Fish Out of Water (15 page)

“Dude, cool,” Brock says.

London doesn’t seem as impressed, but it’s her smug smile that scares me more. “Interesting. So they deal with slimy creatures all day? Do they smell when they get home?”

My stomach twists, and I can’t help thinking of Clark saying his own brother won’t visit his “flea hole.” Try as I might, I feel as small and insignificant as she wants me to.

Dylan’s hand finds my knee, and I know he’s saying not to let it get to me. “My uncle said Mika’s parents got a big grant from Stanford they’re working on. They must have a lot of respect for her parents’ research.” He looks at me, and I can feel his respect down to my bones. “Your parents make an impact on the world. I think they’re awesome. Ours just hoard money.”

“Thanks.” I put my hand over his, in awe that he could make me forget all of London’s insults. “Seriously.”

London looks like a little girl about to have a tantrum. “Are you ready to go yet?”

“Ready when you are.” Dylan pulls me toward our cart. “She’s really starting to piss me off.”

“Why is she like that?” I ask as we head for the tenth hole.

“I told you I was her trophy.” He sighs, and I think I see regret in his expression. “It wasn’t always like this. We used to be friends—we grew up together. Like, next-door neighbors and everything. I was never good at making friends, but I liked playing with her because she wasn’t my friend for the money.

“Our fathers went into business before we were even born, made a bunch on their first venture, and I guess I always saw her as the same as me. She was rich, too. She didn’t treat me like royalty for it.”

It’s hard for me to picture this version of London. He makes her sound like a sweet kid. “How did it change so much, then?”

He shrugs. “We got older. She didn’t want to be friends anymore, and then our parents started talking about how we should get married. I was twelve. I just wanted a friend, but it became a power play to keep all our families’ money together. London thinks that’s a great idea, but there’s no way in hell I’d date her or marry her.”

“You’ll just hook up with her,” I blurt out. He gives me a death glare, and I kind of feel bad for laughing. “Sorry! You left yourself wide open. I do feel a little bad—that kind of pressure sucks. I had no idea people still thought marriages like that were a good idea.”

He shakes his head as he parks by the tee. The guys in front of us are just about done. “Don’t worry about it. Now you know just how drunk I’d have to be for that to even sound like a good idea.”

He has a point. “When did it happen?”

“Two years ago. She got me slammed, and when I woke up the next morning she was there. I was pissed. She tried to use it as leverage—said we had to date now. I told her I would've had a lot of girlfriends if it worked that way.”

That makes me feel a tiny bit better. “I’m sorry. That’s not cool.”

He kisses my cheek, and I back up. His smile is full of mischief. “Sorry, when you listen to me like that I can’t help myself.”

My face must be bright red. “You’re only getting away with it because of the deal, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” He gets out and grabs his clubs while I try to steady myself. Today has been pretty incredible, but I can’t let myself fall completely under his spell. At this rate I really will be making out with him by the end of the day.

I didn’t think Cypress Point could get more beautiful, but it’s hard to believe the back nine holes are real. It feels like we’re floating on the ocean, the water is so close. Seals sunbathe on the rocks and bark at each other. The cypress trees reach out in their jagged angles, almost like they were created to block the golfers’ best shots. When we finally reach the sixteenth hole, I stare in awe at what I see.

The ocean.

There’s no fairway, just water and rocks and a distant green on the other side. I look at Dylan, who seems pleased with my reaction. “Pretty cool, right?”

“Yes.” I point to the ocean. “And you can actually hit the ball over that?”

He laughs. “Most of the time.”

“This hole is my nemesis,” Brock says, which is when I realize they’ve pulled up beside us.

“You have to get past the fear,” London says. The caddie carries her bag for her, sets it up, and suggests a club. She takes her swing, and the ball goes invisible as it blends with the sky, but soon enough it hits the green, rolling to a stop very close to the hole. “See?”

“Wow,” I can’t help but say. “You’re really good.”

She sneers at me. “Don’t try.”

“She’s being
nice
, London.” Dylan goes to the tee. “At least have the decency to fake it back.”

