Page 18 of A Boy is a Gun: Part I
Mike grins and gives me a jump drive. “I also sent a .zip file to your assistant, Tesh, as you requested. She just confirmed she received it today.”
“Amazing,” I asked Mike to give me a copy of all the people who’d signed up for the security system and dating app. It’s far from ethical, and I’m pretty sure it might even be looked at invasive, but it’s not illegal. According to the terms and conditions I had many lawyers look over, I’m legally allowed to have their information.
Now what I’ll do with said information is no one’s damn concern but mine.
That’s the thing about enemies. They think they can have a one-up on you and get a giggle when they do it. They don’t realize that some people hold onto information and wait for the right moment to strike back and hit them where they least expect it.
In the great words of Omar from “The Wire,”: if you come for the king, you better not miss.
~~~~~
“Cameron,” Jamie greets me as she opens her studio loft apartment door. “Come in, come in.”
Jamie is a little older than Taylor, around 25. She has long, brown hair, matching eyes just like mine, and freckles everywhere. She’s of average height and sometimes dresses like a hobo, but I think it’s more for aesthetic purposes than money issues.
She has this soft, sonorous voice between Scarlett Johansson and Peppermint Patty, and I don’t have to wonder why she’s so popular in the blogging world. She looks like she should’ve been named something elemental, like Rain, Earth, or River, and not just Jamie.
She’s personable and very relatable because she’s learned from the best – our parents.
Jamie has always been the black sheep of the family. She was never a girly girl, and if she had to wear skirts and dresses, you know she got them from Hot Topic or some other emo moody store that sells that shit. If Jamie was in anything floral and otherwise girly, you best believe it was our mother’s insistence.
The fallout between Jamie and our family was long in the making. Mom was determined to have Jamie be like her, and Jamie wanted no parts. It got so bad that Mom and Jamie went to therapy to figure out the problem. (The real issue was Jamie didn’t want to follow in our mother’s footsteps and become a Stepford wife; I can’t be mad at that.)
Since then, it’s been a quiet War of the Roses between Jamie and our parents. She won’t do any press with them or be at campaign rallies or pit stops. I don’t mind doing any of that because it takes the heat off me, and the more my face portrays an image, the less the Feds want to investigate.
Robert does that because he’s angling to get into Congress. He doesn’t need it and has a very successful pediatrics practice. I also know it’ll look better if he was a congressman with an addicted wife than a pediatrician with an addicted wife.
One night, everything came to a head when I brought Dad’s former mistress home as my date. Did I do it as afuck youto them? Yes, I’ll admit that. I also wanted everyone to know what I was doing, and they would not stop it.
I would love to say this is where my parents were adamant I don’t get involved with drugs, I don’t hang outwith those Negroes, and all that spiel, but it was quite the opposite. Once my father figured out I was making ten million a week, he wanted in.
My mother had already figured out how she wanted to redecorate the house with the monthly million-dollar stipend I would give her. I paid for all the fancy activities Robert could put his children in.
Robert’s wife, Claire, kept complaining that she lacked energy, and that caffeine was no longer doing the trick. To my regret, I gave her a few Adderall to give her a boost. That slight boost led to her addiction. I’ve been trying in vain to get her clean since.
Jamie wants nothing to do with it. She’s seen what drugs can do and knows the devastation they can have for generations to come. She also doesn’t understand why I don’t care. The drug money has helped our family and especially her. She can act all pious if it makes her feel better, but we both know the truth:
If it weren’t for drug money, Jamie wouldn’t be able to live the life she does.
There’s that new racist slogan the conservatives and other right-wing nut jobs like to say – if you go woke, you stay broke. Everyone toes the fine line between being conscious and being oblivious. There’s a reason why many celebrities and public figures never speak out on issues. It’s not because they don’t care but because they know their bottom line.
Now, I’m here at Jamie’s apartment, and I’m wondering what the purpose of our dinner is. I’ve been in San Francisco every month for the past year, and this is the first time she’s invited me to see her. I constantly texted or called her and got the standard, ‘I’m so sorry, Cam! I’m busy doing this or that.’
I don’t complain about my sister being busy; she’s a very successful food blogger and influencer, and I can tell by her social media that she’s always at some event, meeting some people, and doing all sorts of stuff.
But I also know when someone is using thetoo busyexcuse because they don’t want to see you. Now, Jamie has all the time. I’m not stupid; something is up.
“Nice place,” I look around her studio loft apartment. For a cool three thousand a month, it’s every bit of luxury that I’ve expected: granite countertops, a washer and dryer, and a small balcony. Upstairs leads to the bedroom, which only has space for a bed, closet, and maybe a mirror.
Despite the down-home, relatable image Jamie loves to portray, it’s clear she likes to be comfortable. And I don’t mean the barely-making-it-but-it’ll-be-okay type of cozy. I mean, she wants to live in that space between the upper-middle class and the wealthy without appearing so.
Fake is the new woke.
“Are you ready?” She asks with a smile.
My sister has a beautiful smile, which means this dinner will be full of shit. “I’m ready.”
~~~~~~
