18. BACK THEN – December
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
M erry Christmas :) Meet up later to exchange gifts?
I send Willow a Twitter message and descend my staircase. Already dressed, I’m scheduled for an afternoon shift at Superheroes & Scones, and I’m dying to get there. Holiday traffic has been crazy, but on Christmas Day, I actually expect it to be slow.
Either way, I’m ready for the distraction.
A second later, a notification buzzes my phone.
@willowaIIflower: Tonight?
It’s a date. I almost hit send, but I shake my head and delete those words and retype: perfect.
We’re not a couple. We’re still just friends, and honestly, I can’t lose Willow to anything else. I’m already cursed and shit at most things, including relationships. But—I don’t know. Sometimes, I think about kissing Willow.
What it would feel like. Where I’d put my hands. How I’d make her comfortable. What she’d be thinking—since it’d be her first.
Her lips look soft.
Shit. Stop thinking about that stuff. Just friends.
Sometimes I even wonder if we could be more. After Christmas, this next stretch of high school will be our last. We’re seniors, and she’s getting more comfortable at Dalton. The timing seems better than it was.
Each step down the stairs, I feel more strongly about this. About her.
“Garrison, honey, can you come here?” my mom calls from the formal dining room.
I dip into the kitchen and pass through another archway that leads to the dining room. My mom, in a form-fitting red dress, sits next to my dad at a glossy oak table, decorated with a red winterberry centerpiece and Christmas garland.
I rarely see my dad. If he’s not working, then he’s at home with his face in an iPad or computer. Checking stocks, making business plans—or maybe he just surfs the internet. I wouldn’t know, would I?
Today, though, he has no electronic nearby. In a powder blue button-down and expensive slacks, he’s seated beside my mom. My dad has always looked a lot like a fifty-something Jeremy Irons. Not physically intimidating, but his resolute expression is less friendly than my mom’s gentle one.
I have no idea what this is about. Ever since my mom joined this new church when I was ten, we don’t open presents on Christmas Day. We attend church on Christmas morning, but it’s always insanely packed, so we have to show up hours early just to secure a chair.
Because of that, we open gifts on Christmas Eve.
Even last night, I was reminded that I’m on the “naughty” list for my family.
Good to my dad’s word, he didn’t allow anyone to give me a single gift.
Punishment for vandalizing Loren Hale’s mailbox and then squirting punch on some of Lo’s roommates.
His sister-in-law, Rose Calloway, was one of them.
I didn’t fight the punishment because I deserved it.
Watching my three brothers open their gifts while I was left with nothing—that was the least of what could’ve happened.
“Take a seat.” My dad points to the chair across from them.
I don’t sit. My gaze falls to a white envelope on the table’s glossy surface. I stuff my hands into my black hoodie. “What’s this about?”
“Sit, please.” He never raises his voice with me. Doesn’t physically hit me. Doesn’t do much of anything.
He’s not a big force in my life like my mom. His million-dollar tech company leeches his time and energy, and this holiday, I only saw him smile once. When Davis asked him to throw a football outside.
He found the time to play a quick game with all three of my brothers.
I sat out, and maybe he’s here to lecture or scold me. But what’s with this envelope?
I teeter, stuck between sitting and standing, not knowing which to take. I decide to sit before he repeats the request.
Maybe this isn’t about me. Maybe they’ve decided to split up or something. Uncertainty binds my lungs, and I’m not even sure how I’d feel about a divorce.
My mom slides the envelope closer to me. “This is your Christmas gift.” She seems more nervous than excited.
I reluctantly pry the envelope off the table. Frowning, I haphazardly tear open the paper and find a sleek brochure inside.
Faust Boarding School for Young Boys
I stare blankly at the photograph. A gothic New England building landscapes an upstate New York setting. Teenage guys in suits smile and hold books, some propped near a large stone statue. It looks like an Ivy League institution made for teenagers preparing for life at Yale, Princeton, and Harvard.
My stomach sinks the longer I stare.
“What is this?” I mutter under my breath, already knowing the answer in my heart.
“We’ve pulled you out of Dalton Academy,” my dad says. “You’re not excelling there, and after what happened to your friends…” He clears his throat. “Your mom and I think that Faust will provide the proper guidance you need to finish your senior year.”
My brain flies a million miles a minute. Too many questions. I unleash one thing. “What about lacrosse?”
I grimace at my words. Seriously? Lacrosse.
