25. Flick
FLICK
There were four words that a parent could say that were worse than being grounded. Worse than having your car taken away. Worse than any punishment. Josie’s brown eyes shone as she spoke them to Flick: “I’m disappointed in you.”
The words were tiny but mighty, just like his mother. And Flick felt each one hit him dead center in the gut. His whole life, Flick had relied on Josie, and Josie alone. Since the father they never spoke of did not come back, having left to pick up a six-pack of beer one winter day when Flick was just a baby, he had only ever had Josie.
His mother worked so hard just keeping a roof over their heads and the bills paid that there had always been a silent agreement between them. Go to school. Do your work. Don’t mess up. That Saturday night when Mr. Welter led him back inside the twinkling clubhouse dining room, Josie only had to look up at her son’s face through the candlelight to know he’d messed up. Badly.
Because it was a club event, and it was as acceptable to make a scene as it was to douse white pants in red sorbet, Mr. Welters let him go tell his mother, first, in private. There was some mercy.
What followed was an admission to something he didn’t do and a hasty departure home. As Flick followed the taillights of Stan’s Lamborghini down the dark winding road home he was tempted to veer off. In just five hours he could be back in Queens, crashing at Mateo’s house, sleeping on his bedroom floor like they used to when his life made sense. At the last intersection before his posh new neighborhood, Flick thought about turning toward the highway. But he couldn’t do that to his mother.
The worst part was that Josie did not flip out when they got home. She closed her car door, clicked across the garage floor in her high heels, and let herself calmly inside. There was no yelling. There were no questions. In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water at the marble island and sipped it slowly before she finally looked at him. It felt like an eternity. And then she said those four words. Flick was still reeling from their impact when she excused herself and went upstairs.
Stan’s reaction was the next shock. He ambled in after them, closed the garage doors, and went about the house locking up like he did every night. Then he went to the fridge and took out two cans of beer. Flick watched as Stan slid one down the island counter in his direction. It stopped in front of him, right out of a movie.
“You know what you did,” he said, cracking his can open. “Let your mom cool off, and maybe she’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Flick’s stomach was sour, but the gesture couldn’t be refused. He cracked open his can and took a nervous sip. “I’m sorry.”
“Save it for her,” Stan said, not unkindly. He held his beer aloft and it took Flick a second to realize he wanted to offer a cheers. Now? But he held his can up. “To a mother’s love,” Stan said. “There ain’t nothing fiercer.”
Josie ignored him all day Sunday. She refused to utter a single word, which she’d never before accomplished, and when she finally did, there was very little talking. Mostly there was yelling. Flick was encouraged: his mother was back.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she cried. She stood in his doorway, hands on her hips, her face as fiery as her fuchsia workout clothes. The Peloton had done little to help her pedal off her rage.
“Mom, I’m sorry.” Flick wanted to tell her the truth, that he hadn’t stolen the wine, but then she’d force him to tell the club and Wendy would go down. Or worse, she’d tell the club, herself, which was more Josie’s style. Instead, he told her what he would tell Mr. Birch later: “I was trying to comfort Wendy. I screwed up.”
“Boy, did you! We’re new up there,” Josie said, coming to sit on the bed beside him. “That was our one shot at a first impression. What will people think?”
Flick dared to meet her gaze. “Is that what you’re most upset about? What other people think?” It was his turn to be mad. “What about what I think? You moved us here to a place where I have no friends and nothing to do, except work at that club. Nobody here is anything like me. But you can’t wait to be like them.” He threw his arms open as if trying to scoop up everything that was wrong. “I hate this place, Mom. I hate it. So, I don’t care what anyone around here thinks.”
Josie’s hand flew at him and he flinched. She’d never hit him before. Instead, she wiped the tears streaming down his cheeks. He hadn’t even realized he was crying. And then she pulled him against her, hugging him so hard he could barely breathe. He remembered Stan’s words from the night before.
“Baby, I moved us up here for you,” she whispered in his ear. “I thought it would be good for you. The schools. The fresh air. The nice neighborhood.”
Flick buried his face in his mother’s hair and inhaled. She smelled like her favorite lavender shampoo, and it made him feel like a child again. “I don’t recognize anything anymore, Mom. Including us.”
Josie pulled away and looked at him. Her eyes were soft now, but she didn’t give in. “I’m sorry it’s so hard, but it’s early yet. You’ve got to give it a chance. Please, go see Mr. Birch and give it a chance.”
“You’re going back to the club after what happened?”
Josie nodded. “We’re going back. After you make this right.”
