The Unfortunates Read online

  Flustered by my break in protocol, she blurts, “I would’ve stood by you. No matter what. I wanted to, but—”

  “We’re all good.” I nod. “It’s time to … move on.”

  That phrase usually infuriates me. But this time I mean it.

  4

  BEFORE final bell is even finished ringing, I’m out the door, sprinting across campus, waving at people, pretending I have somewhere important to be, but really I just don’t want to talk to anyone. I’ve said everything I need to say.

  I spot my mother’s car toward the front of the carpool line and get in, sinking into the dark interior. Taking off my jacket and tie, I fold them into my bag and roll up my sleeves. The cool leather feels good against my clammy skin. I used to make fun of my parents for having tinted windows, but I’m grateful for it now. It’s exhausting having to wear a mask all day. I know most people probably look at me and think I have it made. That I got off easy because of my dad. But I don’t feel like a prince of Virginia anymore. I feel like an imposter. Like any day they’re going to peel back my skin and see the monster that I really am.

  “Where to, Mr. Tavish?”

  “Please, call me Grant,” I say.

  Marvin nods and smiles, but I know he won’t do it. He’s old-school like that.

  “Outdoor World. I have to pick up some gear for my trip. But you can just drop me off. I’m meeting a friend there.”

  “Mrs. Tavish was very specific—”

  “I’m sure she was,” I say with a lighthearted laugh.

  He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell by the glint in his eyes that he knows exactly what I’m talking about. She must be a handful. I feel bad doing this to Marvin. The last thing I want to do is get him in trouble, but I need space … I need air. I just want to walk home, clear my head before tomorrow.

  “All right, Mr. Tavish,” he says as he pulls out of the circular drive. “But if there’s any trouble, I want you to call me.”

  As he takes a left on Grace Street, I realize he’s taking the long way around. My mother must’ve told him to avoid going anywhere near Cherokee Drive—the vicinity of the incident. My parents have gone to great lengths to keep me away from it all. No TV, no internet. But I heard the term affluenza being thrown around. I knew there were death threats. For the first six weeks, I had security following me, watching my every move, but when I told my parents that it was drawing unnecessary attention to me, to the family, they pulled back. A couple of strange things have happened—random people taking my photo, a few crazies screaming at me about the end of days—but it’s mostly a feeling. I realize that sounds delusional, but when you live in a vacuum like this, your mind can play tricks on you.

  The reality is no one talked about it. I never had to face the families, hear about their lives. Sometimes it makes me wonder if it ever happened at all. But when Monday rolls around, my one and only court appearance, it will be unavoidable. I wonder what hearing someone speak it aloud would feel like. A relief, I imagine. Painful relief. Like taking a thick, deep splinter from beneath your nail. I’ve been instructed by my father’s lawyer to say four words. Nothing more. Nothing less. I don’t remember anything. Say the magic words and all of this will go away. My record will be expunged and soon it will be nothing but a distant memory … a long-forgotten nightmare. But the more they try to bury it, the more it grows inside of me. Like it’s eating me from the inside out.

  “Just follow your heart,” Marvin says.

  “Sorry?” I lean forward, wondering if I missed something.

  “Best cure for whatever’s worrying you. Follow your heart. I know it sounds simple, but it’s always worked for me. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

  His words hit me with brute force, knocking the wind right out of me.

  As soon as he turns in to the parking lot, I open my door. “Thanks for everything,” I call out as I escape the car, making a beeline for the store. As much as I try to force the air in and out of my lungs, my body rejects it. The pavement in front of me seems to stretch out for miles; there’s a high ringing noise flooding my eardrums, hot acid burning the back of my throat. I stagger to the side of the building, by the Dumpsters, and get sick. I haven’t eaten today, so it feels like I’m wrenching up pure poison. Bracing my hands against the cool brick wall, I slowly regain my equilibrium. I look back to make sure no one saw me, and I get that feeling again.

