Authors: Owen Matthews
The Fixes (5 page)
It's not exactly a lie.
(Eric's hungover as hell.)
(He thinks he's through with partying.)
(He's thinks he's going to spend the summer BEING RESPONSIBLE and LIVING UP TO EXPECTATIONS.)
(He thinks he's going to be the
perfect
Connelly Man.)
Holy shit, is he wrong.
Nobody at Capilano knows anything about the Suicide Pack. There's, like, a whole cottage industry sprung up in the wake of Callum Fulchrest's personal fiasco, every kid in town trying to figure out who's behind that mysterious Vine.
But nobody claims credit. Nobody steps forward.
(There isn't even anything in the news about the Fulchrests' stolen Basquiat. And that doesn't seem right.)
(I mean, it sounds like a big deal, doesn't it? A million-dollar painting stolen. A whole school full of suspectsâit's like the inciting incident in a shitty movie.)
But there's nothing in the news. No police come to take Eric's statement. Nobody's talking about the missing Basquiatânot in public, anyway. But everyone from Cap High is talking about the Suicide Pack on Kik.
But SuIcIdEpAcK stays silent.
And nobody else has any answers.
Jordan doesn't message Eric. They never set up a tutoring session. Eric figures he was right; Jordan was just trying to make him feel better.
Trying to let him down easy.
It hurts, but, you know, it is what it is.
(Anyway, Connelly Men don't have time for romance.)
(Especially not with Harrison Grant's kid.)
Eric feels like maybe, just maybe, he's been spared something. Likeâmaybe this is a good thing?
Eric's dad comes home. He doesn't find out about the party.
Eric sweats out his hangover for the rest of the weekend. Picks his courses for first semester and downloads the textbooks. Eric shows his dad his schedule.
Intro to Political Systems.
International Relations.
Elements of Political Theory.
Statistics.
American Literature.
(“I needed an arts elective,” Eric tells his dad.)
Eric's dad purses his lips together and frowns. “Hmm,” he says, in that way that tells Eric he should already be taking, I dunno, Advanced Corporate Litigation and, like, How to Be President When You're Only Seventeen.
“Hmm.”
Anyway.
Monday comes, and Eric goes back to the law firm. He goes back to the little room with the really old computer, and he spends the next eight hours inputting data from the stacks of paper files.
He does this on Tuesday.
He does this on Wednesday.
He does this on Thursday.
He does not pass Go. He does not collect $200. He does not have any fun.
He is the model of the perfect Connelly Man.
And that's all that matters, right?
You start young. You build your future instead of farting aroundâ
(or so Eric's dad is always saying).
Short-term pain, long-term gain.
Etc.
Still, Eric drives past the beach every night on his way home. He looks at all the boats out on the sparkling water. He sees party pictures on Instagram and Snapchat, club nights and camping trips and bonfires, sees Jordan living it up with Paige Hammond and Haley Keefer, and it's hard not to feel just the tiniest little twinge of,
you know,
FOMO.
Whatever, though. Eric figures he can partyâ
(or at least relax)
       Â
âwhen he's president.
For now, there's work to do.
(Monday.)
(Tuesday.)
(Wednesday.)
(Thursday.)
(Etc.)
And on and on, until Thursday night, Eric's online doing problem sets out of his first semester statistics textbookâ
(This is what passes for a social life when you're Student of the Year.)
âand his phone buzzes with a new message:
ThaINfamous.
Jordan Grant.
(And Eric forgets about statistics.)
JG:
You still up?
EC: (After a long pause and a few lame false starts)
Ya.
What's up?
JG:
Cramming for calculus. The exam is tomorrow.
EC:
How's it going?
JG:
Bad.
EC:
You need help
?
JG:
You still down?
EC:
Sure, why not? I'm always down for whatever.
Pause.
Long pause.
(During which Eric curses himself for his inability to have, like, just
one
interpersonal interaction that doesn't turn horribly awkward.)
JG:
Rad.
Jordan shows up at the back door a half hour later.
(Eric can hear his BMW from two blocks down.)