That night, he got two texts. Neither were from Darcy.
Why’d you do it? It was Wendy. He’d wondered when he was going to hear from her.
It’s done. Don’t worry about it. Flick still didn’t fully understand himself. The only thing he could come up with was that by the time he’d run into Wendy on his way home, he’d felt like he’d already lost any chance of anything good that night. Wendy had been cut down by a member. Darcy had run off with Spencer. When Mr. Welter showed up moments later, what more did he have to lose?
I’m going to tell Mossimo she texted.
Don’t he replied. You’ve got too much at stake. He and Wendy were not close, in fact she’d been toughest on him in the kitchen, but he respected how hard she worked in spite of how hard she seemed to have it. The job was her meal ticket in the purest sense.
I don’t need any favors.
He knew her pride was at risk, but pride cost less than her apartment.
Sometimes we all do.
Let me think about it. Thanks junior.
Monday, he met with Mr. Birch. It was a shock to hear that he could keep his job, but it would still be hard to show his face. The news was probably lighting the grapevine ablaze. That night he texted Mateo.
Almost came to see you the other night.
Yeah? Why didn’t you?
Mom. Life. Stupid job. Flick told him everything. Mateo thought he was crazy to take the fall for the wine, but he also knew his best friend better than anyone.
At least they didn’t fire you.
Not sure I’m the guy for the job anymore.
Don’t sell yourself short. What about the girl?
Not the guy for her either.
Bullshit. Stay open man.
Mateo said things like that. Stay open. Flick was pretty sure his best friend missed him as much as he did Mateo, but they’d never admit it to one another. Stay open was the next best thing, maybe better.
When he walked through the clubhouse doors on Tuesday morning, he reminded himself to stay open. There were looks and whispers among the counselors, but he didn’t see Darcy. Mossimo was waiting for him in the kitchen.
“I heard what you did,” Mossimo said. He strode up to Flick and placed his hands roughly on either side of Flick’s face, his dark eyes intense. Flick’s instinct was to recoil, but, before he could, the chef kissed him on one cheek, then the other. “I know loyalty when I see it.”
When Mossimo let go, Flick turned to the sink already full of dirty pots and got to work scrubbing. He didn’t want the chef to see him cry.
He managed to hide out in the kitchen for most of his shift, but near the end Mossimo asked him to run down to the pro shop and deliver a lunch order to Vince.
Flick was relieved not to bump into anyone in the dining room or hallway. But his luck ran out when he ran into Bitsy Babcock, just as she was exiting the women’s locker room.
She set her bag down and wagged a finger at him. “You listen to me—I heard about that booze swipe on Saturday night, and I don’t blame you one bit. I don’t!” She shook her head for emphasis. “Those affairs are dreadful. If you needed a sip to get you through, so be it. Besides, those fat cats can afford to share. They drink plenty as it is.” She winked.
“Thank you, Mrs. Babcock,” Flick stammered. “It was a mistake. Won’t happen again.”
Bitsy’s eyes twinkled. “Next time, come find me. I share!”
Man, he loved this lady. “Here, let me help you with your bag.” He bent to retrieve her gym bag.
“Don’t be silly!” She whisked it off the ground so quickly, it tipped. Some of its contents spilled onto the carpet. Flick stared.
In the spillage was a hairbrush, a bottle of sunscreen, and two silver forks. The forks were the same dark patina as the club’s fancy Blackstone silverware he set tables with for special occasions. The same silverware that had been going missing.
“Oh dear.” Quickly Bitsy scooped them up and into her bag. She righted herself and hoisted it over her shoulder. Before he could think of what on earth to say, she looked right at him and shrugged sadly. “I like nice things.”
“Mrs. Babcock—” He paused. Mrs. Babcock wore many hats at the club: legacy member, board member, and now thief.
Mossimo would want to know. Mr. Birch would want to know. But what would that mean for Mrs. Babcock? Flick knew it would not be good.
“You have to turn me in,” she said, looking down at her hands. They were manicured and bejeweled and roped with aging veins. Mrs. Babcock was tiny and elegant, but now she looked small and sad. She drove a Jag. Why would she be stealing from the club?
Flick swallowed hard. “No, I don’t,” he said.
“No?” Her penciled eyebrows shot up. When he shook his head, she stood on tiptoe and pecked him on the cheek. “You’re a dear. Tell you what, I’ll save a set for you!”
“Please don’t do that,” Flick said. “You have a good day.” He had a sandwich to deliver. He was not the police. And he was in enough trouble already.
