original and the one issued to adoptive parents after the process is finalized. My birth certificate could be an amended version.
That’s fascinating, but still, I’m back to square one.
