Chapter 3
three
LOCKE
The dorm is substantially smaller than any other space I’ve lived in my life.
It has a charm to it though. It’s different from the dorm rooms I’ve seen in animated films and shows.
It’s not a cramped bedroom with two small twin beds on either wall.
Graduate school housing consists of a full apartment, with a living room area and small kitchen beside it.
Down the hallway, there are two separate bedrooms and a bathroom that seems a bit too small to be shared.
It's furnished with the essentials. A rickety TV stand, a gray couch, a refrigerator that looks like it’s gone through at least a decade of college students. All the furniture in the apartment is of the same dark pine wood, highly contrasted against the bleak white walls.
Even the mattress is a dark blue, overly firm, and just teetering on the edge of being too uncomfortable. Suitable for a living space, but not necessarily a home.
I considered calling the movers to pull my own mattress out of storage but decided against it. I’m not bold enough to challenge my father if he found out.
Most of my gaming consoles are living in that storage unit for the foreseeable future. Both Grant and I agreed only my computer set-up could fit in the corner of my bedroom. That was already pushing it.
“Are you sure you don’t want the Legos to go into storage?”
My brother carefully holds up the pirate ship model that took me hours to complete. I swear the straw hat-clad figurine sitting at the front of it wiggles as he talks, and I take large steps across the living room floor to retrieve it from his hands.
“I’m sure.”
My hesitance to put them into storage isn’t because I’m dying to display them—although they bring some color into the room.
It’s mostly because I’m afraid they’ll be mishandled and end up in a million broken pieces.
Too much time and effort would be wasted.
Instead, they’ll live on the large white bookshelf resting against the corner wall.
Grant laughs. “Still can’t believe you’re…”
“A nerd?”
I laugh with him, and my brother waves his hands.
“That’s not what I was going to say. I can’t believe you’re so… normal?”
It’d be a ridiculous statement for brothers who didn’t grow up separated and only started learning about one another a few months ago. I get what Grant means, and why the reality of my hobbies is so jarring.
Three years ago, the most information I had about Grant was just that he existed. I gave up on a relationship with him before it was an option. I accepted that my place in his life would only be through awkward conversations and watching him stand up to our father in ways I never could.
In the last year I’ve gotten to know Grant, I’ve looked up to him. He’s headstrong and confident. He knows what he wants and he goes for it. When my father tries to manipulate him, Grant relents. Nothing and nobody can shape my brother except for himself. I idolize him.
It’s only been a few months of building our sibling relationship, but considering the wide grin when he smacks me on the shoulder, I think it’s going well.
“You had me fooled with those sleek suits for so long. I thought you were a robot or something.”
I only wear suits around my father. He likes the clean, pressed look so the public eye sees us as professionals. Grant doesn’t care about stuff like that. He’s in his own t-shirt and jeans, and he doesn’t even blink when Ghost runs across his sneakers.
“I feel like a robot sometimes.” Being more transparent is part of building our bond, too. The first thing Grant and I learned about each other, beyond the small unimportant details, was that we can empathize with one another’s feelings.
I understand why he hates Dad so much. I never felt offended when he pushed Billie and I away. I can’t imagine how hurtful it would be to constantly see us in the media with Dad while he was being ignored growing up.
At the same time, Grant doesn’t doubt me when I confess my fears about our father. Or how lonely it can get, not knowing anything but being a McCarthy. Set up for a lifetime of mundane business meetings and nothing else.
I know my brother will empathize when I say, “Dad’s such a piece of shit.”
He runs a hand through his wavy brown hair and sighs. “Yeah. I’m sorry, dude. I hate that he’s only this tough with you, and not me or Billie.”
I shake my head while pulling another Lego set out of its box. “Don’t be sorry. At least I’m used to it.”
It doesn’t fly past me that Dad’s upset I spent money for a spontaneous plane ride… with Grant. Or that I’m scolded for going on a trip… with Billie. Or that out of the three of us, the only one he screamed at in his office… is me.
What’s the opposite of being the favorite child? Being the easiest target?
