Fenn
I’ve barely sat down in second period on Wednesday before my name is called and I’m summoned to the lobby of the administration building. In the hall, I catch up to RJ heading in the same direction. He’s already loosening the green-and-blue striped tie I helped him with earlier. Damn near moaning with pleasure as he pulls it off. I swear, RJ removing a tie is akin to chicks kicking off their heels after a long day.
“What’d you do?” I demand.
“Me?” He pushes open the double doors leading to the courtyard. “I didn’t do shit.”
We emerge into the crisp morning air, where I falter a step.
“What?” RJ says.
“I just realized…” I hoist my messenger bag higher on my shoulder as a tingle down my spine warns I might have to make a run for it. “If this was a summons from the headmaster, he’d call us to his office, not the lobby.”
“Unless the cops are waiting in the lobby. Seems like a cop thing to do.”
Fuck.
“Could this be about Gabe? The money you wired to the guard at his school?”
“Highly doubt it.” Confidence lines RJ’s tone. “My work is untraceable.”
I let out a breath. “Long way?” I ask.
RJ nods. “Long way.”
We make a loop around the courtyard to the far side of the admin building, which allows us to get a look at the main parking lot. No police cars. None marked, anyway. Still, I’m not convinced this isn’t a trap.
Clearly RJ agrees, because he mutters, “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
We slip in the back door and take our time making our way toward the lobby. As our sneakers move soundlessly over the gleaming hardwood, we’re both braced for something to jump out at us. This building is colder than just about anywhere on campus. The air smells better, too, which somehow makes it all the more ominous.
A thought occurs to me. “You don’t think this is because I went to see Casey last night, right?”
“Wait, seriously?” RJ stops walking and shoves me in an alcove. “What’d you do?”
“Nothing. Snuck in her window—”
“Fenn.”
“She let me in,” I protest. “We got in an argument. But then we sort of made out. Anyway, it didn’t go exactly to plan, and she kicked me out.”
“Damn it.” For a second, he looks like he might want to take a swing at me. Instead, he grits his teeth and pokes his head around the corner. “If she told Sloane, or her dad noticed you leaving…” He trails off uneasily. “They could be here to arrest you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Maybe they need to question me about the boathouse footage and how I got it.”
Shit. For a moment, I do consider bolting. A brief and vivid montage of my life as a fugitive plays less cinematic in my head than it looks in the movies. Then I think about Gabe, completely unaware what’s transpired since he left Sandover. How much I still don’t know about that night.
Why hasn’t he sent a message back to Lucas, damn it? I haven’t been able to find my own way of reaching him yet, which means everything hinges on his response to his brother. I doubt he’d share anything overtly incriminating, but I know Gabe Ciprian like the back of my hand. If Lucas chooses to show me Gabe’s message—and I can’t see him being a dick and not doing that—then I need to pray Gabe included some sort of hint that only I can decipher.
“Come on,” I tell RJ. “If they take me in, you can pawn my watch to bail me out.”
In a strange way, the walk down the wide corridor toward the lobby feels a bit like getting wheeled into the operating room when I got my tonsils out. I was terrified and on the verge of tears, biting my tongue because Mom told me to be strong. I felt grown up that day, facing down my fate.
I think I could do time. Just keep my head down and pay the craziest fucker in the joint to watch my back. Being filthy rich has its perks.
Then we come around the corner and my stomach drops.
“I changed my mind,” I tell RJ. “I’m making a break for it.”
“Coward.”
David and RJ’s mom stand in front of a portrait on the wall, pretending to admire it and looking awkward. Michelle is clad in a ribbed ankle-length sweater dress that hugs her body like a glove. I can’t deny that RJ’s mom is hot. She has glossy dark hair she wears loose around her shoulders, big hazel eyes, and cupid’s bow lips that I once read somewhere is supposedly the mark of, like, supreme beauty or something. I’m sure if Dad married her for a physical feature, though, it was her ass.
“Dude,” RJ warns. “Stop checking out my mom.”
“David, there they are,” Michelle says, tapping him on the shoulder. She waves us over. “Boys, come give us a hug.”
Yeah. Pass. I’m pretty sure the last time I hugged my father was at Mom’s funeral.
