“Mr. Gamble, where do we meet you?” I say, perhaps too loudly again, because once again, Herc shushes me. I’m not too fond of it when he does that.
“You don’t,” he says.
“What do we do, Mr. Gamble?”
Arthur responds slowly and deliberately, enunciating every word, even though it sounds like he’s speeding down the highway.
“Stick with tennis. Tennis is your meal ticket.”
“What?” I breathe. “What?! Why is he saying that?”
Herc stammers. “I-I don’t know what that means. Mr. Gamble, we leave for school tomorrow…but if we need to be here to support Dad….”
“Listen to me,” Arthur says. “You go to school tomorrow. My daughter, Leela, will find you. Everything is business as usual.”
Now I’m pacing.
This is terrible. Daddy wanted to be there to move us into our dorms, but now…my feet keep going as my brain turns over every scenario, trying to figure out what to do.
That’s my daddy in that car, being taken away from me. He was supposed to be there to write the check at the bursar’s office. I wanted to get a job to help pay for whatever wasn’t covered by athletic and academic scholarships, but Daddy insisted on drawing from our trust fund to pay for college.
“That’s what it’s there for. You need to focus on school. Work will come soon enough,” he always said.
A fresh new realization hits me then, and I want to vomit.
Herc hangs up the phone, watching the black car drive away with Daddy in the back seat. The people who remain behind are removing safes, cases of jewelry, antique vases, desks, marble statues, and priceless works of art and loading them in the back of the moving van.
There goes Grandma’s Louis XIV settee. There goes Great-Grandad’s coin collection. I am heartbroken. Not over the monetary value. I don’t give a shit about the money. I’m watching memories, the tapestry of our lives, our entire family history being hauled out the garage doors like it means nothing.
And now, a huge flatbed truck has arrived.
“Oh no. My Jeep! Herc,” I say, tugging his sleeve, “They’re taking your Mustang!”
He sighs. “Yep. That’s what they do.”
I’m starting to hyperventilate, even as I tell myself to remain calm and to think.
Why did Arthur say that thing about tennis?
“Herc. What do we do? We can’t stay here,” I say.
He says nothing. But I see wheels turning in his head.
“I’m calling Titus,” I blurt. “We can hide out there tonight.”
He shoots me a look. “Titus? He’s at his dad’s machine shop all day. We can’t drag them into this, anyway. I’ll call the school. If we can’t move into our dorms a day early, I’ll book us a hotel room tonight, and we can do an automatic draft from our trust fund tomorrow. Dad writing the check was just a formality; there’s no reason we can’t do it.”
One foot in front of the other. That’s Herc. My pragmatic brother.
I nod as I pace back and forth under the canopy of tall firs that line the tennis court. And while Herc is making calls and booking rooms, I text Titus.
Me:Hey. I hate to pull you away from work, but any chance you want to leave for school a little early? Dad’s in trouble. IRS, maybe? Cars gone. Need to get to school and lie low.
He texts back immediately.
Titus:Where are you?
Me:Tennis court.