I’m not upset by it. I’ve taken the brunt of his anger for a lifetime—to the point of it feeling like an old friend. Out of the McCarthy siblings, it’s almost as if I’m best suited for the ends of our father’s anger.
“Just because you’re used to taking the heat, doesn’t make it right.”
“I know. But better me than the two of you.”
“Don’t say that.” He pats Ghost on the head before my cat runs off somewhere into the apartment. “Getting pissy at you for having a harmless summer of fun shows how detached he is as a father. I wish he tried that shit on me. I would’ve teared him a new one.”
Dad’s criticism echoes in my ears, but I smile. Grant is a few inches shorter than me, but more built, both physically and mentally. I think our father recognizes that too.
“What was it you said to him when he tried to get you in on VK Corp?”
“I told him to fuck off.” He snorts. “And that I would rather put my head in a blender than have any part of his company.”
We laugh over how recklessly he talks to Dad. How willing he is to speak his mind, unlike anyone else in our family. I’m jealous.
It’s always been my father’s dream to keep VK Corp under the McCarthy name.
I don’t remember how old I was the first time he told me that was what I was meant for.
The one time he tried to push that sentiment onto Grant, he was shot down.
Dad’s face for the entire night was fuming red in disbelief. I loved it.
My chuckles are fading and I’m breaking down an empty cardboard box when Grant says, “I also think it’s fucked up he put you in a shared dorm when he knows you don’t like strangers.”
The laughter dies out completely. I almost say I doubt Dad thought of it, because that would make more sense and hurt less. Dads forget details all the time. Except, I don’t think my father forgot. I think he purposefully did this so I could feel anxious even at home.
This is a punishment.
“He’s trying to send a message.”
“It’s a fucked up one.”
The air is becoming thick—so quickly after Grant and I were joking together. I don’t want it to be that. I finally have another person who understands being my father’s son isn’t as glamorous as the gossip magazines make it out to be. I don’t want it to be spoiled.
I square my shoulders, walk a box of cookware to the cramped kitchen, and force myself to be optimistic.
“It’s okay. Maybe having a roommate will be good for me. Force me to get out of my shell a little.”
I’m lying through my teeth. I’m only able to speak with Grant because I’m comfortable around him. It’s difficult for me to form sentences around someone I don’t know well. I can’t even imagine having to live with a person I can barely talk to. Socializing hates me as much as I hate it.
Anxiety rips through my chest. Layered with the thought that, whoever I live with would be part of the Brookstone School of Engineering, flames the fire.
I wish I could go unnoticed throughout my life.
I like flying under the radar. Dad isn’t a world famous rockstar or an A-list actor, but there are some finance bros and business-obsessed podcasters who read the magazines my father is featured in.
We get stopped on the street sometimes and get asked for pictures. It’s never a good experience for me.
The seven weeks of my childhood when Dad thought it’d be a good idea to film our family for a shitty reality TV show were the worst.
If the universe lets one thing go right for me, I hope I at least live with someone who doesn’t know who my father is. Someone who won’t look at me and think of him before anything else.
I fidget with my glasses before fumbling to get a pot out of the box.
“Well, you got this apartment super late.” My brother laces his voice with a cheerful tone. I’m afraid it’s teetering on pity. “No one else is moved in. You could get the whole place to yourself.”
I adjust my glasses again. Almost let the pot slip from my hands.
“I don’t think Dad would risk that.”
He would make sure I get roomed with someone so I really feel the weight of his words. Make me think again before I want to do something for my own happiness, not his.
Grant lets out a deep sigh.
“Okay, yeah. You definitely have a roommate. But maybe they’ll become your best friend. Maybe you’ll be copies of each other. They could be a six foot three, secret gossiper, extremely introverted nerd like you.”
I turn away from the dishware scattered across the counter tops and squint at him. “So you do think I’m a nerd?”
“Of course I do. I’m your older brother.”
I knock my shoulder against Grant’s, laughing again. I’m starting to get this little brother, middle child thing down. I look up to him, get teased on occasion, and all things considered, realize that my older brother is almost always right.