RJ dutifully goes to embrace his mom, who she squeezes him tight and says, “Ah, buddy, it’s so good to see you. I missed you so much.”
Dad and I stand there in silence, watching the mother-son reunion. Dad, who had his hands inside the pockets of his wool trousers, pulls one hand out and extends it at me. I stare at it without shaking.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask.
“We decided to surprise you,” Michelle says with a beaming smile. She releases RJ and takes a step toward me as if she’s going to hug me. Then she sees my expression and falters. “It’s nice to see you again, Fenn.”
“Yeah. You too.” We both know I’m lying. But while I feel fine about being rude to my father, I can’t be an outright dick to Michelle. She didn’t do anything to me.
“Thanksgiving seemed too far away,” she adds, linking her arm through RJ’s. “So, we decided it would be fun to call the pilot and fly out here for the day. Take you boys to lunch. How does that sound?”
“Sure. Great,” RJ says without much enthusiasm.
“Wonderful!” She releases him and claps her hands together. “This makes me happy.”
“All right, then,” Dad says gruffly. “The car’s waiting outside.”
The newlyweds start walking, but I hang back slightly. “Don’t make me do this,” I mumble to RJ beside me.
“If I have to, so do you. Suck it up.”
He shoves me forward and now it’s too late to dash, so I force my feet to carry me to the waiting Lincoln town car Dad hired for the day. I feel like I’m marching toward my execution.
They take us to what passes for a classy joint in the tiny redneck town outside Sandover’s gates. Dad makes an embarrassing fuss about picking the perfect table and asking to see a wine list, like it isn’t barely one in the afternoon.
“Seriously. What’s the occasion?” I ask, pouring myself a glass of champagne because, well, can’t let it go to waste. And I’m not sitting through forced family time sober. “Long trip just for lunch. Come to announce the divorce?”
“Hardly,” Dad says cheerfully, reaching for Michelle’s hand. “Like Michelle said, we were eager to see you boys.”
“I missed you,” she says, smiling at RJ. “I can’t get over how different you look.”
“Swimming.” He shyly leans away when she tries to brush his hair back. “We’re in the gym a lot.”
“He’s being modest,” I pipe up. “Don’t want the leader of an underground fighting ring and organized crime syndicate going soft.”
He kicks me under the table, but I don’t spill a drop of my champagne.
“You’re not still getting into fights?” Michelle says, frowning at her son.
RJ shoots me a glare.
“I think he’s pulling your chain,” Dad interjects.
I wink at my stepmom. “Officially, the faculty stopped making the students fight in the pit after that freshman slipped into a coma. But then things happen, right?”
David and Michelle force a laugh because we’re all having such a great time. The appetizers arrive, and I help myself to a crostino of prosciutto and fig. Then I drain my glass and help myself to more champagne.
The mood is shit, and half a bottle deep into the entrees, it hasn’t improved. Michelle is now telling some inane story of her book club with the other well-kept women of the neighborhood. For a single mom who’d carted her son around from city to city for years, she seems to be fitting right in with the Greenwich crowd. Of course, the likelier option is that her new “friends” are smiling to her face during book club and calling her a gold digger behind her back. Rich ladies are nothing if not predictable.
“For weeks we’ve been discussing this novel that everyone absolutely hates,” she says through a barely contained laugh. “Totally loaded on wine and ripping it to shreds.”
My champagne glass has mysteriously gone empty. But when I reach for the bottle, David pushes it out of reach. Doesn’t matter—RJ hasn’t touched his, so I annex it for myself in a hostile takeover. My dad notices and frowns at me. I ignore him.
“Then, finally, someone notices Shelby hasn’t said a word all afternoon. Well, Claire, because she’s Claire, sloshing a glass of red wine everywhere and nearly spilling it all over the Turkish rug she never shuts up about, she actually throws—I don’t know what it was, a hard candy maybe?—at Shelby and demands to know why she’s being so quiet.”
Yes, Shelby. Please. Speak your truth, sister.
