5. Scott
CHAPTER 5
Scott
(SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)
November 2019: The Birthdays Part I
I t’s November 28 th , one of those double-holiday kind of years. The year my seventeenth birthday and Thanksgiving fall on the same day. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with the holiday. We usually end up at Grandma’s house. Mom and I with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Gramps has kind of been my paternal role model since Dad left us when I was just a baby.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to be surrounded by people on the holiday, and I love nothing more than donning my stretchy pants and eating until I need a nap, but there’s always been something missing.
Bringing the family together around the table always seems to somehow highlight those who aren’t there with us. Every year, a different cousin ends up in jail, or one of my aunts has separated from my uncle, or vice versa. Mom never says it out loud but I know her heart hurts during the holidays. Grandma never misses an opportunity to take a swipe at Mom for being ‘single’ or ‘alone’ or ‘unaccompanied’ during the festive season, as though it’s somehow her fault for not having kept her man.
To my knowledge, Grandma is the only one who blames Mom for not chasing after the piece of shit, sperm donor who helped create me and who ran off with another woman—one who’d help feed his addiction to gambling.
Not only did he cheat on Mom, and leave the two of us, but he cleared out everything of value that they owned, including Mom’s bank account.
It was a long, hard battle for her to recover from that. And some days, I wonder if she’s still fighting demons I can’t see. But Grandma still makes her little digs, she still pokes at Mom more than her siblings, and I have no idea why. Why wouldn’t she want Mom to be happier and safer by herself than miserable and broke with a piece of shit, absent husband?
We aren’t well off, not by any means, but from the little snippets I glean from Mom when she feels like talking about my sperm donor, we’re better off without him. And I have no reason to believe otherwise, given that Mom is here, and he isn’t.
Deadbeat dad who never paid child support. Fuck. I’m a walking stereotype.
Anyway, this Thanksgiving is going to be different. Mom’s away to New York City with two of her sisters. They’re doing Black Friday “the proper way,” whatever that means.
For me, it means I get to go to my best friends’ house to share in their Thanksgiving meal. I’ve got my best plaid shirt on, khakis, loafers, and I even dragged a brush through my hair. Mrs. de la Pena, Gabi or Gabriella as she keeps correcting me, said she doesn’t need me to bring anything.
Artemis told me that she is obsessed with York peppermint patties, so I’ve brought her a couple family share size bags to say thank you for having me.
I’m not sure whether she really wanted me to come, or whether her sons convinced her to let me gatecrash, but either way, I’m standing outside their house having left my piece of shit car in their super wide, circular driveway.
Their house is like a fucking hotel. Or maybe two hotels joined together. It’s huge.
An older woman dressed in a maid’s outfit answers the door, and Ares stands a few feet behind her rolling his eyes as she ushers me in off the street.
“Come in.” He holds his arms out, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to steal his mom’s candy, or if he wants my coat. “Mom goes all out for big celebrations.” He indicates the maid chatting to a man who’s dressed in a butler’s uniform. Wow, this family really does have money.
I mean, I’ve heard the rumors at school. And I know from talking to the guys on the team and having been out here a couple times that they aren’t poor or working class. But seeing it, experiencing the wealth that oozes from even the driveway leading up to the massive building, the additional staff—even if they are hired just for special occasions—and the fancy schmancy décor inside, brings it to a whole new level.
There’s a huge, sparkly chandelier in the middle of the… foyer? Is this space called a foyer? It looks like it should be called a foyer. There’s a wide-mouthed, sweeping staircase with marble stairs leading up into the next level of the house. And the floor… the floors and walls are some kind of complimenting damask pattern.
At least I think that’s what Mom calls it. We have a far less bougie version in our bathroom.
The smells that permeate the air make my stomach rumble so loudly I’m sure it’s echoing around the grand entryway.
Ares, seemingly bored of waiting for me to hand him something, takes the candy from my hands and gestures for me to take off my coat. When it’s off, we swap, and he gives me back the candy. “Happy birthday, man. The twins are already in the kitchen.” He turns as if he’s leading the way, but something cements me to the ground.
“What’s up?” Ares pauses, casting a wary glance back at me.
“Nothing.”
A knowing smirk tugs at his lips. “She’s here.”
He stares at my face while I try desperately hard not to jump into the air and fist pump at this revelation.
“Mamá is in the kitchen,” he adds, pursing his lips like he’s holding in a secret.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Come say hi to the guys, then you can go say hi to her. ”
He’s never said it directly, but he’s made more than one not-so-subtle hint that he knows I’m low-key obsessed with his big sister. It seems to amuse him, I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or not, but as long as he isn’t beating me senseless with his goalie stick, I’ll take it as a win.
