Chapter 10
Not long after Gavin and I get back to our temporary place of residence, I hear a thud by the door and get overexcited, thinking my parents are back, not that I want to spend more quality time with them. But they act as a buffer between Gavin and me. And right now I’ll take what I can get.
I peek through the window, and instead of Mom and Dad, I see a large IKEA truck on the road, which is still something to get excited about.
It feels like Christmas morning watching the two men unload the truck, starting with four mattresses.
No more sleeping on our crime-scene carpet.
I glance over at Gavin, who is now standing beside me.
Unsurprisingly he does not seem to share the same level of enthusiasm as I do.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I gesture to Gavin’s forehead. “If we can’t afford real furniture, then I’m pretty sure Botox is out of the question.”
He barely glances at me. “El, aren’t you at all concerned about the fact that the ‘dresser’ that you ordered came in a box that’s six inches thick?”
“Who’s a snob now?” I stare down my nose at him.
“Are you telling me you know what to do with that?” He gestures wildly at the boxes on our doorstep.
“What, like it’s hard to assemble furniture? Just follow the instructions.”
“Famous last words,” he mutters.
There is nothing more motivating than a person’s skepticism about your abilities, especially if that someone is Gavin. So as soon as the delivery men leave and Gavin and I bring in the boxes, I rip open the first box, preparing to make him eat his words.
An hour later wooden slats are splayed on the floor along with the tiniest baggie of screws and pegs and one questionable tool.
I refer to the instructions, thinking they’ll explain just how the hell this is supposed to somehow become a dresser, but they don’t.
How is this stick-figure comic strip that’s not even remotely funny supposed to help us assemble the furniture?
“So, what’s the first step?” Gavin says with artificial interest.
Assuming he’s trying to prove some sort of point, I ignore him completely and gesture to the wooden slats. “Take that piece and put it together with the other piece with this peg-looking thingy.”
Instead of doing what I tell him to do, he just stares at me, mouth agape.
“What?” I say, enunciating every letter of the word. “God, you’re more annoying than cystic acne, the kind that has its own heartbeat.”
“Like, what am I supposed to do with that? You’re not making sense.” He throws his hands out to his sides. “It’s like you’re not even trying.”
“Put those two pieces of wood together with this thing.” I repeat myself louder and slower, pointing more intently to the items.
Despite my very clear and very concise explanation, Gavin remains dumbfounded, which, honestly, says more about his intelligence than mine.
“How about this?” he says, exasperated. “Don’t try to interpret the instructions.
You’re just making yourself sound incompetent.
Instead, why don’t you read them out loud, verbatim? ”
“Gavin.” I stare directly into his pupils. “There are no words, just these badly drawn cartoon people. See?” I shove the instructions page in his face.
He pulls his head back, then takes the instructions sheet from me. After staring at it for a long time, he’s at a loss for words.
“Bet my interpretations don’t sound so bad now, do they?” I say with my arms folded across my chest.
“Aren’t you the one who said it’s not hard to assemble furniture and that all you need to do is…What’s the phrase you used?” He taps a finger to his lip. “Oh, that’s right. ‘Just follow the instructions.’ ”
“Ugh, you’re so annoying!” I crumple the instructions sheet and throw it at him. “If you’re so smart, then you figure out what this means.”
He catches the balled-up instructions and glares back at me. “You said it was easy, so you figure it out.” Toss.
“No, you figure it out.” Toss.
If I’m being real, I’m not sure I can figure it out. And I’d rather sleep on the probably bloodstained floor another night before admitting that to Gavin.
With neither of us willing to budge, we leave the pile of plywood on the floor. I storm into our room and slam the door behind me. Now I understand why this furniture is so cheap—there’s only a fifty-fifty chance you’ll actually manage to assemble it into something usable.
—
“How was your meeting?” Gavin asks when Mom and Dad get home later that evening.
“Long,” Dad says.
“And dusty,” Mom says, shaking the fabric of her blouse.
“Did Mr. Ahn give you any indication of how long it would take for the judge to decide after the appeal?” I ask.
“It could be anywhere from a couple hours to a couple days,” Dad says. “Mr. Ahn thinks it may come down to our reputation.”
“That means, while we’re meeting with Mr. Ahn to prepare for the appeal the rest of this week, you’ll have to keep a low profile,” Mom says.
A low profile? That phrase does not exist in my vocabulary. “What if I come up with a pseudonym? With my full lips and my high cheekbones, I could easily be a Claudia or Shosh—”
“No.” Dad is quick to cut me off.
Gavin snorts, and I scowl at him.
“Mr. Ahn thinks we shouldn’t give false identities,” Dad continues. “They would only make us seem guilty.”
“Besides, it’s too late. Officer Hartford already knows your name after you gave it to him when he issued you the warning,” Mom adds, suddenly shifting the focus to me.
My shoulders sheepishly sag. “Again, it was an honest mistake.”
“Even so, Mr. Ahn says that we’re being painted negatively in the press. I believe he used the term unlikable.” Mom’s eyes ping-pong between me and Dad.
Dad shrugs, seemingly unbothered. “The point is, no one knows who we are here, and until our position is more secure, we shouldn’t do anything to shine a spotlight on us,” he says. “Like breaking the rules.”
“I get it,” I say, feeling their judgy eyes on me. “No loud parties.”
“Not only that,” Mom says. “But you also can’t do anything that will interfere with the radio waves.”
“Which means no cell phones, satellite TV, Bluetooth, or Wi-Fi.” Dad stares directly at me.
