Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Dad’s in a self-absorbed class entirely of his own, though. Just because he might be more successful than most people that he encounters doesn’t give him the right to puff out his chest and talk down to everyone. Or worse, dismiss them. Their presence, their opinions. I’ve been dismissed by my dad my entire life. He actually uses those words when I’m at home for the holidays. He’ll look up from beneath his glasses and say, “Dismissed, William.”
He’s the only one who calls me William. And I suspect that’s only because he likes hearing his own name come out of his mouth. Yep, I’m a junior. William Larsen II. Could be worse. At least he doesn’t go by Bill. Then he’d be calling me Bill all the time.
Congress is in session, so the fact that Dad flew from DC to Massachusetts to visit his son at college tells me this is important—to him anyway. What I’ve learned in my twenty-one years on this earth is that my father and I rarely agree on what we deem important.
“Thank you,” he says when the waitress delivers our coffee.
I ordered lunch but he didn’t. I expect he’ll be gone before my food even arrives, and I’ll be forced to eat alone. Which is probably preferable.
He gives the waitress his big fake smile that he always uses on the campaign trail. The one he saves for the little people.
“Can I trouble you for some sugar, young lady?”
This waitress is pushing fifty and should know better than to fall for it. Most women see right through the pandering and find it infantilizing when he calls them that. But the man’s instincts are spot-on. He can read people so well and tells them exactly what they need to hear at all times.
This one blushes like a fourteen-year-old girl and waves her hand demurely. “Oh, hush.”
I try not to roll my eyes as she saunters away.
“How are your classes?” Dad asks.
“Fine.”
“Alessia sent me your schedule. I noticed you didn’t enroll in Ethics like I recommended.”
Yeah, because it’s my schedule, not yours.
I bite back the retort. And I certainly won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting that the syllabus for Ethics looked pretty interesting. Doing the opposite of what Dad wants is sort of a knee jerk for me. But at least in this case, it didn’t backfire on me—the class I chose instead is equally interesting.
“Why would you take a biology class?” Dad pushes.
“It’s an engineering lab.”
“But why? I don’t see the rationale here. We talked about this.”
No. He talked about this. He likes to plan my life. Every time a new semester starts, I’m obligated to email a copy of my schedule to his assistant, who shows it to him so he can decide whether he deems it worthy.
I’m a political science major. Pushed into it by Dad, of course, who’s basically groomed me for politics since I was five years old. He thinks we’re going to be a presidential dynasty. Father and son. Which is unlikely, because one, that would require the voters electing his smarmy ass into the White House someday, and I like to think most of them can see through his fake bullshit. And two, it would require me wanting it—and I don’t. I have zero interest in being a politician.
It is my senior year, though, and I can’t help but think about what the future would look like. Honestly, I have no fucking idea. Sometimes I think maybe something behind the scenes in politics. Campaign managing perhaps. Getting a candidate, a real one, into office. Someone who could make real change and not the fake promises that my dad and his allies like to sell to the hapless masses.
“William,” he says.
“Sorry, what?”
“I’m saying you don’t want to be a scientist. Why waste your time looking in microscopes and examining slides?”
“Because I find it interesting. Isn’t that the point of college? To learn about shit you think is interesting?”
“Language,” he says.
I try to change the subject. “How’s Kelsey?”
Kelsey is my stepmother. They got married when I was four, so technically, she’s the only mother I’ve ever known. I don’t remember anything before her. Dad does keep pictures of Mom on the mantel, so when we get photographed for interviews, it shows that he has feelings. That he desperately loved his first wife. I’m sure he did. Although according to my grandfather, theirs was more of a beneficial marriage than one based on love. Mom came from another political dynasty and some nice money. Combined fortunes and all.
Kelsey doesn’t have the fortune, but she has the connections. She was a law student when they met and now practices criminal law in DC.
Truth be told, I like my stepmother. She’s cool. Warm. What she sees in my father, I’ll never know.
“She’s excited to have you home for Thanksgiving,” he says. “All your cousins are coming too. It’s perfect. We haven’t had a good photo of the whole clan for a while.”