37. Kieran
KIERAN
Usually I drive to work at the ad agency straight from the bakery.
But today I make a quick detour up the hill, where I swing by the house and check the mailbox.
University classes start in four days, and I’ve been waiting for my financial aid award to arrive.
I’ve already been admitted to the program, but it doesn’t mean much if I can’t afford to enroll.
When I pull down the mailbox’s metal door, I find a grocery-store flyer and a single fat envelope. Right here—behind the wheel, with the engine idling—I tear open the envelope and read the enclosed letter.
Dear Mr. Shipley, we are pleased to offer you the following tuition assistance package . This greeting is followed by a grant number that looks awfully generous, plus a student loan for two thousand dollars. The result is that I’ll have to pay upfront… Seven hundred and two dollars per course.
I read it twice more. The number remains entirely affordable, and I let out a whoop.
My first thought is: It worked! I can totally afford to become the oldest freshman on campus.
My second thought is: I can’t wait to tell Roddy.
And then—splat—I fall back down to Earth. Because Roderick and I aren’t a couple anymore.
It’s been over a week since Christmas. He’s spent every night downstairs in his new bed. While I’ve spent every night alone and upset.
He’s trying hard to be my friend. At work, he’ll bring me a bagel. Or one of the slices of pizza he’s been testing. His smile says, I’m sorry .
But I don’t know how to go back to being friends. So I avoid him. My subconscious hasn’t gotten the message, though. Every time I hear something funny, or I read something interesting, my first impulse is to share it with him.
He’s already looking around for another apartment. I heard him making a phone call last night, inquiring about a room for rent on a farm in Tuxbury.
“That would be a terrible commute,” I couldn’t help pointing out.
“I know,” he’d said quietly. “And they found a tenant already. But the price was right.”
The price is right here , I’d wanted to argue. But we’ve had that discussion a few times already, and he’s still determined to put some distance between us.
I get it. He isn’t willing to put himself back into the closet, and I can’t see a way out of mine. Sometimes I lie awake in my lonely bed and imagine things are different. That I’m some other guy who can make his own rules.
Meanwhile, it’s killing me to have him so close, but to only be friends. My heart can’t stop hoping for more.
So I don’t call him with the good news about my financial aid package. He’d be happy for me, but I refuse to be that needy. I’m back to being a loner, and it feels very familiar to me. I’ve kept my deepest thoughts and my personal victories to myself for twenty-five years. What’s one more?
To celebrate, I turn on the radio as I pull away from the curb. The truck’s cab fills with the music from the country station that Roddy hates. Now I can listen to it whenever I want.
When I get to Burlington, I find that everyone at the office is in a crappy mood. “You’re late,” Mr. Pratt barks as I take my seat. “You said you were going to start work at twelve thirty.”
“Yeah, next week,” I remind him. That’s when the schedule shifts. That’s when classes start, and when I’ve cut my Busy Bean hours.
He frowns down at me, possibly because he’s not used to me ever arguing with him. But I’m not taking any more crap from the Pratt family, I’ve decided. Not after the fiasco of Deacon’s portfolio.
“Look,” Pratt says. “We need to get these logo drafts ready for the client’s eyes before four o’clock. I have a conference call.”
“Sure,” I say coolly as I log in to the computer. “What changes am I making?”
“Deacon has my notes,” he says before heading back to his office.
Well, that’s going to slow things down. With a sigh, I cross the room to find Deacon in his dickweasel office.
It’s taken extraordinary restraint on my behalf not to bring up Deacon’s treachery on his art-school portfolio.
But the Pratts haven’t mentioned his application to me, and if I say anything, I could get the dean in hot water.
That’s really not the way I want to start things off with the college.
So I say nothing. Mr. Pratt wrote me a recommendation, as promised. And it must have been decent. I can only guess that he pressured his son to apply, too. I wonder if he was rejected.
Since I’d like to keep my job, I guess I won’t ask.
“Hi there.” I lean against the doorframe. “Your dad said you had some notes on the Mayer Farm labels?”