The pro shop was empty. “Hello?” he called, looking around for Vince. But the back office was vacant, too.
It was then he saw a group outside. Vince stood waving goodbye to a cluster of campers that Flick recognized as Darcy’s. When he went to the window he spied Darcy on the putting green, collecting golf balls. His heart flip-flopped against his ribs.
Flick hadn’t seen Darcy since Saturday night, when she’d gone off with Spencer and the others. Yesterday she’d shot him a text asking him if he was okay. But this time he wasn’t going to let her get back in his head. It was clear on Saturday night that she’d made a choice.
Outside, there was no sign of either of them. Flick walked along the clubhouse hoping he’d find Vince so he could hand off his lunch order and avoid Darcy altogether. Just his luck, he spotted Darcy first, carrying a bucket of golf balls. He waited until she disappeared into the sports storage shed. Someone else rounded the corner of the shed right behind her. It was Vince, with a bag of kiddie clubs on each shoulder. Flick held back as he, too, disappeared into the shed. Now he’d have to wait.
He was leaning against the clubhouse with the lunch delivery, when he heard a scuffle from inside the shed. “Oh, come on.” It was a man’s voice, and he sounded annoyed. Flick looked up just as Darcy burst through the shed doorway. Her face was flushed. She glanced over her shoulder as she broke into a run. She was going so fast Flick barely had time to brace himself before she slammed right into him.
“Whoa!” he cried.
Darcy fell backward onto the grass before springing to her feet again. But it was long enough for Flick to get a good look at her.
Her eyes were wild. Alarm bells clanged in his head. “Darcy.” He reached for her hand. “What just happened?”
She was out of breath, her entire focus on the shed behind her. “Nothing, let me go.”
Vince appeared in the shed doorway. He, too, looked ruffled. Something had happened. And Flick needed to know what it was.
“Can I help you?” Vince barked. He adjusted his baseball cap on his head, then spied the bag in Flick’s hand. “Is that my lunch?”
Darcy yanked her hand from Flick’s and hurried for the clubhouse door.
“What’s going on here?” Flick bellowed. The voice that came from his mouth was not his own.
Vince stared back at him, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Flick moved toward him, and Vince stepped back. Yes, he had read the situation right. The guy had guilt all over him. Suddenly it all made sense: Darcy had been dropping hints all summer, but Flick hadn’t pieced them together, until now. Did you ever try to forget something bad from the past? “What just happened in there?”
“Flick, don’t! Please.”
He spun around. It was Darcy. Her hand was still on the door handle, but she hadn’t gone inside. Despite a level of fear that caused her to slam right into him, she was still there, watching and waiting. Begging him not to do anything. There was a reason for that. And Flick finally understood what it was.
Without warning, a wave of protectiveness crested inside him. Flick charged at Vince. He struck him with both hands right in the chest, sending him flying backward through the shed doorway.
“What the fuck?” Vince caught himself, and as soon as he did Flick shoved him again.
“Flick!” Someone was screaming his name. Vince pulled his fist back to swing, and in reply Flick grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and rammed him up against the wall. Tennis rackets toppled from the overhead shelf onto their heads. A bucket clattered to its side and golf balls spun about their feet, but Flick did not let go.
“Get off me!” Vince screamed.
There were other voices now, too. And then there were hands—hands on Flick’s shoulders and arms, hands pulling him off of Vince, who had fallen on his ass and now skittered backward across the ground like a crab.
A golf cart roared up. People were firing questions. Flick sank to the grass, cradling his head in his hands.
“He lost his mind!” Vince shouted, as someone helped him up to his feet. “Get that kid out of here. He’s fucking crazy.”
Someone hauled Flick up, grabbed him by the back of his neck and steered him to the clubhouse doors.
When he sat across from Ned Birch, blood streaming from his nose, there was nothing he could say. Mr. Birch handed him an ice pack and stared. “What the hell happened?”
Flick could feel his left eye swelling shut already. “Where’s Darcy?”
“What? Flick, you’ve got to tell me what went on out there. Vince is saying you attacked him and members say they saw it.” Ned’s expression was pleading, and Flick almost felt sorry for him.
“Please, I need to talk to Darcy.”
“Why?” The darkness that clouded Ned’s face shut Flick up. “What does any of this have to do with my daughter?”
Flick knew right then and there his fate was sealed. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “She’s my friend. I just want to see her.”
Ned slammed his fist on the desk. “You can’t see Darcy, Flick! And you can’t stay here, either. You’d better hope I don’t have to call the cops!”