  I spot my mother’s car pulling back onto Lassiter Road.

  If it’s Marvin who’s been watching me all this time, does he know the truth? I start replaying every interaction I’ve had with him over the past three months, but nothing sticks out. I’ve been so careful. No. He’s probably just making conversation.

  The right thing.

  If only it were that simple.

  Either I betray my family or I betray myself. Those were the options that were given to me.

  But I have a plan of my own.

  5

  AS I enter the store, I’m hit with a burst of pine. They must pump it through the ventilation system to make it feel manlier in here. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful. Anything to dull the stench of bile.

  Grabbing a basket, I walk through the aisles. I pick up some rope, bolt anchors, a handful of carabiners, but my attention is elsewhere. A couple of guys offer to help, but they’re not what I’m looking for. I need someone younger, talkative. But more importantly, I need to make sure I’m in a good position, where the hidden security cameras can get a clean shot.

  I spot a guy with the beginnings of a man bun, plaid shirt, jeans rolled up a little too high to show off his Wallabees. He’s perfect.

  Milling around, I wait until he’s done with a customer and then drop a carabiner out of my basket.

  “I love that old Prusik model,” he says. “Very trustworthy.”

  “Good to know,” I reply as I pick it up.

  “Gearing up for a trip?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to start at Crystal Falls, descend Widow’s Peak, and then I’m going to camp on the trail for a few days.”

  “Are you doing your ascent at Custer’s Chimney?”

  “That’s the plan. Have you done it?”

  “No, but I’m jealous. I’ve heard it’s killer. Are you going with the school group?”

  “No. It’s a solo trip … before graduation. It’s tradition in my family. Kind of a rite of passage, I guess.”

  “Now I’m super jealous.” He steps toward me. “Are you a caver?”

  “First time, but I took a course.”

  “Here at the store?”

  “Online. I’m pretty good on the climbing wall though,” I say as I look back toward the kids grunting their way to the top. “How different can it be, right?”

  “Well…” He looks in my basket. “You’re definitely going to need a headlamp.”

  I follow him to the next aisle, where he picks up a helmet with a light attached.

  “No helmet,” I say, a little too forcefully, and then quickly dial it back. “I’m just not really into them.”

  “I’m the same,” he admits sheepishly. “It’s the constriction of movement that bugs me.” He picks up another one. “How about something like this?” He shows me a headband with a light on the front. “Newest technology. LED. This will last you fifty thousand hours.”

  “Is that the strongest battery available?”

  He raises a brow. “That’s about six years of continuous light. How long is your trip again?”

  “No, no … it’s only four days. I was just curious.”

  “Oh, you had me nervous there for a second. You wouldn’t be the first, you know,” he says as he looks around before continuing. “Plenty of people go down there just to live. Survivalists … fugitives. Did you read about that one guy, been living down there for seventeen years? Serial killer. I think he murdered like nine people down there, just for fun. Can you imagine?”

  Feeling flustered, I grab the headlamp from him. “Thanks. I think this will
do it.”

  “Hey!”

  I turn, waiting for the inevitable Aren’t you the senator’s son?, but instead he says, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  I look in my basket, puzzled by where he’s going with this.

  “Ascent gear. You’ve got everything for the drop, and nothing to get back out.”

  “Yeah.” I force a laugh. “I’ve got some gear at home, but I might as well pick up the newest stuff. You can never be too careful.” I feel like I’m babbling now.

  Just shut up.

  “This is a great Z-rig. I use this one myself,” he says as he hands me the pulley rack. “Hey, I hope I didn’t scare you with the whole serial killer thing. That was way down in that cave system … not even close to where you’re going—”

  “No … not at all.”

  Clearly, he has no idea who he’s dealing with.

  “But definitely watch out for that flowstone near Widow’s Peak; I heard it can get slick.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  As I’m checking out, I’m going over the conversation in my head, hoping I didn’t screw up too bad. But it’s done. I can’t get a redo.