“His notes are here.” He points me toward a sheet of paper in his father’s careful script. “He wants you to try some different typefaces.”
“Okay, sure.” That sounds easy.
“But I don’t like these cows you drew.”
My blood pressure jumps. You think you can do better? The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back. “What about the cows?”
“Those splotches look dopey. I was thinking we need something more like this.” He wakes up his computer monitor to show me two drawings from a stock-art site.
I let out a bark of laughter when I see them. “Oh, man. Not happening.”
“Think again,” he says with typical defiance. “This is the direction I’m taking it.”
This jerk . “Okay, the first problem is that those are bulls. This art is for a dairy farm, and you can’t get milk from a bull.”
His chin jerks toward the screen. His mouth gets tight, but he doesn’t acknowledge the mistake.
“The second problem is that the Mayers raise Randall cattle. It’s a specialty breed. And just because you think the patterning on their faces looks ‘dopey’—” I use air quotes. “—doesn’t mean you get to repopulate their herd.”
His lip curls, and I know he’s not going to back down. “Just do half the sketches the way I’m asking for, and the client can decide.”
And, yup, that’s when I sort of snap. “Seriously? You’re going to waste my time just so you don’t have to admit that you didn’t do your homework?”
“When you’re here, your time is my time,” he says in a low voice. “So just do what we pay you for.”
“Your father pays me,” I say, digging in. “He mostly pays me to clean up your messes. But a check’s a check.”
“You arrogant prick. Get the fuck out of this office and do your JOB!” Deacon shouts.
Well, fuck. I should have seen that coming. With my face reddening, and my pulse ragged, I turn around and walk back to my desk. I never argue with him, because there’s really no point. And it only leads to more of his bullshit.
The truth is not always an option. Nobody knows that better than me. So why did I just step in that? Helen, the receptionist, is sneaking nervous glances at me.
Sure enough, Mr. Pratt steps out of his office a minute later, phone pressed to his ear. “What the heck is going on?” he stage-whispers. “I’m on a call .”
Whatever . Even if a client heard Deacon yell fuck in the background, the world won’t end.
But this time I’m smart enough not to argue.
In fact, I say nothing at all. I simply shrug and pull up the Mayer Farm files where I’ve hidden them—so Deacon can’t tweak my work.
And I squint at Mr. Pratt’s notes about the typeface.
“What’s the problem?” he whispers from the doorway.
“I don’t have a problem,” I say carefully. “I’m changing the typeface now.”
“And the cows!” Deacon yells.
“Not the cows,” I say in a low voice. “There is nothing wrong with these cows.”
Apparently Deacon’s only life skill is supersonic hearing, though. Because he comes storming out of his office. Never mind his father’s call. He’s out for blood. His face is red and getting redder. Spit starts flying as he shouts. “I asked you to change the cows. And you will do it .”
“You asked for a change the client would never approve,” I say in a low voice. “So I’m going to prioritize the typeface.”
“It’s not your call ,” he says through a clenched jaw, as his father stands there just observing this ridiculousness, his phone pressed to his ear. “You don’t make the decisions around here.”
“I make plenty of decisions when I make art,” I point out. “We all do. And as an owner of cattle, maybe this is one moment when my opinion is especially useful.”
“Bullshit. You think you’re such an artist. With your new design classes and your faggot boyfriend.”
My head actually jerks backward like I’ve been slapped. “ What did you say?”
“You heard me,” Deacon rages. “Get off your high horse and do the thing we hired you to do. You’re still an hourly employee after all.”
I look down at my hands where they’re gripping the armrests of my chair.
My heart is thumping loudly, but I am not about to let this go.
“Just because you’re the owner’s son,” I say, lifting my chin to look him in the eye.
“Does not mean you have the right to use a slur. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
And then I stand up—all six feet and one inch of me. Now I’m looking down at Deacon, who’s clearly stirred himself into a rage.
His father slides his infernal phone into his pocket. So much for his super-important call. “Boys, this has gotten way out of hand.”
