“Um, Gavin? Did you hear that? My party money saves the day.” I tap him on the shoulder, and he glares up at me. “You’re welcome,” I say with an obnoxiously large smile.
“So we can stay at our house?” Dad asks.
Mr.Ahn clears his throat. “The money is not enough to keep your mortgage, and with no assets, you have no collateral. I’m afraid your house is no longer…your house.” A deep and disturbing silence descends on us as we’re stripped of our last shred of dignity. “But the good news is,” Mr.Ahn says with forced enthusiasm, “Elena’s money is enough to tide you over until everything gets sorted out.”
“Okay, I guess that is something.” Dad rubs his forehead, trying to convince himself this is good news when we all know it’s not. “We have the condo in Westwood. I suppose we could stay there.”
“Excuse me?” Gavin’s head jerks back. “I share the condo with Sonya. Have you forgotten? Don’t you know how that would make us look if we just kicked her out of there when it suited us?”
“I’m with Gavin on this,” I say, surprising him. “Have you seen his place? It’stiiiiiny. There are only two bathrooms, and it’s got a kitchenette. Like a house for squirrels or something.”
“Wow” is all Gavin can say.
“I’m sorry, but the Westwood condo isn’t in your budget either,” Mr.Ahn interrupts.
Our jaws collectively drop.
“My condo isn’t anywhere near the dwelling space for woodland creatures that Elena overexaggerated, but it’s far from luxurious. It’s modest at best. With a doorman. And a gym. And a spa— Okay, it’s nice.” Gavin recoils, reconsidering his aforementioned argument.“But it’s a microscopic fraction of the size, not to mention the cost, of our Calabasas mansion. Couldn’t we afford at least that?”
Mr.Ahn, however, remains unmoved.
“So, like, going back to your earlier statement. How is this good news?” I ask. “I thought lawyers were supposed to tell the truth.” I fold my arms across my chest.
“Mr.Ahn, just tell us. Whatareour options?” Mom asks, exasperated.
Mr.Ahn begins shuffling through his papers. “There is one piece of property the IRS is allowing you to retain.” He hands my dad a piece of paper.
Gavin reads it from behind Dad. “Bl-aire?” he says slowly.
“Bel Air?” I squawk loudly, sighing in relief. “Oh, thank God. Finally some good news.” I glance over at Mr.Ahn as I say this.
“No, not Bel Air.Blaire,” Mr.Ahn, the beacon of joy that he is, clarifies.
“Blaire?” I say the unfamiliar word as if it’s toxic. “Where’s that?”
“It was a piece of property we purchased ten years ago,” Dad says, suddenly remembering.
“Ten years ago? I was nine. Elena was seven,” Gavin says. “How come you never told us?”
“We bought it when It’s Ok! began expanding and our prospects were looking good,” Mom explains in a kind of nostalgic but sad way.
“It was supposed to be our retirement plan,” Dad says. “I had completely forgotten about it.”
“Wait, you two purchased a piece of land for retirement and forgot about it?” All of a sudden, alarm bells start ringing, and red flags begin to shoot up. You don’t somehow forget about the property you buy for retirement if it’s an over-the-water bungalow in Bora Bora or a cabin in the Swiss Alps. I narrow my eyes at my parents. “Just where is Blaire?”
“It’s in central California, between LA and San Francisco,” Mr.Ahn explains.
I wrinkle my nose. “Nuh-uh. I’m not falling for this one. No one lives between LA and SF,” I say.
Gavin makes a big show of rolling his eyes. “Is it near Bakersfield?”
“It’s west of Bakersfield,” Mom says.
“Is it close to Santa Barbara?” I ask, hopeful.
“It’s north of Santa Barbara,” Dad says.
“Well, where is it?” Gavin asks impatiently.