  That’s something I’ve had to learn the hard way.

  6

  THE walk home is exactly what I need. I take back roads so I won’t raise too much attention. I know it’s risky being out in the open like this, especially with the death threats, but that’s the least of my problems right now. I need time to pull myself together, go over everything in my head. Tonight has to be perfect. I’ve already caused them enough grief.

  As I’m coming up Windsor, toward Cary Street, I see a dog running down the middle of the road with his tail down. As I get closer, I realize it’s Duke.

  “Hey, buddy,” I call to him. “What’re you doing out here?”

  I go to grab him by the collar, only to find it’s missing. He nuzzles into my leg, whining as he looks behind him.

  And that’s when I notice the man standing in the street. At least, I think it’s a man. It’s too dark to make out the face, but I see Duke’s collar dangling in the person’s hand, the tags glinting in the dying light. I think I hear whispering, but I can’t make out the words.

  “Who’s there?” I call.

  I reach down to grab my phone out of my bag, and by the time I look up, they’re gone, the collar lying there on the pavement.

  Letting out a huge gust of air, I pull my hair back from my face. I’m not sure if there really was someone standing there or if it’s my paranoia kicking in, but it doesn’t matter at this point. Even if there is someone after me, they’re too late.

  I put Duke’s collar back on him and lead him back to the house. “I don’t know how you got out, bud, but we’re going to keep this between us.” The last thing I need is for my parents to get spooked and put me back under surveillance.

  As I’m putting the code in the gate, my sister’s voice booms through the intercom.

  “You’re in so much trouble.”

  A ripple of panic rushes through me. “Why?” I ask as the gate opens and I shoo Duke through.

  “You missed your portrait sitting.”

  “Oh.” I exhale, relieved to find my secrets are still safe. “You could’ve taken my place, you know.”

  “I’m just a girl, Grant. I don’t get a portrait until I’m in my wedding gown.”

  “That’s so archaic.” I’m squinting into the camera, trying to fix my hair, when my sister comes back on.

  “And you better put on your jacket and tie. Mom’s on a level seven tonight.”

  I look at my watch. 7:28. Two minutes until dinner.

  “And I’d really like to keep her below a nine, so you better run.”

  I sprint down the long drive, putting on my jacket and tie on the way. Duke’s chasing after me, barking at nothing but my shadow, and for a brief minute I feel okay again, like all of this is just some big misunderstanding. Somehow we’ve gone back to Thanksgiving break, when I had nothing on my mind other than finals, going skiing, maybe getting laid. But then I remember what I did, and the feeling comes flooding back to me. That pit in my stomach opens up, instantly filling with bile and guilt.

  I open the front door just as my sister’s coming down the stairs. Mare and I look almost exactly alike, except for the obvious differences. She’s two years younger than me, but people think we’re twins. I used to hate it, but it doesn’t bother me anymore.

  Mare plays the game with my parents, her friends, but she’s different than the rest of them. She doesn’t have a selfish bone in her body. I’ve seen her help people—total strangers—not just to put on a college application, not for any kind of recognition, but just because she’s decent like that. She’s always had this independent streak that I really admire, but lately I’ve noticed a change in her. Pushing her food around her plate, like Mom. Straightening her hair like all the other sheep. There’s this boarding school out West that she’s been dying to go to for years. It’s all about the arts and activism, but my parents have shot her down at every pass. Now she doesn’t even ask anymore. I don’t know if it’s because of what happened to me or just a part of growing up, but it feels like our world has finally sunk its claws into her. Like they’re taming her. I don’t want that to happen.

  “Grant Franklin Tavish the fifth,” my mother says, every syllable like a tiny assault. “You missed your portrait sitting. Again. Look at this.” She leads me into the formal living room, yanking the sheet off an easel, revealing the half-finished painting. The body is done, my hair looks okay, but my face is a blurry mass of flesh-colored paint. It’s disconcerting to look at, but there’s something about it that feels exactly right. This is probably the closest likeness they’ll ever capture, and they don’t even know it.