She scowls. “You know what I’m gonna miss, Dylan? Your parties. Has he told you about the last one he threw, Mika?”

His eyes go wide. “London…”

She smiles at this. “Ahh, he hasn’t. Are you afraid of what poor little Mika will think of you when she finds out?”

His chest moves up and down, and he practically growls, “You have no right to tell her. That’s my place.”

“So I shouldn’t tell her you stole your dad’s company credit card and threw a massive party at the Iron Man house?” She looks right at me, savoring this. “I heard it cost over five million dollars—I bet that’s probably more than your family has made in their whole lives.”

Five million. The number doesn’t sound real. How can you even spend that much in a month let alone one day?

“Stop!” Dylan yells.

London puts her hands on her hips. “Why? If she’s really your girlfriend, she should know how you flew our entire school to San Diego, paid off a bunch of celebrities to entertain us, hired a top Parisian chef. Alcohol, drugs, sex. It was pretty awesome…at least until your dad found out.”

Five million keeps repeating in my head. He only mentioned her other tactics to distract me from this one. He knew it would bother me that he threw away so much money.

Everyone waits for me to say something. I don’t have any words as I stare at Dylan. He seems defeated, and I feel the same. I’m sure he had reasons—I hope he had reasons—but right now it doesn’t feel like there’s anything he could say to make me understand.

“What’s with all the staring?” I finally say. “Golf.”

Dylan takes his place, but he doesn’t have the same energy as before. He hits the ball, and it soars right into the water.

Chapter 22

When we get in the golf cart, there is no handholding, no arm around me, nothing. I hate it, and yet I need it. Everything feels so messed up. That kind of money could have sent me to any college in the world. It could have paid for Betty’s medical care. It could have been used for my parents’ research. Actually, probably all three.

“Can I at least explain?” Dylan asks.

“What’s there to explain? What London said was true, wasn’t it?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes. But I—”

“Don’t.” I say it quickly, having already decided how I need to handle this for my own sanity. “The more I think about it, the more upset I’ll get. I’ve already thought of a million ways I could have used that money, and if you start explaining right now it won’t be enough. It might never be enough.”

“It’s not like I’m proud of it.” His voice is pained. “You said you’d give current-me a chance.”

“I did.” I rub my eyes, a headache coming on. “But I’ve been slammed with information. This party…I didn’t realize you were
that
rich or messed up. I need to think, okay? Can you let me do that?”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know,” I snap.

We don’t talk after that, and there’s this weird pain in my chest I can’t quite identify. London flits around triumphantly—I can’t take her comments right now, so I stay in the cart. Dylan doesn’t play well on the last holes, but what makes me sadder is that he doesn’t seem to care anymore. He’s not mad; he’s resigned.

By the time we get back to the clubhouse, the silence feels like a wall. I can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t lead to me yelling at him, and I don’t want to fight now that I know how good it could be if we didn’t.

Five million dollars.

Now that I’ve exhausted the “What could I do with that kind of money?” route, I’m left wondering what kind of person has a credit card with a five million dollar allowance. Just how much money do his parents have? His world is so different from mine I can’t picture it.

What does he see in me? Am I some novelty? I don’t like that idea one bit, but it feels plausible.

When we get back to the car, I grab my phone. There are twenty-three texts waiting for me, and I’m grateful for the distraction. At least until I start reading some of them.

Olivia:
OMG, Shrey told me everything. U better make out w/him.

Shreya:
We are dying to hear what happens.

Olivia:
Call us! Where r u?

I give up after that. I can’t deal with having to recount today. I hate today. It made me want someone I shouldn’t want—it made me both like and hate him more. Which doesn’t even make sense.

Dylan pulls up in front of my house, letting out a long sigh. “I only did it because my dad—”

I plug my ears. “Stop it!”

He pulls my hands away from my face. “Let me explain!”

“No! I already know what I’ll hear: excuse, excuse, excuse. It’s not like you spent five million on saving babies from cancer—you
threw a party.
You wasted it.” I try to get free of his grip. “See? I’m ready to rip you to pieces.”

