face. “Can I help it if I’ve been successful? Christ, isn’t that what the American dream is all about?”
“Usually that involves some measure of working your way up from poverty,” Murray points out. “Not being born into a family with generations of wealth and political power.”
My father’s expression grows ever more sour. “What do you want me to do?”
Murray stands up straight, crossing his arms. “What we need is a story,” he says. “Something to humanize you. Something to show you’re just like everyone else.”
“I am like everyone else.”
I can see Dad’s becoming a little hot under the collar. He’s never been great at taking criticism. Thankfully, Murray is one of the few people who has always been fine with standing up to him. It’s just Murray and me in that camp these days — most everyone else is scared stiff. If my dad says jump, most people just ask how high. Being a former Marine colonel and born into one of the most storied families on the east coast will do that for you.
“Not according to my polling,” Murray says smoothly. “People see you as cold, robotic. Distant. Not lovab — ”
“Get to the point , Murray.”
Murray waits until my father’s temper subsides a little, as if he’s sizing him up. “I have an idea,” he says. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.” He glances across at me, cocking his head a little. “Do you think we could discuss this alone for a while?”
“Sure. Whatever.” I shrug, getting up and crossing the room. I don’t really need to be here for this — I really should be spending all my free time studying for when term starts in a few months. I’m paranoid about forgetting the stuff I’ll need between now and then. I don’t need to be starting from behind with my masters degree, and I have no illusions about how hard it’ll be. Chemical Engineering at Blaketon University isn’t exactly known to be a cakewalk.
“I won’t be long, sweetheart,” my dad calls after me as I close the door, but I’ve heard that before. I’m used to it by now. As I walk down the hall toward the staircase, I hear my father’s voice, muffled by the solid wood of his study door — “ YOU WANT ME TO WHAT? ” — and I briefly regret being ordered out.
But if it’s all that scandalous, I’m sure I’ll be hearing about it soon. Not like my dad doesn’t complain to me about what he calls Murray’s ‘crackpot asshole advice’ on a daily basis anyway. Advice he always ends up taking, crackpot asshole or not.
I’m sure I’ll find out about it sooner or later.
“You want me to what? ”
It’s almost exactly three hours later that I find myself echoing my dad’s words. I stare at him across the dinner table, carbonara sauce flopping off my fork and spattering onto the dark wood of the table. My dad winces, but it’s obvious he’s not going to say anything right now that might risk me not agreeing to what I’ve now realized is Murray’s latest piece of crackpot asshole advice.
Just for once, my dad is right — it’s both crackpot and asshole.
And my dad is being an asshole too, even thinking about coming here and trying to talk me into it, sweet-talking me, saying we could eat dinner together for once.
He even asked June, out cook, to make spaghetti carbonara.
He knows I fucking love spaghetti carbonara.
“Ava, honey —” he starts, before I cut him off by clattering my fork down onto my plate.
“No, you don’t need to explain it again, I understood it perfectly well the first time,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “You basically want me to become a prostitute. Is that it? Whore myself out for the sake of your political career.”
“I most certainly do not want you to… do that,” my father
“Usually that involves some measure of working your way up from poverty,” Murray points out. “Not being born into a family with generations of wealth and political power.”
My father’s expression grows ever more sour. “What do you want me to do?”
Murray stands up straight, crossing his arms. “What we need is a story,” he says. “Something to humanize you. Something to show you’re just like everyone else.”
“I am like everyone else.”
I can see Dad’s becoming a little hot under the collar. He’s never been great at taking criticism. Thankfully, Murray is one of the few people who has always been fine with standing up to him. It’s just Murray and me in that camp these days — most everyone else is scared stiff. If my dad says jump, most people just ask how high. Being a former Marine colonel and born into one of the most storied families on the east coast will do that for you.
“Not according to my polling,” Murray says smoothly. “People see you as cold, robotic. Distant. Not lovab — ”
“Get to the point , Murray.”
Murray waits until my father’s temper subsides a little, as if he’s sizing him up. “I have an idea,” he says. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.” He glances across at me, cocking his head a little. “Do you think we could discuss this alone for a while?”
“Sure. Whatever.” I shrug, getting up and crossing the room. I don’t really need to be here for this — I really should be spending all my free time studying for when term starts in a few months. I’m paranoid about forgetting the stuff I’ll need between now and then. I don’t need to be starting from behind with my masters degree, and I have no illusions about how hard it’ll be. Chemical Engineering at Blaketon University isn’t exactly known to be a cakewalk.
“I won’t be long, sweetheart,” my dad calls after me as I close the door, but I’ve heard that before. I’m used to it by now. As I walk down the hall toward the staircase, I hear my father’s voice, muffled by the solid wood of his study door — “ YOU WANT ME TO WHAT? ” — and I briefly regret being ordered out.
But if it’s all that scandalous, I’m sure I’ll be hearing about it soon. Not like my dad doesn’t complain to me about what he calls Murray’s ‘crackpot asshole advice’ on a daily basis anyway. Advice he always ends up taking, crackpot asshole or not.
I’m sure I’ll find out about it sooner or later.
“You want me to what? ”
It’s almost exactly three hours later that I find myself echoing my dad’s words. I stare at him across the dinner table, carbonara sauce flopping off my fork and spattering onto the dark wood of the table. My dad winces, but it’s obvious he’s not going to say anything right now that might risk me not agreeing to what I’ve now realized is Murray’s latest piece of crackpot asshole advice.
Just for once, my dad is right — it’s both crackpot and asshole.
And my dad is being an asshole too, even thinking about coming here and trying to talk me into it, sweet-talking me, saying we could eat dinner together for once.
He even asked June, out cook, to make spaghetti carbonara.
He knows I fucking love spaghetti carbonara.
“Ava, honey —” he starts, before I cut him off by clattering my fork down onto my plate.
“No, you don’t need to explain it again, I understood it perfectly well the first time,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “You basically want me to become a prostitute. Is that it? Whore myself out for the sake of your political career.”
“I most certainly do not want you to… do that,” my father
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