1. Bobby Ashton vs. the World
“I told you to keep the shades drawn.” I shield my eyes as morning’s bright sunlight forces its way into the living room. “You know I’ve taken to bed.”
“You’re on the couch in the middle of the living room,” Cass points out. “Taking to bed is for the sick or infirm.”
“Well, I’m ill.”
“With what?” She crosses her arms. She’s in one of her old blazers. I haven’t seen it out from the deep recesses of her closet for years. Usually, they hang, smooshed right up against the stylish clothing I convinced her to buy but she’s never once worn.
“The Danish disease,” I inform her, sitting up and rearranging my silk kimono-style caftan around me, crossing my legs, and pointing my toe to make my calves look as good as Miss Piggy’s. Just because I’m in the throes of despair doesn’t mean I’m letting myself go, and moi always aspires to rock a ham hock half as well as Piggy. “Like Hamlet,” I clarify when Cass doesn’t respond.
“That’s not a real thing,” she says, twisting her hair up.
“Tell it to Ophelia. Melancholy is too a thing. I checked an online Shakespearean version of WebMD. My humors are unbalanced and my biles are out of sorts.” I sigh heavily to punctuate the seriousness of my situation.
“Well, sort them out in the car. We’ve got that appointment with Dean Perez this morning. We need to limit fallout and mitigate damage.”
I yawn. It’s cute when Cass tries to sound all adult, especially when she’s mixed up the dates. “That’s on Tuesday,” I inform her.
“It is Tuesday, Bobby.”
I scramble for my phone to check. I stare at the screen in disbelief. I never forget what day it is. Another undocumented effect of public humiliation must be missing time.
“Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?” I rush to the bathroom, grabbing my toothbrush as I strip down and jump into the shower. The water heats up by the time I’m spitting down the drain.
I’m always on schedule. Or I was. Before everything with Tru. I force those thoughts out of my head, something I’ve been trying to do with limited success since I shattered Campus Books’ window.
I grab the nearest towel, not caring that it doesn’t stretch all the way around me. A pair of jeans and a shirt are already laid out on my bed. It’s not what I would have chosen but Cass tried her best. I swap out the shirt for a hot-pink polo with sunshine-yellow stitching. Melancholics are known to wear black, but I don’t own many dark clothes. They blend in and since this body doesn’t, I’ve made the conscious decision to work with my assets.
“I can’t find my purple suede wing tips,” I call out.
Cass appears at my bedroom door, my shoes dangling from her hand.
In a flurry, we get into the car. It’s good that Cass drives with the same abandon with which she parents. She zips around other vehicles, noses into gaps, and speeds through stretches officers never patrol. Knowing Little Elm this well is one of the benefits of having lived here all our lives. Not that anything in town is far from anywhere else, but Cass can shave precious minutes off any commute.
She clears her throat. “I know you haven’t wanted to, but do we need to discuss—”
“No,” I cut her off.
She reaches over and squeezes my hand as she swerves lanes without signaling.
“Do me a favor, Mom. Once we’re with Dean Perez, let me handle things.” I intentionally call her Mom to get her attention.
She wrinkles her nose and nods but doesn’t react beyond that. My conception came as a late-in-life surprise for Cass, and she always prided her age and wisdom in not imposing an innate power imbalance on our parent-child relationship via oppressive nomenclature. It sounded super progressive until she let it slip that she simply never wanted to be one of those parents craning her neck when a random kid in a grocery store or playground called out Mommy .
The town blurs by until we jerk to a stop in front of Little Elm College’s oldest and most stately looking set of buildings that house the dean’s offices.
“Here we go,” Cass says as we mount the steps into the building, then up the high-gloss mahogany stairs. All the lacquered wood reminds me of Campus Books, the shelves polished to a high sheen and smelling faintly of chemicals laced with lemon. We climb a smaller set of stairs to enter an office where a guy is seated behind three computer screens, glancing from one to another.
“You must be the Ashtons,” he says, momentarily looking up. “The dean is waiting. Through the doors to my left.”
