Page 82 of Wherever You Are
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 evenlikelacrosse. 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. Ibarelyhaveany 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. “Notsports. I’m talking aboutthis.” 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.
