7. Will
WILL
We don’t have another class until Thursday, so I focus on studying and finding excerpts of that book Priestley still has.
I find a few reviews on Google Scholar and J-Stor, which thankfully I have access to through my Princeton login.
There are quotes in some of them and I get the general gist of what the authors are saying, though I really need to get my hands on that book.
The cheapest one I’ve managed to find in an online secondhand bookstore still costs over fifty dollars. I do not have a spare fifty dollars—not until the end of the month anyway.
I speak to my parents every night on the phone.
When they ask me if I’m okay for money, I lie and tell them yes, though it’s not a total lie.
I have enough to buy food and I’m not out on the street.
Fifty dollars is a lot of money to my parents.
Even though I know they’d hand it over in a heartbeat without even asking what it’s for, I hate to think what they might go without that week because of it.
The kinds of cheap meals they’d have to live off, or a needed repair that would have to go unaddressed for another month.
I get a private message from Priestley:
Still on for golf this Wednesday? You’re not working, are you?
I think about telling him I’m busy. Why do I need to play golf with him?
That’s a dumb thought. I know exactly why I should do this. It isn’t every day that people like me get introductions to men like George Wilkes. Another invite to the country club can’t hurt my reputation, either.
People like Priestley already have a foot in the door, and whether he knows it or not, he’s giving me a foot in, too.
I’m free.
Do you have anything suitable to wear? I could lend you something if not.
The thought of wearing Priestley Rosenthal’s clothes makes me shudder.
I have clothes, don’t worry.
Golf clothes?
I resist the urge to throw my phone at the wall and type back in all caps:
YES GOLF CLOTHES!
I delete the all-caps.
He still replies like I screamed at him through text.
Okay fine, if you say so.
He probably thinks I don’t know what people wear to play golf. He has a pretty snooty view of anyone outside of his circle, doesn’t he?
I realize I could use this to my advantage as I hunt down the smart golf pants and polo I’d brought with me to Princeton.
I’d laughed at my dad when he suggested I bring golf clothes, just in case I was invited to play. Yeah, right, I’d said, like that’s gonna happen.
Well, looks like Pop was right again.
Rather than rely on Priestley to get me in, I asked Spencer if he’d mind getting me on the guest list again. It was obviously no sweat to him, and I tried to push down that bitterness that rises every now and then when I look around and see how easy some people have it and without even knowing.
Everyone has different lives, different shit to deal with. My ma’s always telling me this. She knows better than anyone how easily you can be humbled overnight.
I try to put all that out of my head as I walk into Oak Hill carrying Spencer’s clubs. I would have been able to rent a set, but it probably would have cost me a week’s wages and I’m still saving up for that textbook.
I spot Priestley standing at the bar, chatting with George Wilkes like he’s a fellow middle-aged banker. How does he do that shit? The only time I’ve ever seen a crack in that confidence is when Professor Moreno put me top of the leaderboard instead of him.
But he talks to guys like George Wilkes, guys you have to make an appointment with months in advance, like they’re old buddies. I guess being in a fraternity must imbue you with the belief that there’s no one above you. Not a healthy thing to teach people in my opinion.
I square my shoulders before greeting them. Priestley gives me an appraising glance before looking away again. He and George wrap up their conversation.
He waits until we’re heading toward the course to speak directly to me.
“You brought your own clubs.”
It isn’t a question, so I don’t answer.
“I had called ahead and rented you a set. On me, of course.”
I’m even more glad I borrowed Spencer’s now.
“I have played golf before, you know.”
Does his smug smile waver? Does he think I’ve never played in my life? Does he think we don’t have golf courses, driving ranges, or fucking mini golf in Boston?
As we climb into the cart, George Wilkes asks me what my handicap is. I tell him I haven’t played in a long time.
Priestley’s smile is back. He thinks I’m bluffing.
When we get to the first hole, a caddy parks the golf cart and a couple of his buddies carry our bags for us. It’s kind of embarrassing, having people do this for me, but Priestley and George look natural about it, so I try to be, too.
George has a pretty good swing. I step back to let Priestley go next, but he steps aside, waving his arm and insisting, that smug grin at its absolute worst.
It’s been a while. I blow out a long breath as I adjust my grip, trying to summon that kid who loved going to the driving range with his dad. People even said I should consider taking lessons when they saw my swing at that age, but hockey was always my first love when it comes to sports.
I’m a little rusty, but when I hit the ball, the distance isn’t too bad. George Wilkes slaps me on the back and nods. When I look back at Priestley, his face is red.
I know I’m supposed to use this as a networking opportunity, but any time I consider butting into the conversation, it feels wrong.
Luckily, George keeps talking to me as we make our way across the course. Turns out he’s into hockey, though for some reason the Rangers are his team.
Priestley looks pissed while we chat about the NHL season, who we have to lift the Stanley Cup.
I’m betting on Colorado, but of course I’m hoping the Bruins will have a fairytale ending this season.
George has a wager—I don’t even want to know how much—on the Florida Panthers making the trifecta.
I tell him he’s gonna lose his money and he laughs.
By the time we reach the final putting green, Priestley is visibly rattled, though George doesn’t seem to notice until Priestley messes up an easy putt.
“Maybe you need to putt your glasses on, Priestley,” George jokes.
Priestley laughs. It’s so obviously fake, it sounds like a cat being strangled. Again, George doesn’t notice. He steps up to the hole, tapping his ball in with expert precision.
Obviously they still both smoke me, but I didn’t embarrass myself and that’s the main thing.
When he’s leaving us at the entrance, George shakes both our hands before turning to me and handing me a business card.
“You give me a call if you ever want to see a hockey game in the city, do you hear?”
“Yes sir, thank you.”
He gives me a hearty slap on the back before leaving.
When I turn around, Priestley’s glaring at me.
“You’ve played golf before.”
“Hadn’t you already assumed that? Why else would you invite me to play?”
His chest rises and falls with his heavy breath. He looks like he’s gritting his teeth.
“Unless you just wanted to embarrass me?”
Priestley takes a step closer. His polo brushes mine and the smell of his cologne makes my head swim.
I’m shit with scents, but certain smells come through clearly, like sandalwood and something else, something nutty and spicy.
For the briefest of seconds, my body takes over every logical thought and warmth spreads through me.
My pants tighten a little. But then Priestley speaks and ruins it.
“I’ve worked my whole life for this internship. I won’t have you swoop in and steal it from me.”
“You’ve worked your whole life. Really?”
He takes a step back and blinks up at me. “Yes, that’s what I said.”
There’s a voice in the back of my head—the smart one who got me this far.
It’s telling me I need to put whatever shit Priestley and I have going on to one side for the sake of the group project.
We can pick it back up later if we have to.
But he’s standing here in his country club, after trying to humiliate me in front of a future potential client or associate, telling me he’s ‘worked’ his whole life for this opportunity.
“Professor Moreno’s gonna choose the best person to be number one. So far, that’s me,” I say.
I swear I can hear him grinding his teeth.
“If you think you can beat me, then game on,” I add.
I turn and walk away before he can fling back whatever retort was probably on the tip of his tongue.
It feels like a mic drop moment. I let myself enjoy it as I leave the club. I just hope I don’t come to regret it.