He's wearing a hoodie and board shorts, and his hair is artfully messed up and he's tanned, and he's grinning his cocky, mischievous grin. Just the sight of him gives Eric butterflies.
“So this is your place, huh?” Jordan says as Eric leads him into the kitchen. “This is where the Student of the Year magic happens.”
Eric follows his gaze, sees everything the way Jordan must be seeing it, and feels instantly self-conscious. His parents have a nice house, but, you know, his dad's a
politician
, not a studio executive.
Jordan doesn't seem to care, though. He looks around, takes in the kitchen, the dining room, the hallway to the TV room. “Where do you want to do this?” he says.
(
How about the bedroom?
Eric thinks. Then he thinks about how messy and embarrassing his bedroom looks right now.)
“How about the dining room?” he says. “That table right there?”
“What were you doing online?” Jordan says. “I hope you weren't, like, G-chatting with an underwear model or something.”
(They've been working for an hour or so. It's going fine. Jordan is way behind and kind of lost, but he picks up concepts quickly. Eric can tell he's actually pretty smart, no matter what kind of laid-back slacker vibe he puts out to the world.)
“Not really important,” Eric says. “Just doing some statistics problems.”
Jordan looks up from his calculus textbook. “What, like, homework? Are you in summer school or something?”
“No, no,” Eric says.
“I thought you were Student of the Year.”
“I am.” Eric searches for a way to say the next part without sounding like a supernerd.
(It's impossible.)
“It's for college,” he says finally. “I looked up my courses online and downloaded all the textbooks already. I was doing some problem sets.”
Jordan looks at Eric like he's from Mars. “It's. Summer.”
Eric blushes. “I know, but, like, I want to get a head start, you know? This way, when college starts, I'll be sure I really know everything.”
“You could be doing anything in the world right now.
Traveling to Europe. Racing cars. Learning to fly. And you're doing
problem sets
?”
Eric hesitates.
(It sounds really stupid when Jordan puts it that way.)
“I need to keep my grades up to get into Stanford Law,” Eric tells him. “It's important. I can have fun later.”
Jordan makes a face. Is obviously about to shoot holes in that theory when the floorboards unexpectedly creak in the next room, and Eric's dad appears in the doorway. “Eric?”
“Dad
.
”
Eric feels a sudden rush of, like,
guilt
, like his dad just walked in on them smoking pot or hooking up or something. “This is, uh, Jordan. We're just doing some calculus.”
“It's after midnight on a weeknight,” Eric's dad says. “Surely your calculus can wait until a more reasonable hour.”
Jordan's standing, hand outstretched, before Eric can reply. “You must be Mr. Connelly with two
n
's,” he tells Eric's dad. “I'm Jordan Grant. Eric was just helping me cram for when I retake the exam.”
The creases on Eric's dad's forehead get deeper. “Helping you
cram
,” he repeats. “That implies you haven't adequately studied already.”
Jordan's smile doesn't waver. “Well, yeah. That's correct, sir. I've been busy with some, uh, other projects.”
“The night before an exam is hardly the time to start studying,” Eric's dad says. “And it's EXTREMELY IRRESPONSIBLE of you to conscript your friend into enabling this kind of behavior.”
(
Mortifying
, Eric's thinking.
Dad, you're the worst
.)
“Yes, sir,” Jordan says. “Extremely irresponsible, I agree.”
“Our house is closed to visitors after eleven on weeknights,” Eric's dad continues. “Even to those who are cramming.”
“Of course,” Jordan says. “I was just leaving.”
“See that you do.” Eric's dad turns to go. Stops and looks back. “Oh, and Mr. Grant?”
Jordan winks at Eric. “Yes, sir?”
Eric's dad gives it a beat. “It's
Senator
Connelly.”
“It's
Senator
Connelly.”
Jordan is whispering, a pretty good imitation of Eric's dad's voice. Eric is equal parts trying to shut him up and trying not to laugh.
“My dad will kill you if he hears you,” he tells Jordan. “He'll kill both of us.”
