8. The Country Club, a Year-Round Job Fair #3
“This is great,” I tell them both, pulling the sweatshirt on. I immediately hate-love the fact that it’s still warm from his body and smells exactly like Lucas. All Old-Spice-y and clean-soap-y and Lucas-y in a way that makes me want to burrow my face and inhale.
“You guys are like high school official now.” Brody’s wearing his shit-eating grin, and I’m suddenly wondering if he’s not a snob, but rather deliberately tricked me into taking the damn thing. He punches Lucas lightly in the arm. “She’ll text you when she gets home.”
Lucas looks like he wants to argue, to insist on coming with us, but I give me head a small shake. “She’s right here and doesn’t like to be spoken of in the third person.”
“Okay.” Lucas says, reluctantly waving goodbye as I turn and start walking, hating how comfortable the damn sweatshirt is.
After about a block of walking in silence, Brody finally asks, “Did you know about his family and like . . . situation?”
“That Lucas is poor?”
“I mean, I guess the signs were there, but—”
“You didn’t look.”
We’re silent again, and I don’t say that yes, I’d guessed a long time ago.
It’s in his clothing, the way everything is too worn and repeated too often.
Seeing him today, it’s difficult not to see our similarities: Lucas is clearly working and contributing to his family; he’s so obviously the sibling who’s also the parent.
It’s clear in the way the twins look at him when talking about course selections and sports fees, even the way he turns down second helpings until everyone else has eaten.
“Doesn’t Caltech have good financial aid?”
“Aid rarely covers incidentals.”
We’re almost back at campus before Brody speaks again. “You know how Lucas looks at you when he doesn’t think you’re noticing?”
“Yeah.” I don’t bother denying it. With Brody, I figure the best defense is an offense. “But you need to stop shipping us. If we date, you’ll end up feeling like a third wheel. And if it doesn’t go well? The aftermath would be hell on team dynamics.”
“I’m already a third wheel,” Brody tells me, as if this should be obvious. “And I’m not sure you guys will break up.” He waits until I look in his direction. “I’ve seen the way you look at Lucas too, when you don’t think he’s noticing.”
I glance away. That’s . . . inconvenient. “We’re here to train, not date.”
“You could do both.”
It’s not that I’ve never considered this. Quite the opposite. I’ve wasted too many hours turning it over in my mind, and I’ve come to the same conclusion each time.
“Lucas and I work well together, nothing more.”
“Why say lot word when few word do trick?”
“Is that The Office again?”
“Let me give you the few-word, truncated truth: Lucas and you work.”
I look away because it’s not something I really want to dwell on.
“Neither of us has time to date.”
Brody kicks at a rock on the sidewalk more forcefully than it likely deserves. “And your CEO daddy wouldn’t approve.”
Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that my sharp teammate is . . . sharp. But still. “You didn’t notice how poor Lucas is, but you know who my father is?”
Brody heaves a dramatic sigh. “My father believes country clubs are year-round job fairs, because there’s always someone who’s getting separated and he’s pretty good about reminding people he’s one of the top-rated divorce attorneys in the country.
He rotates between three, one of which your father’s a member of.
Last week, your dad bragged to mine about a coding competition. Dropped the Caltech name.”
Of course. My father’s texted fairly regularly, reminding me he expects updates. Usually, they’re one-word messages.
Updates?
Or sometimes: News?
And once: Well?
My father never says it, but I’ve already lived through the consequences of not replying. He’ll stop sending money, or he’ll halve the agreed-upon allowance. So I’ve been spinning being on Team B as well as I can, even though he told me it was disappointing.
Still, it’s no surprise he’s bragging about it in public. My father’s adept at spinning the same truth into a series of half lies.
“Please don’t tell anyone.”
“That your father’s Chinese Daddy Warbucks?”
“Do I look wealthy?”
“You look like your parents are divorcing and you sided with the losing parent.” Before I can say anything, Brody holds both hands up in seeming surrender.
“It’s not a dig. I’m only mentioning it because both my parents are lawyers specializing in divorce.
They’re exceedingly competent, meaning I grew up immersed in divorce drama.
And I’ve seen my fair share of Chinese men who maintain more than one family. ”
I bite my lip, trying to decide how much to share. It’s been drilled into me from a young age that the best course of action is to neither confirm nor deny.
Of course, when my father left my mother, everyone knew.
We just weren’t supposed to admit we knew.
“Lucky guess?”
Brody barks out a laugh. “No guessing needed. Rich Chinese guy who wanted to sidestep the One-Child Policy by maintaining an American family and a Chinese one is practically a cottage industry.”
“Divorce would have been better.”
A fair divorce would have meant alimony payments. Even an unfair one would have meant the ability to apply for financial aid.
As it is, we’re stuck in purgatory. Neither of my parents wants to move forward with the divorce, meaning my father has all the power. Each month, he can give us as much (or as little, and he usually chooses little) allowance as he wants while still claiming us all as dependents.
“If your mother ever decides she wants a lawyer, I can make my parents do it pro bono. My mother, in particular, enjoys ‘being compensated for punishing bad men.’ She thinks it keeps my father in line to see how much she’d clean him out if he ever strayed.”
My cheeks are stained with red because even though Brody’s hiding it behind jokes, this feels like charity.
Correction: It is charity.
But it’s also more than any of my fancy private school friends offered when they learned I’d be transferring to public school. And several of them could have offered.
Instead, they cut contact.
Unsubscribed from my life.
“I’m not good at thanking people.”
“For the record, that’s not actually a thank-you.” He looks down at me, and I can feel myself flushing a little. “Also, yeah, it’s pretty obvious that neither you nor Lucas excels at the talky-talk parts of life.”
This elicits a small smile. “Then why put up with us?”
“Initially? Problems were fun and you weren’t Arjun. Later, because watching the two of you not-date is my favorite reality TV show. But also, you’re good people. You’ve both saved my ass when problem sets or essays have been forgotten—”
“You purposefully forget work you don’t enjoy. They weren’t passively forgotten.”
“—you brought me cough drops when I had a sore throat, and Lucas has been . . . solid.” Brody looks away, as if embarrassed.
“Don’t get me wrong. I have friends who are richer, hotter, more fun, and willing to actually party and have a social life, ones who can carry on a normal conversation and who have far better taste in movies that were actually filmed this decade and—”
“You can stop now.”
Brody shrugs. “And I mean, the wardrobe. Between Lucas and your I’m-allergic-to-color shit, you’re definitely my worst-dressed friends. None of my other friends would—”
“Please stop.” I’m laughing as I say this, because at least the awkward moment has passed.
He’s silent for about five seconds, which for Brody means he made an effort. “When are you going to give my boy a chance?”