We go inside. Floor-to-ceiling windows take up the wall behind the dean’s desk. Burgundy velvet curtains are drawn back by gold cords with large tassels. Another wall is covered with built-in shelving. Sitting on them are leather-bound books adorned with gilt lettering and various little statues, vases, and photos of previous deans shaking hands with people of note. The desk itself is massive. About twice the length or more of any I’ve ever seen. A gold filigreed burgundy leather pad is inlaid into it. A banker’s lamp and a scrambled Rubik’s Cube are perched on the desk’s corner. A salt-and-pepper-haired man punching the screen of a cell phone with his finger sits behind the desk.
“Michael,” Dean Perez calls out. “I don’t know what I’m doing with this thing.”
The multiscreen guy, Michael, appears at the doorway. “We’ll walk through it again later. Bobby Ashton is here to see you.”
“Please sit. The stupid thing is supposed to sync to my computer, but it must take some witchcraft to make it work.” Dean Perez places his cell phone into a drawer. “Remind me again, Michael. What’s this all about?”
“Campus Books’ window. I played the video for you earlier … on your phone.” Michael’s eyes glint as he leaves.
A hard and uncomfortable feeling forms below my rib cage. Even Dean Perez has watched the footage.
“Right. Unfortunate incident,” the dean comments.
“It was an accident,” I say.
“Clearly. Still, Mr. Ashton, that window was of some importance. The donors are descendants of Little Elm College’s most famous alumnus.”
“With all due respect,” I ask, “who is that?”
“I’m not sure. But it doesn’t matter as the family not only donated the window but money for scholarships like the one you were offered. They’re not happy paying for the education of students who smash their ancestors’ memorials. Unhappy people have ungenerous wallets.”
“I can pay for a new window,” I say. “I’ll work it off. I’ll do extra shifts at Campus Books.”
Dean Perez grimaces and reaches for the Rubik’s Cube. “That’s another thing. Campus Books’ manager isn’t too pleased either. You used your brief time employed there to plan the unauthorized stunt at the fountain. You took over their sound system. And, of course, there was the window. Frankly, it came as a relief when you didn’t show up to finish your training and they didn’t have to fire you.”
“Fire me!” I exclaim, standing up. “I texted them I needed a few personal days for mental health reasons. Anyone could understand that after everything I’ve been through. They can’t fire me. I must have some sort of employee rights. Besides, they need me! I’m the Big Summer Reading Festival’s freshman liaison!”
“Were.” Dean Perez twists the cube again. “There were concerns about you working with the festival coordinator. You’re familiar with Truman, of course. It could all be a bit awkward and uncomfortable. You see, the damage is more complex than a broken window. Lots of factors to consider. There’s also the nasty business of the donors asking me to reconsider your scholarship.”
I gulp. I need that scholarship. There’s no way Cass and I could afford me going to college without it. “They can’t do that. Can they?”
“They hold the purse strings,” Dean Perez says.
Cass reaches across and places her hand on my forearm, guiding me back into my chair.
“I can fix this,” I say. “Give me a chance. I can’t be kicked out of college before I even start. I’ll think of something. I’ll do anything.”
Dean Perez puts down the cube.
Except, I can’t think of anything I can offer or do at this moment. I’m normally great with a plan. After all, a plan is only a plot put into action. And who reads more than me? But my plan for the Summer of Bobby is unraveling in front of me and I’ve got nothing. I turn to Cass and give her a pleading look.
She nods before she says, “Surely, Dean Perez, a bit of broken glass isn’t worth more than my son’s future.”
“Surely not, Mrs. Ashton.”
“I’m not married.” She holds up her left hand and wiggles her fingers. “Feel free to call me Cass.”
“Cass Ashton,” Dean Perez says slowly. “Why does that sound so familiar?” He pushes a button on a large, old intercom. “Michael? Why do I know Cass Ashton?”
A crackly voice responds, “I couldn’t say, sir.”
The dean pouts before his face suddenly brightens. “Not the Cass Ashton? Famous artist? You were big once!”
“She’s still big,” I say as if it’s my cue. “It’s this town that’s small.” I know Cass will pick up on my Sunset Boulevard reference because my fabulous taste in movies stems from her.
