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in romance studies at St. Scholastica, met me in an empty classroom three times a week after school. I had finished first semester, for the first time ever with a B average. But I didn’t care about the honor roll, about the money, about the glittery purple skate
The fuck you are. You’re poor as shit. I’ve seen where you live. I closed my eyes, trying to ward off the image of the house I lived in and George, Jr. existing in the same universe. The standard Hadfield interest rate is
guards he must have thought a girl would like.
eleven percent compounded quarterly, which
As cold as George, Jr. was, colder still would
adds up to, he paused as if calculating, eight
be the winter without the rink, the winter as it
million dollars. So you better start whoring for
had been before I had a pile of boys to keep me
a quarter now, since that’s what you’re going
warm, before, Hey you, want to be on our team?
to be doing for the next fifty years. Assuming
By the time I was in eighth grade, George,
anyone could stand to fuck someone as ugly
Jr., had entered high school. He was once
as you. Say, he added, let’s find out. Show me
again driving the Kestrels toward the district
your cunt.
championship and officially been made starting
Slowly, I pulled down my black leggings.
center at East, which meant the last barrier
Hurry the fuck up, he said. Some of us have
keeping him mortal had crumbled. Calling cards from Michigan, Colorado, Trinity, and Cornell fought for space on the Hadfield mantel, though he shrugged them off. Play it cool. I heard his father say. Please. It would be like nailing down a tiger’s
real homes to go to. I spread my legs as little as I thought I could get away with. Now your tits, he said. I pulled up my shirt. He stepped back and laughed, running his hand through his hair, clearly impressed with
tail. Subtlety throttled him; serenity enraged
himself, if not with me. He held out the face of
him. He terrorized Duluth’s East End in his
my phone and snapped a photo.
father’s BMW; he cut class to swagger down
You want me to send this to my dad? he
the hallways of East High swigging Woodford
said. I shook my head. Then keep your fat
Reserve out of a Gatorade bottle, throwing
fucking mouth shut.
open the doors of his girlfriends’ classrooms and roaring to see them, while their hands literally shook under their desks at the prospect
I called George, Sr. immediately after practice. I can’t be your charity case anymore. Brooke, I’m not doing anything the least bit
of fingering the gold and quicksilver that
charitable. I consider it an investment in your
seemed to line the pockets of his waistcoats,
career.
his vintage tees, his leather messenger bags, his
I want to pay my own way.
cavalry coats with their rock-star epaulettes, all
You’re thirteen. Would you baby-sit? Mow
stuck with patches declaring him commodore,
lawns? Anything you could make wouldn’t be
captain, king.
enough to cover one season’s worth of skate
I hear you’re begging for handouts again, said George Jr., as he slammed open my open locker door. I’m going to repay him, I said.
laces. You pay to play in this sport, Brooke. I’m sorry. I’ll quit, I said, but I knew I wouldn’t. Instead, I let George, Sr. get me a job at the