“So what do you expect us to do?” I flail, exasperated. “I can’t live this way for two weeks. Like some kind of caged animal.”
“Emphasis on animal,” Gavin mutters.
“If we want to find tenants before we leave, there’s plenty for you to do,” Mom’s quick to suggest.
“Speaking of…” Dad points to the wooden pieces next to the stack of IKEA boxes. “What happened here?”
“The furniture arrived,” Gavin says. Although I would’ve thought it was obvious. Then again, maybe they’re not used to seeing furniture in small boxes either.
Dad shakes his head. “Why aren’t they assembled?”
“Cheap furniture means cheap instructions,” I say.
“I’m sure you could figure it out if you tried,” Mom mutters.
“No, really. It’s impossible,” Gavin says, surprisingly backing me up. “The instructions don’t make sense. And there’s no Google Translate for Stupid.”
“The mattresses are all we really need for the time being,” I say. “We’ve taken the liberty of moving them onto the bedframes in the rooms, m’lady.” I curtsy with my head bowed, doing a servant-from-Downton-Abbey bit. My parents aren’t amused.
Dad frowns. “How are we supposed to settle into this place without proper furniture?” Since there are no chairs, he sits on an IKEA box next to the kitchen table.
“This is our home. We should make it feel like one too,” Mom says, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Can you please stop calling this our home? You’re freaking me out.” I shriek.
“Even if we don’t intend to live here, we need to make improvements to attract tenants,” Dad explains.
“Or maybe, once everything is settled, we can make this our vacation home,” Mom adds.
I laugh, then place a hand on my mouth when I realize no one else is laughing. Apparently I’m the only one who didn’t take Mom’s absurd suggestion seriously.
“If the house doesn’t look good by the time we leave, we’ll have to stay until it does. Maybe until the end of summer,” Mom says, like a threat.
“Don’t worry,” Gavin says, almost as if on command. “I’m on it.”
“I knew I could count on you,” Dad says to him. “Make sure Elena helps you.”
I don’t even whine about how Gavin is no better at assembling furniture than I am. What’s the point, when talking to my parents is no clearer than the IKEA furniture instructions? I can see what they’re doing, but the crucial explanation is missing.
“Maybe if you got to know the place, you’d like it better,” Mom says, mistaking my frown for thinking it’s the home I’m disappointed with.
“The observatory gives tours every morning at ten. Maybe you two could go to one.” Dad slides a brochure across the kitchen counter to show us.
“Yeah, sure,” Gavin agrees, much too easily.
I glance at it. There’s a satellite on the cover, which is a big nope for me. “I’m busy.”
Mom’s frown deepens. “Elena,” she says, like a sigh. She hesitates, wondering what to say next. Knowing Mom and how little she knows me, she’ll try to appeal to me to have a better attitude or be more open-minded. “Nothing,” she says instead.
I’m surprised by the disappointment I feel that she didn’t even try to lecture me. Then again, I wouldn’t have listened anyway. So maybe she does know me.
We say good night and go to our rooms. Now that we have real beds, it makes our living conditions less bad. The downside? I have to share a room with Gavin.
“Since when are you busy tomorrow?” Gavin asks, not even a minute after we settle into our beds.
“Why do you care?” I sneer at him.
He hesitates. “You’re not going to, you know, pull an Elena, are you?”
The offense is palpable. I want to challenge him to see if he even knows what pull an Elena means. Does he mean to take charge of my life? To turn something people consider worthless into something worthy? To capitalize on my popularity in the media by building a business off my image?
But he won’t get it. So I say, “I just don’t want to go. Is that a crime?”
He sighs. “I get that living here is beneath you, but couldn’t you at least try? You’re not the only one who’s lost everything.”
“You haven’t lost everything; I have,” I correct him. “I’ve lost the social clout I need to get booked for paid events.”
Gavin snorts.
“I don’t expect you to understand. Someone who’s had their future handed to them on a silver platter.” I must have struck a chord with him, because the smug smirk is gone from his face.
“Says the pot calling the kettle black,” he retorts.
“Just saying, while Dad took you under his wing, I was left to fend for myself,” I counter. “Unlike you, I’ve had to work for everything I have.”
“Was it hard jet-setting to luxury international resorts on private planes? The one-star Michelin restaurants weren’t good enough for you? You needed two or more to be satisfied?” He mock-cries, then abruptly stops. “News flash: No one feels sorry for you,” he deadpans.
My cheeks flare, and I taste bile. If he thinks I’m taking our privilege for granted, he’s so wrong.
I know what it seemed like on the outside.
My life was a series of Carolina, take Elena shopping.
Carolina, take Elena to Cabo. It’s some people’s dream to be waited on hand and foot, but it wasn’t like that for me.
I could tell what my parents were doing.
In the aftermath of the Vogue article, my parents treated me like the idiot child they were burdened with.
They were keeping me busy so that I wouldn’t be in the way while they poured all their attention over Gavin.
The one who would take over the business after Dad. The one who mattered.
If anyone is taking anything for granted, it’s Gavin.
Because once this ordeal is over and It’s Ok!
is up and running again, he will go back to being Dad’s protégé while I’ll have to find a way to rebuild everything I’ve created.
After this I’ll have to pay to attend parties instead of the other way around.
I’m sure a therapist will have a field day unpacking what kind of lifelong impact it had on me to be the only one not included in the family business, but that’s for future me to worry about.
Right now I have to figure out a way of getting in the public eye again so I can become financially independent in my own right.