“Silent films, Norma,” Cass says under her breath. She reaches up and undoes her hair, brown waves cascading down around her. “Why, Dean Perez, I’m flattered you remember me.”
“You were a visionary,” Dean Perez says. “It’s a shame you stopped sculpting.”
Cass leans back on one elbow and crosses one leg over the top of the other.
I reach out, giving Cass a sign to cool it. She shrugs me away.
“Keep going and you’ll have me blushing.” She winks. She actually winks. No one winks in real life. It’s weird. “Now, back to my son. He showed a youthful lack of forethought. We’ve all been there. At his age, I was no angel.”
Dean Perez chuckles. “Neither was I. And as far as indiscretions go, Bobby meant no harm. No one was hurt.”
Except for me but no one seems to be thinking about that.
“This sort of behavior is out of character for Bobby,” Cass adds.
I want to butt in and argue that, no, grand gestures are my thing and I have successfully helped many of the residents of Little Elm find love with them. I’d even go so far as to say I’m beloved for my grand gestures. No one else in this town is more versed in romance than me. No one else contrives circumstances where two strangers who should be together meet, say, over produce in a grocery store, and somehow end up in an orchard at sunset while a string quartet happens to be practicing sonatas nearby for an upcoming gig. (You’re welcome, Alicia and Rashida.) I am the somehow. I’ve got the gift, nay, the responsibility, to assist the people of Little Elm, and all my romance novel reading and movie watching have honed my natural talents. The kicker is, like a psychic, I apparently can’t use my powers for my own gain.
Dean Perez strokes his beard. “I’m sure Bobby’s a good kid. Perhaps we could come to a creative resolution.”
“My favorite kind,” Cass replies.
“Cass,” I hiss. None of this sounds right and I seem to be the only one recognizing the warning signs.
She shushes me and waves a hand dismissively. Rude.
I gulp, waiting to see if the dean hits on my mother right in front of me, as Cass, who is knowingly encouraging the situation, throws her head back and laughs.
“While I can’t do much about Bobby’s job at Campus Books, I’m certain I can smooth things over with our donors. There was some talk of rescinding his admission offer too, but I’m almost certain that was only bandied around in the heat of the moment.”
The feeling inside me pulses at the mention of losing my admission. More than my Summer of Bobby plans could be coming undone. I grip the arms of my chair.
“And you said you were no angel.” Cass smiles broadly.
“There’s one condition,” Dean Perez continues. “I retire at the end of this year. I’d like to gift the college something lasting upon my departure. A statue by famous artist Cass Ashton seems grandiose enough.”
“You want a sculpture?” Cass’s smile falters. “Dean Perez, I haven’t sculpted in forever. The closest I come to art nowadays is my online rare wool store and Bobby is the one who handles all the technical stuff.”
Dean Perez waves the Rubik’s Cube at Cass. “Surely, this trade is worth your son’s future.”
Cass clears her throat and sits upright. “Surely.”
“And if the sculpture was to be constructed by repurposing the larger pieces of a certain broken window, I’m sure the donors could be convinced the accident was fortuitous. A blessing, even.”
“A statue made out of broken glass?” Cass asks.
“A statue made out of the most embarrassing moment,” I say.
“If you’d rather we explore other options …” Dean Perez’s voice trails off.
Cass looks at me. I shake my head but I’m not sure if I’m shaking my agreement or dissent.
She stands, reaching her hand across the desk. “It sounds like a deal I can’t possibly refuse.”
The feeling below my rib cage solidifies and drops deeper into me.
“Excellent.” Dean Perez pushes the button on the speaker. “Michael, have the window remains sent to the Ashton residence.”
“Thank you, Dean,” Cass says. “Bobby, thank the dean.”
I force myself to stand. “Thank you, sir,” I mumble, staring down.
“Bobby,” Dean Perez says. “You keep your nose clean and focus on your academics. No more schemes. Adolescent crushes will still be there after you graduate. I’d prefer the windows around campus be there after you graduate as well.”
It wasn’t an adolescent crush though. Tru was the perfect guy. He fit into the plan so perfectly. At least, until I found out he was with someone else and didn’t return my affection. I was so sure he did.