“Go ahead. I never said I didn’t deserve it.” He squeezes my hands, puts my fingers to his lips briefly. “I know I messed up, but I lied about you being my girlfriend because I wanted it to be true. After today, how it felt to be with you…don’t cut me off. Please, Mika.”

I pull away, even though my body screams not to. “That’s my decision to make.”

He glares at me. “There’s really nothing I can say to change your mind, is there?”

“No.”

He leans back in his seat, looking like he wants to punch something. “I hate myself so much right now.”

“Don’t say that.” Sighing, I shoulder my bag. “I’m sorry, but I have to be okay with this on my own before I can think about more. Don’t ask. I’ll let you know.”

I get out before he answers, rushing into my house in hopes that he doesn’t follow. The second I shut the door, my dad is right there ready to pummel me with questions. “How was it? Is the view as incredible as they say? What was sixteen like?”

I roll my eyes. “Epic, yes, and stunning.”

“Honey.” Mom’s tone isn’t nearly as sweet as the term. “Isn’t there something else we need to discuss first?”

Dad’s shoulders slump. “Oh yeah.”

This morning comes rushing back, and I groan. “I’m really tired. Can we do the lecture later? I totally overreacted and I’m sorry; please let me go to bed.”

By the way she looks at me, I think Mom knows my day didn’t go well. “I guess we can discuss it later if you apologize to Betty now. This has been hard on all of us, but that kind of behavior isn’t acceptable. I didn’t raise you to treat your elders like that.”

I want to snap back at her, tell her that I shouldn’t have to treat Betty like I treat my
Obaachan
or
Ojiichan
, who are real grandparents. But instead I head to where Betty sits in front of the TV, engrossed in an infomercial for acne medication. She smiles at me when I sit down. “Look at those before-and-afters! Isn’t that amazing?”

Her innocent expression knocks the anger out of me.

She forgot I yelled at her.

To her, I’m just a nice girl sitting next to her on the couch. Not the mean one who called her stupid because of her disease. As I look into her hazel eyes, I think I finally get it. This isn’t some act she puts on to annoy us—Betty has Alzheimer’s.

She
will
die from it.

Why does that suddenly sound horrible to me? I may not like everything about her, but I don’t want her to die. There are good things in her, too, like how she helped me pick my outfit when I went shopping. She has a heart, though she hides it fiercely. Or maybe she’s forgotten how to show it.

“We should order that stuff,” she exclaims, and my heart warms with more affection than I ever thought I could feel for her.

That conversation I had with Dylan comes flooding back—about being kind to a goldfish even if they could only remember three seconds of time. This morning I treated Betty like she didn’t matter as much as my sweater, like her feelings weren’t real because they’d be gone in a few hours. That makes me a pretty cruddy human being.

“I’m sorry for being mean to you this morning,” I say. “I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you for trying to wash my things. I know you were trying to help.”

She nods slowly, like she’s trying to remember what I said. “It’s okay. I should have asked.”

“I promise I’ll be nicer to you from now on.” And I mean it.

“Me too, now
shh.
”

I don’t feel like I deserve kindness from her, but I can’t protest because she’s already back to her infomercial. It doesn’t seem like enough, for her to forgive me so quickly. I turn to my parents. “Can I rest now? It was a long course.”

Dad frowns. “You should have taken pictures.”

Mom looks like she’s trying to maintain her patience. “Yes, sweetie. We’ll call you for dinner.”

I head to my room, change into comfy yoga pants and a tank top. It feels good to be in clothes I belong in, clothes I don’t have to worry about ruining. Lying on my bed, I watch my fish swim. My eyes keep coming back to Dill, the one I bought the day I met Dylan. He’s already gotten bigger, and he’s always happy to see me when I come home.

Now I understand why Dylan asked me what happened to a goldfish that was born at the top of the waterfall, if they were turned to dragons, too. That’s how he sees himself—a goldfish who’s never had to fight the current and had the world given to him. I still don’t know the answer to his question, though. Does he get dragonhood just because he was born up there?

He sure doesn’t deserve to be one.

But if your family has five million to drop, how can you not be a dragon?