I don’t even like lacrosse. I pause, that sentiment not sitting right in my stomach. I hate lacrosse. I don’t know if I really do. The thought of not playing feels strange. Feels wrong. I frown deeply. I’m not sure of anything anymore.
“Unfortunately, Faust doesn’t have a lacrosse team,” my dad tells me while giving my mom a look. This might’ve been a point of contention in their final decision.
My stomach cramps, and the brochure crinkles under my tight grip.
Mom scoots forward, hands outstretched towards me. “But Faust has a chess club and cross-country, tennis, and even swimming. You can be involved in plenty of other sports or an extracurricular.”
I’ll graduate at the end of May. I barely have any school left. It’s not like I can just walk onto the cross-country team. It’s not like I want to.
Why are we even discussing sports like this is actually happening? Who’d make their kid switch schools in the middle of their last year?
“This can’t really be up for discussion,” I say dryly.
“Of course it is,” my mom says. “You can choose whichever sport you want. We won’t make that decision for you.”
“No,” I snap. “ Not sports. I’m talking about this .” I wave the brochure that’s battered between my fingers, no longer crisp and pristine. “Faust. I don’t get a say?” I hear my own rebuttal before my parent’s launch theirs.
You’re rich. You’ve been given everything in life. You’re complaining about a boarding school, you asshole. You spoiled, ungrateful brat.
Guilt tears up my insides. I feel like I have no room to complain. No room to scream or throw shit. No room to combat, even though I’m eighteen.
“No,” my dad says, voice strict. “Your opinion doesn’t matter. Not after you’ve made this year hell for your mom and me.”
I owe them. That’s what I feel. I owe them for the nice clothes. For this house. For the cash, the car, the food and electronics.
For putting up with a piece of shit like me.
I hang my head and listen to my dad continue on.
“You need to leave this neighborhood,” he tells me.
“The friends you grew up with, this atmosphere, it’s all been toxic for you.
Think of Faust as a fresh start. A new school, new city, new home.
” My dad lets out a breath like the weight of his troubles has finally lifted. “This is a good change, Garrison.”
Months ago, maybe I would’ve agreed. A new start. Away from all my ex-friends. Away from my brothers. Away from this place. It would’ve seemed like a lifeline, but now I feel as though my parents are cutting the only rope that grounds me to soil, to earth.
I’m doing better.
I’ve made a real friend, something I’ve never had.
If I leave Philadelphia, I’ll be leaving the one good thing in my life.
Willow.
My throat swells. “There’s nothing…” I swallow and start again, “Isn’t there anything I can do or say to change this?”
“We’ve already withdrawn you from Dalton Academy,” my dad explains. “You start Faust in January. You’ll leave in a week for orientation and to move into the dorms. It’s done.”
A week.
A week .
The timeline rings shrilly in the pits of my ears.
After the shock wears off, I stuff the crumpled brochure into the envelope and wedge the thing in my pants pocket. “Is that it?” I wonder.
My mom and dad exchange a look, and then she sets her concern on me. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it a little more?”
“What else is there to talk about?” I ask. “It’s a done deal, right?” I stand from the dining room table. Not wanting to speak to them anymore. They’ve already proven how much power they have over my life.
Dazedly, I walk out of the dining room. Neither my mom nor my dad tries to call me back, and I snatch my blue Dalton Academy beanie off a coat rack and find gloves. I think about grabbing my skateboard from the garage, but I abandon the board and just walk.
Faster and faster.
Out the front door. Down the driveway. Past the mailbox.
I pick up speed until I jog towards Loren Hale’s house. Cold rips through my lungs, and I welcome every bit of it.
Slowing to a stop, I see the red brick house and Christmas decorations. Nothing extravagant. Lights twinkle on a few trees and a wreath hangs on the front door.
As I veer up their driveway, I slip on the slick cement. My worn boots have god-awful traction, and before I face-plant, I grab onto a decorative, iron deer. My heart hammers.
Not just from almost falling.
I hope Willow is here. She has to be. One good thing has to happen today.
I need to talk to her. Face-to-face. Right now. Get this news off my chest.
I carefully climb the porch stairs. Crusted ice and snow covers the doormat, and I stand stiffly. Hesitantly. Not that many people in this house even like me. After my birthday—where Willow stayed at my house later than she intended—I can’t even tell if I’m on Loren Hale’s good side anymore.
And there’s a huge chance I’ll be met with anyone but Willow.
Everyone who lives here:
Lily Calloway
Rose Calloway
Daisy Calloway
Loren Hale
Connor Cobalt
Ryke Meadows