“Don’t take that tone with me.” He cuts into a big piece of steak, bloody juice gushing over the bone white china, then looks across the table at me. It’s worse than I thought. If he were merely disappointed, he’d push his plate away to talk, one-on-one, giving me all of his attention. I guess it’s difficult to make someone feel two inches tall when you’re not completely focused on the task.
No, this isn’t disappointment.
It’s fury. “You know why I have people keeping me informed? Because I don’t want to get blindsided again. It’s not like you’re going to tell me when shit’s about to hit the fan. I learned that lesson with the Adams incident last year.”
I suck in a sharp breath, stomach churning uncomfortably. Even knowing that this isn’t school—that we’re free to talk about it here—it’s like I’m conditioned to recoil at the mere mention of it.
“Do we have to do this now?” Mother asks, pushing her salad around.
My plate is still empty.
“Bridgette, your son is floundering.” He punctuates this by stabbing his fork in my direction. “He’s insolent, he’s inadequate, and he keeps screwing up. I don’t know when the time is right to discuss it. Over his rejection letter from UVA? Maybe Duke
?”
“Jesus, Dad, I am not going to get rejected from college because I got a detention for being thirty-seconds late to class.” I stretch my neck in an attempt to ease the tension in my injured shoulder. “I’m also not going to get rejected for being awarded co-captain with the most competent female swimmer on the team.”
His gaze is like a dagger, barely veiled rage burning in his eyes. “You don’t know that. Word travels. The Adams girl and her family have already done their damage by getting their tentacles into Preston Prep. I won’t let her ruin you or your chances for future success. Working with her as co-captain is detrimental to your academic and athletic career, not to mention the personal implications of being around a family with such—” He flounders here, mouth turned up in a sneer.
“Such what?” I ask, voice harder than I’d like. There’s a threat in there. Against me? Against Gwendolyn? I may want to throttle her for what she did today with the paint, but Jesus Christ. She’s just Gwen.
He gives me a warning look and continues, “Such different values and expectations. Gwendolyn may seem competent, or even high achieving, but after what happened with her sister, I don’t think you can let down your guard.” He eats belligerently, like the steak he’s cutting into has caused some great offense. “It is entirely possible she may try to destroy you out of vindictiveness and revenge. There is nothing she or her family would like to see more than a Bates be taken down. Or worse, infiltrated.”
Infiltrated.
I glance into the house through the open French doors. I can see the massive fireplace from my seat and the painting hanging above the mantle. It’s of the three of us; my mother, father, and me. It used to be a different painting, one that included my sister Hollis. A guest would never even know she existed, because this house—this fucking house—doesn’t remember. She’s just been erased. Or rather, in my father’s opinion she was ‘infiltrated,’ and therefore removed like an infection.
Like a tumor.
Like we can’t even talk about her anymore, because it would give her power, and there would be nothing worse than that.
My dad cut her out, erased her, cancelled her.
Something uncomfortable clicks in my head when I think about it. I realize that what happened to Hollis is what’s happening to Gwendolyn—all at my father’s insistence. As an entire school, we’d just erased her from our school society. And we were so fucking good at it, too. I was so good at it. Almost like I’d had practice. I’d done exactly what he did to Hollis.
Holy shit.
I shove my chair back with a loud scrape against the slate floors, something in the pit of my stomach roiling. I shouldn’t even be surprised. This is what he’s always wanted, isn’t it? A little clone of him to show off like a pony—a son who is just as successful as him, but not a single iota more. He’ll lift me up while all at once holding me back.
I press my palms to the table, leveling my father with an open-faced look. “I know you think that your way is the only way. That the way you handle things is how to get shit done. You may be right, but you also may be wrong. I’d think that after proving that I have control over the Devils, and control over the swim team, and control over every aspect of my life at that school, you’d back the fuck off.”
His face grows red, nostrils flaring. “The detention—"
“Is bullshit!” I slap my palms on the table. “Do you realize that half the reason I’m being punished is because the hardline attitude you suggested we take on Gwendolyn Adams makes me look petty and immature? The administrators and coaches don’t like it. The detention, the captainship, it’s all just damage control. It’s me, cleaning up your mess. But I have some good news for you. I’ve got everything under control; the Devils, the swim team, and, yes, even Gwendolyn Adams. I tried it your way. Now you need to let me handle it on my own terms. Preston Prep is my domain, not yours.”
With that I walk off, not wanting to give him any more of my time or energy.
He doesn’t deserve it.
Hunger strikes halfway back to campus, once the tightly wound ball of anxiety starts to unravel in the pit of my stomach. There’s a party tonight out on the lake, but I have zero interest in going to it. Reagan’s already texted me three times asking if I’m going to come. That’s enough to solidify the decision for me.
On a whim, I pull into the parking lot for the Northridge Diner. The place is packed, but that’s not a surprise. It’s a Saturday night. Northridge Diner—or ‘The Nerd’, coined by the unfortunate acronym of NRD—has always been a hot spot for the local kids to hang out. They make killer burgers and milkshakes. It’s worth the wait.
What I’m not sure it’s worth is running into Gwendolyn on the way in.
We both reach the front door at the same time, but then stop abruptly.
“Oh,” she says, eyes sweeping over my face, obviously looking for the remains of her paint job, “go ahead.” She doesn’t even have the good grace to look contrite about the primer still glued to my eyebrows.