They’ve got one thing right.
Hamilton Bates will regret ever fucking with me.
14
Hamilton
I lean against my car to avoid my impulse to pace. Something about my house always makes me want to pace. Maybe it’s the shrieking silence of it all, the stillness, the lack of life. Or maybe it’s the coldness of it, the starkness, like nothing is ever really touched—like you can never really make a mark on it. Like you could live in this fucking place for seventeen years and it’d never really have a trace of you. It wasn’t always something I realized or understood—not until I moved to the dorms.
Sure, I complain about living in a 500 square foot shoe box versus my father’s 12,000 square foot home overlooking the lake. But the dorm has life. I’m able to mark it up with bits of myself, here and there. I can put my jacket on the couch and it’ll still be there in the morning. It remembers me.
Slowly the dorm began feeling more and more like home. Now I’m standing in front of my house, its wide empty windows staring down at me, and I know the second I cross the threshold, it’ll feel like a vise is squeezing the life out of me.
This time is worse, of course, because I know what’s coming. And I can stand out here all night, staring up at the gaping windows and dreading it, but it won’t change a fucking thing.
I already know what’s coming. Disapproval. Disappointment. Pity. And that’ll just be his reaction to the things he knows about. If he found out about Gwendolyn?
That can never happen. Even imagining makes my blood run cold.
It takes me a few more minutes of not-pacing before I man up and finally approach the front door. It feels strange to walk in without knocking now, as if I owned some part of this place that never remembers me.
I walk into the main hall, aware that being here should feel like home, but the house is ridiculous, even by Bates standards. It’s big enough for a family of fifteen, yet now it’s just my mother and father rattling around with a housekeeper. I know why my parents bought this home: expectations. Obviously, my father couldn’t have been regarded as truly successful without the excessive mansion in the gated neighborhood on the north side of town. And my mother, well. It’s her staging area, isn’t it? Her way of proving her value, that she can entertain guests with the finest snobbery a Chanel wallet has to offer. It’s as sterile as the dormitory, maybe even less. The kids, at least, provide entertainment and companionship. Here, it’s like walking through a museum with a single exhibit: twenty-first century upper-class showmanship.
The back doors are open, so I head out to the patio where the outdoor dining area is set for three.
“There you are,” my mother says, placing her drink on the table. My mother is probably a beautiful woman to most people. Her long blond hair is always impeccable. I half suspect she goes to bed with it styled. There was a time, years ago—back when Hollis’ name could still be spoken in this house—where I’m pretty sure I could remember her smiling without the wrinkles spreading out from the edge of her eyes. Before the Botox, back when her eyebrows could still make an expression, she used to look sort of annoyingly sly.
Really, if I think about it, she almost reminds me of... Reagan.
I super do not think about it.
She stands and gives me a kiss on the cheek, but frowns as she studies me. “Goodness, what’s wrong with your face?” She touches my chin and moves it back and forth before rubbing at my eyebrow. “What is all that muck?”
“It’s paint.” I shrug, trying to tamp down my nerves at the thought of my father walking in, at any moment. “I got a little on me.”
‘A little’ is the understatement of the year. Gwendolyn fucking coated me. It took me hours to get it off and I only managed that by calling Reagan. She arrived quickly with a carrying case of makeup supplies, particularly some sort of industrial strength remover. I didn’t want to call her—every interaction with her only confirms that I need to break off whatever this is—but I didn’t have many options. I’ve never really been that into her, no more than the other girls I’ve dated at Preston. Campbell was probably the last girl I really liked—goddamn, she’s a spitfire—but too into petty stuff like looks and social status. Reagan’s just a follower, though. A sheep. I’m not even sure how I let her latch on.
She’d tried to hang out this evening. Thankfully, I had this awful fucking dinner with my parents as an excuse. If I were smart, I’d do what Xavier suggested and bring her with me to get them off my ass, but I couldn’t make myself do it. It would give everyone the totally wrong impression.
“Are you taking art?” Mom asks cluelessly.
My father takes that moment to stride in, carrying his own drink, and comments, “I’m assuming it’s from your detention, correct?” I stiffen, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. He scoffs at my surprised reaction and takes his seat at the table, gesturing for me to do the same. “Weekly reports, son. I’ve been getting them since you moved on campus.”
Ah, of course. Why loosen the reins?
He continues, “I’m well aware of your detention. I’m also aware of the fact you’ve taken your car out recently. Past curfew.”
I take my own seat, my shoulders already tightening in frustration. I realize that he knows about the captainship. He’s just drawing it out, trying to trap me. “I had an errand to run for the swim team. It’s not like I was out joyriding.”
Renata, our housekeeper, walks in pushing a cart full of food. Conversation pauses as she places plates of food in the center of the table. She glances at me and smiles warmly. She’s always been kind to me. Not like a second mother so much as a gentle aunt. She’s the only source of sincere warmth I come home to anymore, and the thought makes my face darken.
I bet when Gwen goes home, there’s laughter. There’s probably a big meal, all of them sitting around the table, sharing smiles and stories. It’s probably a whole event, all of them being happy to see each other. Hell, I bet they even look forward to it. Her parents probably just ask her about her week, and I doubt she stands in her driveway for an hour dreading her own answers.
I have Renata, who is nice—who smiles at me—and who I, in some sense, pay to do so. When she finishes plating the food, and walks back into the house, my father resumes speaking.
“So,” he folds his napkin into his lap, “when were you going to tell me about the coach’s decision?”
I smile bitterly at my plate. Ah, there it is. “Doesn’t seem like you needed me to tell you anything. You’ve got your minions doing it for you.”