  “I’ve rescheduled for Tuesday,” she says as she covers it back up. “Please don’t mar your face in any way on that trip. Not a scratch … do you understand me?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She takes a closer look at me, unsure if I’m being cooperative or mocking her. “Why are you so sweaty?”

  I start to open my mouth to spill out some lame excuse, when she holds her hand up.

  “Wait. Don’t tell me.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Marvin said you were meeting a friend. I’m glad you’re getting out and about again, but please use protection. That’s all we need.”

  I feel the heat take over my face.

  “Gross,” my sister hisses at me as she pushes me into the dining room.

  “There you are,” my dad says, making a big show out of our arrival. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d be dining alone.”

  “Wishful thinking,” Mare murmurs, before crossing over to give him a hug.

  I have to give my dad credit. He’s a devoted family man. He could stay in DC, but he makes it home almost every night in time for dinner.

  “Is that your latest?” my sister asks, pointing to the carved duck on the mantle.

  “A teal. Isn’t he a beauty?”

  My dad is obsessed with ducks. Not feeding them at a pond, not studying their migration patterns, not even really shooting them. He’s all about the decoy. He carves them himself. Hand paints them. The art of illusion, which I find ironic.

  My mother moves stealthily behind him, straightening one of her ridiculously expensive porcelain bunny figurines that he accidentally knocked askew. For every new duck, Mom gets a new bunny. The silent duck-bunny war has been raging on for years.

  Sometimes, when we’re eating dinner, I see him staring off at his ducks, while she looks at her bunnies, and I wonder what they’re thinking about. What their love for these inanimate objects says about them. Says about us.

  As our maid, Mrs. Leaver, sets the table, we take our seats.

  My father asks us all the right questions: How was your game? How did debate team go? Are you working on a new science project? Occasionally, he’ll even make his eyes sparkle, the way he does for the cameras
.

  A few years ago, after dinner, I saw the card in the trash. Talking points my mother had given him so he can appear involved. Interested. As if he were speaking to some Rotary club, not having dinner with his family.

  Tonight seems all the more painful. The awkward silences are punctuated by the ice in Dad’s Scotch rattling along with my mother’s jeweled bracelets.

  “So, you’re really doing it?” my father finally asks.

  “Yes, sir.” I sit up straight and clear my throat. “I’m taking the same route as you did, dropping in the second entrance at Crystal Falls. It’s a two-mile hike to Widow’s Peak, and from there I’ll make the ascent at Custer’s Chimney.”

  “One look at Widow’s Peak and you might change your mind.” He smiles. “But you can always backtrack, use the kiddie entrance. No shame in that.”

  “I won’t change my mind,” I assure him as I force another forkful of chicken into my mouth. It’s clear he doesn’t think I have what it takes to do this.

  “Good … good.” He nods in approval. “You better eat up, because that’s the last protein you’re going to have. Unless of course you change your mind about hunting.” He rests his knife on his plate, giving me a smug smile. “Hunger will do that to a man.”

  “A few days of nuts and berries won’t kill him,” my sister says.

  My mother takes a healthy sip of her wine. “I still don’t understand why he can’t take a few granola bars … a bottle of water. In case of emergency.”

  “That’s not how I did it. How my dad did it, and his dad before him.” He sets down his glass a little too hard. “You live off the land. This is a sacred Tavish tradition.”

  Looking up at the line of portraits, of Tavish men, I can’t help feeling like one of those decoys. A lesser copy of my dad. And maybe he feels the same way about his dad. We weren’t great because of the things we did. We were great because of what our ancestors accomplished … and at what cost? Building an empire on the backs of the less fortunate. We carry on these traditions not out of respect or duty but out of fear. The fear of failure. Not measuring up.