“Shelby’s face turns this bright strawberry red, and then with a look of abject horror that honestly frightened me, she slaps her hands over her mouth. Now I’ve been a flight attendant for a long time, so I know that look. I push my chair way back just as bright green liquid spews through her fingers is all directions. Shelby spent the week on some cleanse, drinking nothing but kale juice four times a day. Until she burst all over the room. So now, Claire is on her knees, drunk and sobbing, because her Turkish rug is completely ruined.”
RJ snickers.
“Shelby texted me last night with a screenshot of the cleaning invoice Claire emailed her. Five thousand dollars.” Michelle’s eyes go wide. “Can you believe it’s costing five grand to clean a damned rug?”
“You should have seen the cleaning bill Lawson’s dad got after his last party in the Hamptons,” I say helpfully. “Just getting all the semen out of the pool cost, like, two grand.”
“Fenn,” Dad growls.
RJ is now laughing into his napkin. “Dude,” he sputters.
“What?” I blink innocently.
To my approval, Michelle looks like she’s also fighting back laughter. Stepmommy has a sense of humor, at least.
Dad clears his throat. “Fenn, why don’t you fill us in on how soccer’s going?”
I nudge RJ. “Want to see something hilarious? Hey, Dad, what’s the offside rule?”
“Fenn.” My father levels me with a warning scowl.
“What? I’ve played soccer since I was six years old. Surely you’ve picked up something by now from all the games you’ve attended.”
“Fenn,” RJ murmurs, clearly tired of my shit. “Stop.”
“Oh, wait.” I reach the bottom of another glass and hold it out to Michelle. “Would you be so kind?”
“I think you’ve had enough,” Dad says, touching her arm before she can top me up.
“Spoilsport.” I look back at Michelle. “So, in twelve years, you know how many times he’s seen me play? Guess. This’ll be fun.”
“Enough, Fennelly.” Dad wipes his mouth and drops his napkin on the table hard enough to shake our empty glasses.
“Oh,” Michelle says brightly, as if she’s suddenly solved the issue of world hunger. “Why don’t we take a walk, buddy?”
RJ is already pushing his chair back. “Awesome idea.”
Mother and son practically sprint to the door, and I don’t blame them for making an escape. If I’d been smarter, I would’ve done a tuck-and-roll out of the car on the way here.
“Happy now?” Dad grumbles at me across the table.
I give him a dismissive shrug. “I told you this was a bad idea.”
“You’re drunk and embarrassing yourself.”
“I’m fine. And we both know you’re more worried about your own reputation.”
Dad shakes his head, unhappiness filling his eyes. “All right, Fenn. You’ve made it abundantly clear you’re not interested in giving this family a chance.”
I had a family. She died. And he crawled into his shell and turned his back on me for seven years.
He pushes his plate aside and rests his elbows on the table. “Can we talk about what’s actually bothering you? Michelle says you’ve told RJ that you don’t think I care about you.”
“No. I think what I said was, you didn’t give a shit and couldn’t care less if you were paid to.”
He’s briefly aghast I’d say such a thing out loud, much less to his face. This is on him, though. Should’ve thought twice before letting his teenage son down half a bottle of mediocre champagne and then cracking open the chest of family trauma.
“What on earth would make you think something like that?” His features grow more strained. “You’re my son. I’ve cared about little else since the day you were born.”
“Wow. Dude. It’s impressive you can say that with a straight face.”
“What am I supposed to do to convince you otherwise? I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, now that you’ve got some new bimbo stewardess wife you want to impress because she’s making you feel inadequate. Like, fuck, Dad. How do you not see that’s worse?”
“Michelle’s been nothing but nice to you. If your mother were—”
“Nope.” I throw my napkin on the table, and before I’m aware of it, I’m pointing a butter knife at my father. “You keep her out of your fucking mouth.”
“Fenn!”
Whatever. I drop the knife and reach across the table for the champagne bottle. Dad reaches it first and tries to hand it off to the waiter who appears beside me.
“I’ll take that off your hands,” I tell the server.
“No, Fenn. Sit down,” David orders.
“Nah. I’m just gonna take my friend here and get loaded in the parking lot, if it’s all the same to you.”
The confused waiter looks at my dad, the three of us with our hands on the bottle. “I don’t think I can—”
“It’s cool, man.”
I tug hard on the champagne bottle and carry it with me as I storm out of the restaurant.