Jordan waves him off. “He's not going to kill anyone. He'd never get reelected.” He shoulders his backpack. “Anyway, thanks for this. I'd better get out of here.”
“I'm sorry about my dad,” Eric says. “I'm sorry I couldn't help you more.”
“Don't be sorry.” Jordan opens the back door. “This was good. I learned a lot. I'm feeling optimistic.”
He tosses a wave over his shoulder. Disappears into the backyard. Eric waits at the open door until he hears Jordan's BMW rev. Until he hears the tires chirp as Jordan peels out, until the block is dead quiet once again.
Then he closes the door, locks it. Stands in the empty kitchen.
(Statistics problems just seem like a letdown at this point.)
“It's noble of you to want to help your friend out,” Eric's dad says.
(It's the next morning, at the breakfast table. Eric waited all night for this.)
“But your friend is going to have to learn proper work habits if he wants to succeed in this world. Using you as a crutch isn't going to suffice.”
“His dad's Harrison Grant,” Eric says. “The studio head. His family's loaded. He doesn't need work habits.”
Eric's dad lowers the newspaper. Stares at Eric across the table. “But
you
do. And staying up to all hours to help your rich slacker friends isn't going to help you one bit. You remember what we've said about time management.”
Eric looks down into his cereal. Sighs. Then recites. “I need to be proactive in making the most of my time. I need to choose activities that will set me on the right course for the future. This is where I set the foundation for my life as a Connelly Man.”
“Exactly,” Eric's dad says. “And you're not building any foundations when you're wasting time with Jordan Grant.”
Eric doesn't say anything. He knows his dad is right.
(But come on. It's summer freaking vacation.)
“Better finish up,” Eric's dad says. “You're going to be late to your internship.”
It's back to the paperwork.
Monday to Friday.
Nine to five.
File by file, stack by stack.
(Half-hour break for lunch.)
The little room is air-conditioned. There aren't any windows. It's freezing cold and sterile.
Eric hardly sees the sun.
(Short-term pain for long-term gain.)
(Build a foundation.)
(Meet EXPECTATIONS.)
(Be a Connelly Man.)
A few days go by. Interminable, unremarkable. Then Eric's on his lunch break at the little deli beside Hockley, Hart, and Brent, trying to decide between the egg salad and the tuna, when his phone vibratesâa text.
Jordan.
Just got my calc exam back.
Eric sets aside the tuna/egg salad question.
Oh yeah?
Yup. 68%
Ah crap
, Eric writes.
I'm sorry
.
Pause.
Ellipsis.
Are you kidding??? That's a solid C-.
Eric waits.
Means I passed, duh!
Jordan continues.
That means I'm actually graduating. And it's all thanks to you.
A paralegal clears her throat behind Eric. Eric pushes his tray forward. Pretends to study a cup of Jell-O.
Oh,
he texts back.
Well no worries. My pleasure
âº
Where are you?
Eric puts the Jell-O back. Considers the tuna/egg salad conundrum once more.
Working. My internship @ HH&B. Why?
We're celebrating. I'm coming to get you. Be outside in ten minutes.
“No,” Eric says aloud. The cashier turns to look at him.
The paralegal glares behind him. Eric mutters an apology, steps out of line.
I can't. My lunch break's almost over.
Tell them you're going home sick
.
No excuses. Be outside or I'll drag you out.
I can't
, Eric writes.
Maybe after?
Ten minutes,
Jordan writes.
And counting.
Eric doesn't go back to work.
(Duh.)
What Eric
does
do is panic. Eric
stresses
for a good eight minutes. Eric thinks about hiding until Jordan gets bored and goes away.
But that's ridiculous.
(And Eric doesn't really want Jordan to go away.)
The files will still be there tomorrow.
(Stacks and stacks of them.)
Eric figures he's been working hard. He can take a half day, right?
(
Well, no
.)
(Not if he wants to meet EXPECTATIONS.)
(Not if he wants to BUILD a GOOD FOUNDATION.)
(Not if he wants to be a CONNELLY MAN.)
None of those things involve skipping out to hang with Jordan Grant. But Eric's skipping out anyway.