“Is that what you’d call it?” Each of my words sounds like ice chipping.
“Let’s have everyone go back to his corner and cool down. Deadlines are stressful,” Mr. Pratt says, in a tone of voice that implies he’s the sane one here.
But he isn’t. “I can’t hear the word faggot and then pretend it’s just a little deadline stress that’s turned Deacon into a raging homophobe.”
“You’re not even gay,” Mr. Pratt says. And then his eyes widen, as if he’s realized that maybe he missed something. “Are you?”
“Maybe I am, but that’s none of your business,” I say coolly.
“And now you’ve both gone too far.” I feel surprisingly calm as I open the desk drawer and retrieve my truck keys and my phone.
I glance around the desk and spot only one other thing that belongs to me—a pencil cup that Roderick bought for a quarter on one of his thrift shop runs, because artists need pencil cups .
I pick up the pencil cup and grab my jacket off the back of the chair.
“Where are you going?” Mr. Pratt’s voice is worried. “The cow art is due at four.”
“You’d better get busy, then. Here’s a tip—google ‘Randall cattle.’ It’s Vermont’s only heritage breed. I quit.”
“What?” Mr. Pratt yelps. “But we have some work for the farmers’ market association, too.”
“Deacon can draw it, whatever it is. His portfolio needs a few new images. Originals, this time.” Man, it felt good to say that. “And my last check had better not be short, or I’ll contact the department of labor.”
Yup. That felt good, too.
“Kieran, wait!” Mr. Pratt calls as I head for the door. “Deacon will apologize!”
“Save it for the next guy,” I say. “Poor slob is going to need it.”
I leave in a blaze of glory. At least, that’s how it feels.
Quitting this job was not on my to-do list, but it should have been. Mr. Pratt used my skills without ever treating me like I had any. And his son is just a first-rate asshole. They deserve each other.
Now what? my truck asks as I sit there letting the engine warm. It’s only three o’clock on a weekday. Setting aside the fact that I’m suddenly underemployed, I have a few empty hours all to myself. That never happens.
And I really want to talk to Roderick. Right this minute. Giving in to this craving, I pull out my phone and hit his number. He should be finishing up at the bakery right now.
“Hello? Kieran?” he answers on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I grunt, suddenly shy. What did I think I was going to say to him, anyway?
“I thought maybe you had car trouble.” He chuckles. “Or does that only happen to me?”
“It’s more like life trouble,” I say, because the sound of his laughter in my ear is so nice that I feel a pain in the center of my chest. “I just quit my job at Pratts’.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I just had all I could take of Deacon Pratt. He made it easy, though, by calling me a faggot.”
“Oh honey ,” he gasps. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
I think it over for a moment and realize that I really am. The interaction was more shocking than hurtful. “Honestly, it was just a wakeup call. I don’t care what he thinks of me. But I can’t work for someone who says that.”
“No, you can’t,” Roddy agrees emphatically. “Why did he say it, anyway? Random slur? Lucky guess?”
It’s funny, but until now I’d forgotten to even wonder. “I think he must have seen us somewhere. Whatever. It doesn’t really matter. I walked out, and you should have seen their faces.”
“You amaze me,” he says softly. “Congratulations. But I’m sorry you’re out of a job.”
“Yeah.” I let out an awkward chuckle. “I didn’t think that through. I need a nighttime job now, seeing how I also got my financial aid package today. So I’m definitely starting school next week.”
“You did? Congratulations! This is so exciting.”
“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “So anyway, I’m free right now.
And we haven’t cooked together in a while.
What if I went to the grocery store and got us something to make?
” Maybe I sound pathetic right now, but it’s worth it.
I don’t want to be alone tonight. My life is completely up in the air.
But the only thing I really care about is how much I miss him.
“Sure,” he says softly. “In fact, swing by the house and pick me up. We’ll shop together.”
“Okay, yeah.” My heart gives a happy kick. “I’m on my way.”
Then I hang up before he can change his mind.