(Guess not.)
Robert wants a different life than his parents’. He wants todosomething, toadventure,maybe be an astronaut or a smoke jumper. His great-grandfather struck oil! But what’s left for him? Robert doesn’t want to end up like his father, living off his inheritance, talking about mortgage rates or whether aparticular Scotch is “peaty.” Even his parents’ parties lack fun. They get drunk, sure—his dad more than his mom—but then talk more about mortgage rates.
“Bobcat?” says John.
“Yeah?” says Robert, pausing.
“Xavier never showed today,” says John. “No call, nothing. Can you stay late and cover his shift?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s not like him, is it?”
“No,” says Robert. Of all of them, Xavier is the most organized. Charlie is the nicest, Robert is the strongest, and Xavier is the genius. They’ll be fine, as long as they have each other. In an apocalypse or whatever.
“Can you cover?”
“Sure, I guess so,” says Robert reluctantly. He wants to see Lucy before her shift at Chuy’s, and then hit a raver some Snapchat idiot posted about. He and his friends will either stay at the party or jump the Cliffs. The moms have already planned one of their epic booze fests, this one supposedly to celebrate the first day of summer.
(Which means no one will notice if they’re gone.)
Robert stops at his locker to retrieve his shirt and phone. He groans when he sees his father’s text:FATHER SON LUNCH! MEET YOU OUTSIDE POOL AT NOON.
(Fuck.)
Robert’s dad is obsessed with making his son “a man.” He roughhouses with him, takes him to the Austin Gun Club every weekend. Any excuse to act “manly.”
There’s nothing from Xavier. Robert messages Roma, asking her where her brother is, and she doesn’t answer. He messages Charlie, who sends back a “shrug” emoji, followed by a “sick face” emoji, followed by a question mark. Robert pullson a T-shirt, calculating how to evade his dad, grab his bike from the rack, and zoom across the bridge to Lucy’s.
Robert walks toward the pool exit and sees his father’s gleaming truck. “Crap,” he whispers.
“Hey! Son! Over here!” yells his dad. Everyone in the parking lot turns to look. Robert’s dad is playing loud eighties rap.
(“Fight for Our Right to Party.”)
(Oh my God.)
“Nice ride,” says Carrie, who’s working the front desk. She wears her hair in cornrows even though she’s white.
“Jesus,” mutters Robert.
“Is that your dad?” says Carrie.
“Yup.”
“Wowzers,” says Carrie.
Robert goes to the truck—there’s no avoiding this—and gets in. “Dad,” he says, “I have plans for lunch. Sorry, Dad.”
“Open the glove box,” says Louis. His voice is low and serious, as if he’s starring in some Wild West movie and he’s the sheriff.
Robert doesn’t want to open the glove compartment. He knows what’s inside. “Dad…” he says.
“Open the glove compartment, Son,” growls Louis.
Robert grits his teeth. He wants to find Lucy, to make love to her, and then have a P. Terry’s double cheeseburger and a strawberry milkshake before returning to work. He is so sick of his dumbass father. Robert opens the glove compartment and sees the gun.
“Take it out,” says Louis.
