“Can you make this quick? I’m en route to an important meeting with the musical production team. They have the opening number ready for me to listen to. It’s titled ‘Swinging Swords.’”
I almost choke on my coffee, trying to stifle a laugh. “Are you sure that’s what they want to go with?”
“Yes, Matthew,” she says, the portrait of seriousness. “The show begins with a battle sequence. It just makes sense. The lyrics are all about the different types of swords—short sword, long sword, aiming sword.” She shakes her head at me. “Why are you laughing?”
“No reason,” I say. I’ll let the creative team sort out their own messes. “When can I come home?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “After New Year’s. How many times do I need to repeat myself?” She doesn’t even have the decency to sound like she’s partially on my side in all this.
“Look, I walked thirty-three minutes into town this morning down what I’d consider to be a treacherous ice rink for half-decent coffee. Did you know I’d be sleeping in the basement?” Mom doesn’t react. “In bunk beds?” Is she even listening? “Under a stranger?”
“There’s no need to yell, Matthew. Yes, I knew about the basement and the bunk beds and the college boy. I’m your mother. I know everything.” She loves to tout that fact, but rarely does she act like it. “If you had read Grandma’s texts, you’d have known as well.”
“I have no privacy! It’s like I’m living in a castle’s servants’ quarters in one of your books.” Mom always brightens at the mention of details from her books, but not today. “It’s not just the beds. I have to share a bathroom! The drugstore didn’t have my hydrolyzed vegetable protein shampoo. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m suffering.”
“What do you know aboutsuffering?” Mom lets loose a mocking scoff. “I grew up in that house for eighteen years, so you can handle four weeks. The same amount of time you survived NYU.”
There she goes again, bringing up the lost deposit and wasted tuition money from nearly three years ago. Like she doesn’t wipe her butt with the check we wrote that hack institution. I guess I would’ve been more serious about it had most of my prep school friends not forgone college for start-ups and modeling gigs, luring me into underground clubs and a party scene that was more interesting than my 8:00 a.m. gen-ed lecture.
“It’s part punishment, part kick in the ass. Until you’ve seen the error of your ways and we ensure the story of your island misadventure doesn’t get out, you’re staying put. No use obsessing over something you can’t change. It’s tough love. Ever heard of it?” She raises a daring, penciled-in eyebrow. “And be aware, Grandma and Gramps will be sending us reports on your behavior. So, you best be on your best.”
I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat. “But what about my New Year’s Eve party?”
“What about it, Matthew? You don’t get to buy an island and then pout over a silly little party. You lost pouting privileges when you could’ve scared Dad’s investors shitless and lost me my musical!”
“Oh, please. There’s no way this is all over one stupid island. Sarah is making sure nobody knows, and even Dad said it would’ve been a good investment under the right circumstances. What is going on that you don’t want me home for?”
“Matthew, I love you, but you’re too nosy for your own good. Leave grown-up things for the grownups.” I don’t bother to hide my eye roll. Iama grown-up. I have been for almost four years. When are they going to start treating me like one?
She’s not even looking as she signals her driver to drop her off a block away. There’s too much traffic for her to sit still any longer. She must think she decomposes or something if she’s not on the move. “Think of this as a winter retreat to reevaluate your priorities. You’re staying there. End of story.” Classic her, treating me like one of her characters. “Keep me updated. Got to run. Kisses.”
I don’t even get to say goodbye.
Noelle tries hard to make it look like she wasn’t listening, but I know better. I chug back my now lukewarm latte just to feel something inside me that isn’t buzzing stagnancy.
“Can I grab another of these to go?”
“Oh, you want morehalf-decentcoffee, do you?” I see from her knitted brow she’s not going to let that offhanded comment go.
“I was just saying that to be dramatic. It was hyperbole.” She’s unmoved, lips pursed. “I didn’t mean it.” I bat my eyelashes for added effect. Her glare goes on for what feels like forever, but she ultimately nods and dips behind the shiny, silver coffee machine.
As I wait, I text Bentley:
SOS.
I have a roommate here.
We’re sleeping in bunk beds.
Kill me.
It’s like Summer Camp 2.0
She texts back within minutes, instead of her usual seconds:
Bentley: Stfu, you went to theater camp in the Catskills.
Me: And???
