Crew

" You aren't worth the dirt covering your brothers coffin".

My father ladies and gents. Circa 2022
Classic Quentin Crewland James the third. The honourable Senator no less.
He emphasises his words to me by stepping forward and releasing a giant bubble of spittle that flies out of his pinched lips and lands just in front of my two thousand dollar, limited edition shoes.
I watch, transfixed, as the bubbles in the centre of the blob fizz and fade and then it completely disappears into nothing on the grey marble tile.
The same tile he steps on before open palm slapping me across the face.

Another day another hit. I don't even feel the physical pain anymore. But I know for a fact, that the emotional damage he is inflicting is going to be something I discuss in therapy for the rest of my life.

Slowly, I raise my eyes to meet his, I know he would be frowning if it wasn't for the Botox that he has on the sly to try to maintain his appeal to everyone other than my mother. The frozen muscles don't stop the purple vein from bulging out like it does when he is in a rage. It makes him burn when I don't react to his outbursts. And there are many these days.

More often than not, he is screaming at me for something I didn't do.

Especially after Quentin's.... Accident. That's what they are calling it officially, but anyone who lives in this house or knew my brother well knows it was anything but.

My brother. My perfect, respected, adored but troubled older brother, overdosed on heroin in the early hours of the morning after his much anticipated college graduation.  They found him on the bathroom floor of his brand new condo that my father brought him as a welcome to the family business gift.

Life hasn't been the same for anyone since the moment I got the call that changed all of our lives.
Gone are the days of my freedom to choose who I was and how I lived my life.
No I am the sole heir to the James fortune. And my fathers only instrument, as unplayable as I currently am.

It's been three painful years and we are all still only just limping along. Father with his campaign. Mother with her partnership at the law firm. And me. Holding my shit together by the skin of my designer teeth.

Shit, if it wasn't for Saint and football and my select few close friends, I could very well be on my way to joining Quent before the end of my senior year. And now, by the grace of all things cash like, I don't even have to travel an hour to the shit side of town see her every other day.
Nope.
Now the best person I know will be in the same building and the same classes as me five days a week. Seven for her.
I can't wait. I can't fricken believe it.
I still don't have a fucking clue why my dad agreed to help her get the full ride and if I wasn't so bloody thrilled to have her close by, I would be concerned about how shady that is and what I now owe him. Him doing anything for me is a red flag but I can't even think about that at this momentous time.

I'm not even going Mk to think on whatever the hell reason he had for helping me for once.
He did. And she is here.
And I can fucking breathe again knowing that she is safe and that I can see her all day, every day.

My fathers yelling brings me back to the present as I stand and watch his tirade on parade. The staff that keep this house looking open home perfect twenty four seven have made themselves scarce this morning and as it's already seven am, my mother is likely already at her office down town.
That leaves me. And him. And a shit tonne of emotional baggage that I am not interested in unpacking any time soon.

I snag an apple from the counter of our all stainless accented steel kitchen. It's new for the tenth time since we have lived in this tomb of a home.

Keeping up with the James family is the key to being on top in this ass kissing town. My family expects perfection in every way, shape and form. No matter that the very pressure from those expectations literally drove my bother to shoot poison into his body on the regular. No matter that our family is that in name only. No matter that I would rather be anywhere else but here.
Appearances are everything and my father accepts noting less than perfection. Even if it's fake.

Even if it's for show.

Even if behind the scenes my mother sleeps at her office apartment more often than not and my father has a revolving door of young and dumb assistants who barely last a month each.
Especially after their work role becomes a little more physical.

These days my life is hanging by a thread and the only one who doesn't expect me to weave a difficult, perfect web, is Saint.

In my fathers prefabricated vision of my life, she and I wouldn't be friends. We wouldn't even stand on the same side of the road. We are from opposite ends of the spectrum of this town. Of his expectations. It's so cliche it makes me laugh. The foster kid and the senators son. The poor kid and the only living son of the wealthiest family in town.

But that's the very basic beauty of our friendship. She doesn't see me for what I can do for her status. Or for what I can buy her.

When we met all those years ago, we didn't even register any of the differences others did.
We were just two little kids, thrown into a community event and told to have fun. Take nice pictures. Meet some new friends.
For me, it was to make my mothers pro bono work look legit. For her, it was to make the foster care agency seem as though they were genuinely trying to involve the kids in the community they were forced to be a part of.

She was tiny. Wearing Ill fitting clothes and a backwards cap that covered her recently head lice riddled shaved head.
I was sticking out like a sore thumb in my crisp white polo and perfectly ironed khaki slacks.

When a fly ball from a group game of baseball looked to give me a head start on a rhinoplasty, she took the dive that saved my face and from that moment on, our ride or die friendship was born.

My mother was thrilled. My new found friendship meant a renewed contract with the agency and photo opportunity to boot.
I didn't care. As long as I got to tag along to more events to hang out with Saint, I would do and say whatever my mother desired.

Ten years on and it still feels like I won the best friend lottery. She doesn't judge. She calls me on my shit. She gets along with all of my friends like she has known them forever and she sat and held my hand whilst I lost my shit after Quent died and never spoke a word.

It's not been easy, watching her go from each shit hole they stuck her in, to the next one that's even worse. She never tells me the whole truth but I know some shit has gone down, multiple times. But she never takes anything I offer. Charity is not something she believes in. She doesn't have much but her integrity is everything. She is the fucking best.

She has a talent for words like no other person I have ever met and someday, she will share them with other people. Even me.

So even if I have to tell a little white lie about helping her with the scholarship to Corbin? So be it. She is here. She will forgive me later. She is out of that fucking dive of a group home. And even though she has to swim with the bitchy sharks of the upper crest, she will have me to wade along with her.

I would do anything for Saint. Anything.
Just like I know she would for me.