“It was an accident,” I repeat.
Cass takes me by the arm and leads me out past Michael, through the building, and out to our car.
The shock of the meeting with the dean has worn off by the time I close my door. The feeling below my rib cage has turned hot.
“Celebratory caramel macchiato?” Cass asks as soon as she’s in too.
“What even happened back there?” I ask, ignoring the offer of my favorite beverage.
“What?”
“Your Basic Instinct schtick. The meeting went off the rails. We were supposed to be doing damage control, not flirting.”
“I can’t help it if I exude sex appeal. He’s an attractive man and I’m a woman in my prime.”
“Gross. Not a conversation to be having with your teenage son,” I say. “Besides, I don’t think anyone’s sexual prime is post-menopause.”
“What you don’t know about women—”
“I’ll never need to,” I finish for her. “He sounded like he was propositioning you.”
“Dean Perez? Unlikely. It was harmless.”
“Was agreeing to the statue harmless too?” I ask. “Did you stop to think what it will feel like for me to walk by a permanent fixture immortalizing the most humiliating moment of my life?”
“You’re lucky you get to walk by it at all,” Cass responds. “I did what I needed to keep you in school. You were the one who looked to me for help. I helped. You can’t be upset with me now.”
The fiery feeling inside me is burning itself out. “There had to be another way.”
“You couldn’t think of one.” Cass sighs. “I know you had that plan. The Summer of Bobby or whatever. But it didn’t include getting your heart broken or losing your job. We needed a new plan. We can’t afford to lose that scholarship. You knew getting me involved meant playing a wild card. A bit of harmless flirting and semifamous artist Cass Ashton were the only leverage I had.”
As much as I don’t want to admit it, she’s right. If I expected an orthodox solution, I should have been born to a different parent. All I managed to do was uncheck items from my list. No job. No boyfriend. No festival. Almost no college except for Cass intervening.
She grips the wheel and sighs. “This is not the summer I wanted for you either.”
“We’re barely covering our expenses as it is,” I say. “Everyone’s already hired their summer staff. How can we afford school in September and whatever a sculpture is going to cost on top of that?”
Cass bites at a hangnail on her thumb. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”
“But,” I begin again.
“I’m the parent.”
Cass is good at parenting stuff like taking a kid to watch a movie he’s not old enough to get into but is obsessed with the previews of. Or buying ten different kinds of chips for the ultimate taste test. Or driving two hours to a store that stocks larger-sized kids’ clothing so her prepubescent son doesn’t need to wear a men’s small and insisting on splurging on fast food along the way even when said son is sure he should be on a diet. In those ways, she’s the perfect parent.
It’s the practical stuff like checking grocery store flyers for the best deals or getting oil changes at regularly scheduled intervals where Cass isn’t the best at adulting. I don’t doubt she could figure things out if she had to, like getting milk at a gas station when she realizes we’re out at three in the morning. Or sculpting a statue out of broken glass.
It’s my fault we’re in this situation at all. I read the signs wrong with Truman. I took a college guy’s being nice to me as some sort of interest on his part. The task of fixing the mess I created shouldn’t fall on Cass. It’s mine to clean up.
By the time we pull into our driveway, I’ve run through all sorts of scenarios trying to figure out my options. The Summer of Bobby won’t be how I imagined it. But like any diva worth their salt, when one door closes, an opportunity for a comeback opens. No more couches with the shades drawn and Adele on repeat. The only one who can stop me from salvaging the Summer of Bobby is me. I swear, like Miley Cyrus before me, I will buy my own flowers and hold my own hand. I’m ready for my close-up, Little Elm!
Once Cass is out of earshot, I open the contacts on my cell, scroll down, and dial the number of the only guy in town who would do whatever he could for Cass and me without question.
I put on my peppiest voice. “Hi, Uncle Andy. I know, I haven’t been down to your store in ages. It’s actually why I’m calling. I need a job. Any job. I don’t care if it’s cleaning up garbage or packing boxes or standing on the corner twirling a sign. I’ll take whatever you can offer.”