Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
“I could have said worse.” I shrug, already heading toward the sidelines where my coach is waiting for me, fuming.
“Sure, like tu es un sac à foutre.”
I laugh despite the ache in my jaw.
“You’re a real idiot, you know that? We could have pulled out a win there at the end.”
I shoot him a sidelong glare. “We? You played three minutes the whole game.”
He looks insulted. “I’m a freshman.”
“I started as a freshman.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re a real sac à foutre.”
I smile just as our coach growls, “Emmett, get your ass over here!”
It’s hard to look contrite when you have the world laid at your feet. This game doesn’t matter. We’re not going to make it to the playoffs. Earlier in the season, we lost two of our best guys to injuries, and another starter got kicked out of St. John’s because of drugs. Pity. He sold good weed.
My coach does a rousing rendition of Guy Trying to Rein in a Troubled Youth. He tells me I need to show some respect and I can’t go through life ignoring the rules, but he’s wrong and we both know it.
I stand there, silent, until he gets it all out, and then he waves his hand in defeat and tells me to pack up my stuff with the rest of my team.
Alexander’s waiting for me like a dutiful puppy. When I start heading back across campus, he falls in beside me.
“Parents Weekend starts Saturday. Excited to see daddy dearest?”
I ignore him, but he persists.
“Maybe Maman will come.”
That’s laughable. She’s never come to a Parents Weekend at St. John’s. We barely keep in touch, though she did call me out of the blue the other day. I almost let it go to voicemail.
“Oh Emmett! I miss my boys. Are you doing well? Learning and behaving as I taught you to?”
“I’m sorry. Who is this?”
She acted like she was in on the joke.
“Emmett, don’t be silly. Now, have you heard from your papa lately?”
It’s truly pathetic. After all this time, she’s still infatuated with my father.
Frédéric Mercier is a complicated man. Most people wouldn’t want to sit across from him in a boardroom, let alone a dinner table. He scared me when I was young, and any comfort to be found came from Maman. In our cold house, I equated happiness with her until I turned five and my father left.
Their divorce broke her.
She loved my father too much. When he left, our lives became a vacuum. I have memories of her being loving and attentive before they split up, but after, she checked out. Short trips turned into summers away from our home in Paris, winters with no phone calls. She was always off looking for her happiness, and apparently it didn’t include Alexander or me.
I used to give her the benefit of the doubt—it’s no easy thing to heal a broken heart—but that’s gone now. I see her for what she really is: selfish. Always searching, finding, leaving. When Alexander and I were still young and living in Paris, my father tried to be there some, but work kept him busy. You can’t be the head of a global luxury conglomerate and make it home for dinner every night, not to mention he remarried after he divorced my mother. Found himself a nice little family, a princess for a daughter.
Mostly, Alexander and I were left in the care of nannies, some nicer than others. They knew we wouldn’t be checked on, and that freedom bred carelessness and neglect. I was glad when we were finally sent to America to attend St. John’s. Here, we’re all on an even playing field, a motley crew of sad, neglected, rich kids. Poor us.
I almost lament the fact that my time here is coming to an end. The real world is biting at my heels, ready to sink its teeth into me.
It’s the reason Papa is coming to St. John’s for Parents Weekend. He has plans for me now that I’m eighteen and graduating soon.
On Saturday, I set my alarm for 9:00 AM and go for one of my long swims. Then I come back to shower and shave. I’m careful with my appearance, picking out a black suit. Other kids will be dressed more casually for the picnic on the lawn, but Papa will expect me to dress well. After all, I’m a reflection of him.
My roommate Harrison groans and flips over onto his front so he can mash his pillow over his head to block out the noise.
His parents aren’t coming today. I asked, and the last time he heard from them, they were on a yacht in Cannes with bad cell service.
“Could you get the fuck out already so I can sleep?”
Ignoring him, I focus on fixing the cuffs of my shirt. I pride myself on dressing well, something Americans could learn from the French, to be honest. Even if my father didn’t own half the luxury menswear market, I’d still care about the fit of my clothes, style, and appearance. American men equate that with homosexuality, like a man is more of a man if his pants are baggy, if he hasn’t washed his face in three days.