As he walks away from me, he throws me a wink. “She’s brought a date.”
My stomach falls and doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop when Gabriella sees me and hurries across the kitchen to pepper my face with kisses at the sight of her bag of candy. “You didn’t have to bring me anything.” She playfully slaps my arm. “But I’m very grateful, Scottie. Gracias.”
The twins wait their turn to say hey, and both Artemis and Apollo give very manly handshakes and bump shoulders with me to say hi.
“I’m taking him to say hi to Athena.” Ares jerks his head toward the door, and the twins exchange a look. I’m not sure what the look says, maybe they’re wondering why I don’t just wait for dinner to see her.
I’m not hanging around to deconstruct what they’re thinking. I follow Ares into what seems to be an informal sitting room. There’s a couch, a couple of recliners, and the biggest TV screen I’ve ever seen.
The guy, who I assume is Athena’s date, is sitting on one of the recliners, feet dangling over one of the arms, eyes down on the screen of his phone.
Athena sits on one end of the couch, phone nowhere to be seen, and she’s watching A League of their Own, an old baseball movie starring Tom Hanks and Madonna. Mom loves this movie, and I guess, by default, so do I. It’s so packed full of team spirit and heart, and I love me a good underdog story.
Ares is already going who knows where, so I hop the arm of the couch, splatting onto the cushion next to her. I lean across the couch and nudge her with my elbow before taking a piece of popcorn from the bowl on her thighs. “Hey, Bright Eyes.”
She doesn’t pull her eyes away from the movie on the screen, but she does move the popcorn so it’s between both of us.
“Good movie choice,” I praise. “One of the best.”
She arches an eyebrow.
“It’s Mom’s favorite, so I’ve seen it once, or three hundred times.”
The corner of her lips twitch, but her wary eyes suggest she still doesn’t buy it. To prove I’m not blowing smoke up her ass, I clear my throat and start speaking alongside Tom Hanks as he loses his shit in the dressing room.
By the time I’m finished, Athena’s watching me, not the TV, and I feel like I’ve won the Stanley Cup. She nods, giving me a sliver of approval, and her boyfriend’s nose is no longer buried in his phone.
I smirk in his direction, as I get up from the couch to make my way back to the kitchen now that I’ve made my point. Or have I?
As I pass whoever this guy is, I nudge his dangling feet with my leg. “Never make your girl watch a movie by herself, asshole.” I don’t even try to be quiet, and Athena’s snort tells me she’s heard what I’ve said even if this prick isn’t reacting much at all.
I may not be able to have her for myself, but I sure as shit will make sure whoever does get the honor of being with her will treat her right. Or I’ll be the one doing the beating with a hockey stick.
With a smug smirk plastered on my face, I head back into the kitchen where the smells are now driving me to stick my nose into the pots simmering on top of the stove.
Apollo smacks my hand as I reach for the lid of one of the pots. “Nope. If we have to wait, so do you.” He grins at me. “We do have gifts for you, though, Birthday Boy.”
There’s a small pile of gifts on the dining table at my spot between both the twins. Seems as though there’s something from everyone here. Including… no way, a hot pink bag. Did she buy me a gift? I swallow down the utterly giddy elation swelling up in my chest at the gift tag that says “To: Scott, Happy Birthday, from, A.”
My heart’s hammering so hard I bet her dad can hear the thumping from his well-insulated office upstairs where, the guys tell me, he hides until the food is on the table.
I pick up the small, pink gift bag with the tag dangling from the handle, not missing Ares’s snort from across the room. My face is hot, my cheeks probably a dark shade of red, and my pulse has taken off like a prized racehorse from the gate at a race.
A quick peek inside and laughter seizes my body. She’s given me a Gizmo the gremlin plushie, and there’s a card inside with three rules written on it.
1. Do not expose to bright lights
2. Do not let them get wet
3. No feeding after midnight
A
Her brothers look at me like I’ve lost my mind, like they’ve never seen a seventeen-year-old so happy to have been given a soft, cuddly toy for his birthday. But this feels like an in-joke, like an almost personal, maybe nearly intimate moment shared between their sister and me. Something pulls at the bunch of tangled, messy feelings in my chest for the eldest de la Pena sibling, the very, very, okay fine, not at all very buried feelings.
All she’s done is give me a freakin’ gremlin and my heart’s all a-freakin’-flutter.
The weight of the twins’ stares pulls my gaze from the furry brown and white toy in my hand. Apollo raises a questioning eyebrow, while Ares gestures like I should explain a little more context about Gizmo.
These guys have no clue how much trouble their sister is.
Or rather, how hard I have to fight every goddamn day to stay on the right side of trouble. When all I really want to do… is get all-the-way into trouble.