“It’s not you!” I blurt, recreating a fresh pocket of silence. Oh shit. Another nervous laugh bubbles out of me. “Ha. Don’t drink and book retreats, kids. I thought this was an art retreat…”
No one laughs. A wall of puffer jackets and blank faces stares back.
“Hey! Buddy!” The woman I’m half-crouched in front of shoves my shoulder, tipping me into the aisle.
Ash slumps as every head swivels away from him and toward me.
I backpedal to the last row, face burning. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Please, uh… carry on with your… ceremony.”
The double doors don’t give when I hit the push bar. I grit my teeth, give a half-smirk to no one, and full-butt ram the bar. The doors fly open, and I stumble out.
Not exactly a graceful exit. My jaw aches. I open and close my mouth to work out the tension.
After a blur of jamming my blanket, paints, and sketchpad back into my bag upstairs, I’m back on the trail, barreling toward the parking lot with the whole humiliating scene still stuck to me.
It’s fine. I booked the wrong retreat. No big deal. I’ll watch a video online about Futurist Illusionism. Or whatever.
I’ll never see these people again. Somehow, that doesn’t help.
Why did it have to be the wrong retreat filled withthesepeople? So focused on money, so self-assured, so… rich. Rich people always make me uneasy. They move in different circles, speak a different language, and operate on a different plane.
Long before Alistair Blackwood entered my life, Gram always told me that if I wasn't careful, the world would convince me that money equaled merit. She was a big-hearted California liberal who saw the Bay Area’s focus change from revolution to riches, and she quoted Malcolm X like scripture: “If you’re not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.” She would’ve hated that room, with all its polite talk of accumulation while smugly shaking their heads at my exit.
She hated rich people because she loved my mother.
Buck, my trusty Buick Century, is a welcome sight in the parking lot. I toss my bag, blanket, and paints into the trunk and kneel by the driver-side door to unlock it. The power locks died years ago, but the familiar ritual offers a small, solid comfort. This is my car, Gram’s before me. Reliable, dependable Buck.
The key clicks in the lock, and the door pops open, revealing the vinyl wood-grain dashboard and the worn leather seats, molded to the shapes of the people who’ve ridden here. My butt-print is permanently etched into the passenger seat as my designated spot until Gram died.
I slide behind the wheel, into the seat she used to occupy, turn the key in the ignition, and…
Nothing.
“Come on, Buck.” I channel Gram’s patient encouragement. “Come on, now. I need you to get me out of here. I need a retreat with a bunch of rich tech bros like I need…”
I hold my breath and try again. The gauges jump, the engine whirrs weakly, and then… silence.
I exhale.
It’s the battery. It’s always the battery. That’s why the jumper cables live in the trunk.
I pop the hood, grab them, and look around the parking lot. If I’m lucky, somebody will pull up and save me from having to march back inside and beg for help. As has been established for practically my whole life, though, I’m not lucky.
I glance at the cars on either side. On Buck’s right is a Subaru. On the left, a Tesla, which is useless to me because even car batteries have class hierarchies now. I try the Subaru, running my fingers along the edge of the hood for the latch. Nothing. I press harder. Still nothing.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Not the Subaru.”
So much for a quick fix. Which means going back to the fieldhouse for help, and the thought of walking into that main room again makes my knees lock.
Maybe there’s someone at registration.
Rocky, say something.
I reach into my jacket pocket for his smooth, cool surface and rub the painted tie and eyes, channeling my pet rock’s catastrophizing.
What if they’re doing some kind of human sacrifice? Any kind of sacrifice, really. Wouldn’t surprise me to see the headline “Rich Techies Perform Ritual in Forest.”
What if they’re waiting for me to come back? What if someone sabotaged Buck’s battery, just to make sure I’d return?
