Page 144 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
Iglare at Piper all the way to the doors of Valente. She can’t see me, but I don’t care. It makes me feel better to give her a dirty look. I’d keep glaring at her after she swipes her card to open the doors, but the dark mirrored windows reflect my van rather than letting me see inside the building.
I check my rearview mirror and get a glimpse of purple peeking out from under my beanie, which makes me glare harder as I pull back onto the street. Just when I think Piper is a reasonable human being, she proves me wrong again. My plan is better for her and Cynthia than what Dad’s offering, but she’s too stubborn to see it. It’s maddening.She’smaddening.
Except, the more I think about what she’s said, the more I kinda see her point. Based on Dad’s behavior, I can’t fault her lack of trust. I shouldn’t be blamed for anything Dad’s done, but I haven’t earned any goodwill with the way I treated her when she was a kid. Giving her a ride to work one day after I sabotaged her isn’t going to undo the past. And she doesn’t know that I’m the reason, not Dad, she’s got a room in the beach house for the next two weeks.
All of which doesn’t change the fact I’ll be wasting the morning at the hairdressers instead of focusing on my businessplan. I’ve brought my iPad in case I’m able to do any research while Juan works his magic on my hair. But I’d rather be home, getting inspiration from the waves instead of staring at my purple-haired self in the salon mirror while I fine tune my loose plan into something Dad will approve.
Although, I didn’t do so well yesterday with the waves right outside my window and Piper’s pranks lurking around every corner. I spent most of the day on the wave instead of in front of my laptop where I could’ve been. I felt a bit overwhelmed with the realization that my plan needs to be a full-blown proposal that includes analytics, marketing plans, demographics and distribution plans. I know how to gather and compile all that information, but I only have ten days left to create the kind of proposal I spent half a semester working on at university.
And it doesn’t just have to be good for Dad. If he won’t give Cynthia money instead of the house or give me access to my money, I’ll need a full proposal to take to a bank or investors. It’s a last resort, but one I need to be prepared for.
It's been years since I created a business plan. Originally, I went to university to please Dad, but then I found I had a knack for business. My biggest struggle wasn’t understanding the concepts and doing well on projects. It was feeling like I had to work double hard to prove to everyone—including myself—that I deserved my spot in the business college based on my own merit and not because Dad had donated millions to the school.
I’m glad I earned my degree before I learned how Dad had manipulated Mum and caused their divorce, otherwise I might’ve dropped out just to spite him. When I told Mum Cynthia had filed for divorce, I expected her to be pleased Cynthia had finally got hers, but Mum’s response had been, “at least they don’t have kids.” Then she’d spilled the truth about why she’d given Dad custody and let him take us to America.
Dad had sold Frankie and me a story about Mum giving up full custody of us because she thought we’d be better off with him. Turns out, the reason we were better off with him is that he’d threatened to take everything from Mum if she fought him, including visitation rights.
That convo was a turning point for me. I saw a side of Dad I hadn’t seen before. He’d always been my hero. I reckon I still want him to be. I’m holding tight to my belief that he hasn’t changed so much since I was a kid that he can’t go back to being the man I remember he was before Forsythe Tech made him a billionaire.
My convo with Frankie yesterday didn’t help. For the past twelve hours, I’ve been questioning whether the memories I have of Dad are a made-up fairy tale. Maybe the years I spent watching and re-watching Marvel movies twisted my memories of Dad into something he’s not. Maybe I made him my own personal Ironman when really he’s closer to Thanos—a benevolent dictator willing to sacrifice who he loves most for whathebelieves is the greater good.
I hope I’m wrong about that. I recognize Dad is deeply flawed, but so is Ironman. And so am I.
But I need Dad to see past those flaws and recognize I’m capable of starting my own company. The first draft for Bombora, that I worked on a few years ago and sent to Dad on Monday, is outdated and pretty flimsy, if I’m honest.
I did that draft back when I thought money plus an idea was enough. Before I understood ethics like I do now; before I cared about sustainability, longevity, and making more than just money. I want to make a difference through minimal waste production and fair work practices. I want to create a superior product that people are proud to wear and a company that employees are proud to work for. I want to be the sort of business owner I used to believe Dad was.
When Dad first bought a tech company here in California—before he and Mom split and Frankie and I moved to LA—his intention was to create the kind of profit-sharing that would benefit everyone in the company, including the lowest-skilled workers. That changed once the company took off.
I know now that was Mom’s idea, and it went out the door with their marriage. After the divorce, Dad’s vision changed. He claimed he’d taken the financial risk of buying and turning the company around and should keep the bulk of the gains.
It's not that I disagree with him—his success did increase his liability, and he needed to protect his interests by keeping a larger cushion than he’d originally planned—but I really liked the idea of helping people at the bottom of the ladder work their way to a higher rung. I’d like to put Mom’s idea into practice.
I might have an easier time building an employee-centered, sustainable and eco-friendly company in Aus than the US, except my last name is Forsythe. Since moving back to Brisbane, Dad’s earned a reputation for thinking he’s above-it-all, throwing money at politicians to keep them from enforcing environmental laws or passing new ones. I don’t know how much of that is true. The eco-crowd can be uncompromising when it comes to what they think is best. But, then, so can Dad.
I reckon if I tried to ride any part of Dad’s coattails in Australia, I’d be accused of only wanting to offset some of the damage he’s doing to the environment—but mostly to his reputation—rather than really caring about the planet. It doesn’t matter that I was a pro-surfer and I’m still enmeshed in the culture—a big part of which is caring for the ocean.
My biggest hesitation with starting Bombora in Aus is that I want it to bemycompany. Forsythe isn’t a name everyone knows in LA the way it is in Brisbane. If Bombora were a success—and I believe it’s possible—I wouldn’t want people thinkingit’s because of Dad. I don’t want people questioning whether Bombora would’ve been a success if I weren’t a Forsythe.
Most of all,Idon’t want that question playing in the background while I try to build Bombora. That song was the background music of my entire four years at uni. It’s loud, discordant, and too hard to work to.
When I get to the Beverly Hills address of Juan Rivera’s salon, I pull my orange beanie lower and put on sunglasses before valeting the van. I pass Zendaya on my way in and nod. We met once, but I doubt she remembers me. Beverly Hills is not my scene, and my skin itches just being here. I like South Bay, where the locals leave me alone and the tourists are few and far between.
Juan’s brow wrinkles as soon as I sit in his chair. He yanks off my beanie then says, “You should have picked a better color. You look ready for Halloween.”
“I didn’t pick either one. The beanie was a gift from Frankie years ago, and the hair color is a gift from my former stepsister,” I growl.
Juan raises an eyebrow. “The stepsister you can tell me about later. Where’s Frankie?”
I chuckle. Nothow’sFrankie,where. Typical Juan. He’s the only Spaniard I know who loves tea even more than the English, but only the kind that’s spilled. It helps that he’s so easy to talk to. Everyone who sits in the chair wants to tell Juan everything because he’s so thrilled to learn it.
“She’s brilliant,” I answer.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“But that’s all I’m going to tell.”
“You want this hair fixed or not?”
