Chapter 1 #2
Jack’s expression darkened, his clever, agreeable mask slipping. His fist clenched around his whiskey glass. “Maybe she would come around more often if her mother wasn’t so insufferable.”
His hardened gaze bore into me, and Glenda’s shoulders sunk in my peripheral vision.
There it was: the familiar dynamic that’d chased me away in the first place.
Why they’d stayed together never truly made sense to me.
They hated each other. Always had. But I suppose when they’d sacrificed everything but their souls—debatable really—to claw their way up into high society, appearances were all that truly mattered.
That, and having a child they could puppeteer and live vicariously through. Lucky me.
Jack downed the rest of his drink, tapping it loudly with his butter knife to get Mary’s attention. She flitted in and out in record time and placed the full glass directly in his hand. It never got easier watching her tend to them the way she did. She deserved so much better.
“Tell me about school,” Jack demanded with another heavy glug. “You making me proud?”
My stomach dropped to my toes. Time to rip off the Band-Aid before things descended into madness, and at the rate Jack was drinking and Glenda was biting her tongue, I had twenty minutes max. “That’s, uh … that’s what I meant to talk to you about.”
“There it is,” Glenda murmured.
“Woman, if you don’t shut your damn mouth,” he said through his teeth before turning to me. “What’s going on? Out with it.”
Flashes of the last semester breezed through me.
The tears. The statistics and theories that—no matter how many notes I took—refused to sink in.
I’d never wanted to be a damn business major, but they’d pushed and I’d caved to their wishes, convinced that what I wanted for my life was neither achievable nor realistic.
But this time … this time would be different.
It had to be. My therapist’s words rang through me like a gong: Wanting to make your own way in the world is not a crime.
It’s imperative. “I … I want to transfer.”
He chuckled. “Transfer? Now, why in hell would you want to do that? Oregon State is where Mastersons go. It’s our alma mater.”
“She’s failing,” Glenda bit out.
“Glenda, I will not warn you again!”
“But it’s true! Why else would she be here, begging for another handout, if it weren’t for her inability to hold down anything meaningful in her life? She runs. That’s what she does, Jack. Hides away from—”
Jack smashed his hand on the table, the glass centerpiece jumping. “Enough!”
Glenda’s shoulders quivered in time with my own.
While he’d never laid a hand on either of us, the holes littered around the house—concealed beneath fresh drywall and plaster—were created with sinister motives.
Though his fist was always an inch shy of connecting, his intent?
That’d always hit home. Jack harbored a hidden darkness.
One that I believed a part of him truly wanted to keep at bay, but the whiskey …
it turned him against himself. Brought out the monster.
In the end, his aim was clear. He despised his life.
And in turn, he despised … us. Blamed us, even.
“Jack,” she pleaded, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to—”
His mask of composure dropped completely, the liquor on his breath permeating the room. “I don’t give a damn what you did or did not mean to do! I told you to be quiet, and here you are, running your mouth. Now, get. Out!”
She did as she was told, leaving me alone with the beast. I sank under the weight of his undivided attention and my jaw began to chatter.
Suddenly, I was that twelve-year-old hiding in the closet, hands over her ears, while he destroyed the house in a fit of drunken rage.
That was then. This is now. Stay focused.
It’s not a crime to want to make your own way in the world.
This was my chance to get away. For good.
I cleared my throat and ignored his searing stare on my cheek, focusing instead on my breath—in for eight counts, out for eight—until my body settled. I was a grown woman. You can do this.
“I want to transfer and change my major.”
“Transfer, huh?” A condescending laugh slipped through his lips. “You want to change your major one year before graduation? You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Only an idiot would do that.”
Say it. Just say it. “Yes. I want to major in graphic design.”
“Oh, God, not this art shit again! We’ve talked about this. There is no money in art, no future in it!” He slammed his empty glass down. “Art is a hobby, not a career.”
“I know you think that, but look.” I rummaged through my bag and extended the paperwork I’d prepared to plead my case. I pressed my finger on the flow chart. “Graphic design is one of the most rapidly growing industries. Just look at the numbers.”
He ripped the pages out of my hand. The old grandfather clock clicked away, each second an agony, the air growing thick as I tucked my shaky hands in my lap.
Don’t let him see you break. A dense cloud blocked out the sun’s abysmal attempt to shine through the rain, wrapping the room in a dark shroud, which I sincerely hoped wasn’t some kind of bad omen from the universe. Breathe. Let him take it all in.
I’d done my research well. The more strategically placed dollar signs I dangled in front of him, the more his interest visibly piqued.
Money and status were Jack’s first priorities.
If I could convince him my switching tracks would lend him bragging rights with his country club buddies, I’d get the assistance I needed. Period.
“Interesting …” he finally said.
Time for the setup. I reached into my bag and retrieved my second to last bit of persuasion: a brochure for a sister school to Oregon State, off-grid in a remote neck of the redwoods just over state lines.
Costal California. Perfectly secluded. Small, but with strong ties to remote positions after graduation.
A place I could slink off to and disappear.
No big parties or social events. No mandatory extracurriculars.
I could lie low, fly under the radar for the next two years, snag my degree, and disappear into blissful solitude.
I’d finally be able to live out a quaint existence where expectations couldn’t reach me, and I couldn’t possibly let anyone else down.
Where I could breathe free. Just me and my art.
Solitude. Safety. And—if I was lucky—peace.
I slid the brochure for Saint Peter’s Art Institute across the silk tablecloth but didn’t utter another word.
He had to believe this was his decision in the end.
He never funded anything that didn’t lend a helping hand to his ego, and I hoped that a small, elite art institute might do just that.
A bit of guilt nibbled in my chest. I didn’t want to use him, not really, but I had no other choice.
His nail scratched against the stubble on his chin. “And how, exactly, do you intend to pay for this?”
“I’ve saved. I have enough for food and board for the year, no problem. But tuition …”
He grunted and tapped the page. “It also says they have a strict vetting process. You have to apply, and less than two percent of applicants are admitted. What makes you think you’ll even get in?”
Time to go in for the kill. I handed him an envelope made of old book pages—a unique touch on the institute’s part—with the black wax seal peeled open. “Because I already did.”