It’s the reason Papa is coming to St. John’s for Parents Weekend. He has plans for me now that I’m eighteen and graduating soon.
On Saturday, I set my alarm for 9:00 AM and go for one of my long swims. Then I come back to shower and shave. I’m careful with my appearance, picking out a black suit. Other kids will be dressed more casually for the picnic on the lawn, but Papa will expect me to dress well. After all, I’m a reflection of him.
My roommate Harrison groans and flips over onto his front so he can mash his pillow over his head to block out the noise.
His parents aren’t coming today. I asked, and the last time he heard from them, they were on a yacht in Cannes with bad cell service.
“Could you get the fuck out already so I can sleep?”
Ignoring him, I focus on fixing the cuffs of my shirt. I pride myself on dressing well, something Americans could learn from the French, to be honest. Even if my father didn’t own half the luxury menswear market, I’d still care about the fit of my clothes, style, and appearance. American men equate that with homosexuality, like a man is more of a man if his pants are baggy, if he hasn’t washed his face in three days.
I’m early to the picnic luncheon, scanning the thin crowd out on the main lawn, but I don’t spot my father yet. Musicians with string instruments are already playing. Waiters in matching uniforms pass around canapés as well as sparkling juice for the students, champagne for the parents.
Near the main building, I spot my father intensely discussing something with the headmaster, likely advising him on how he could better run his school. At his side is his assistant, Wilson, with his iPad at the ready. Older and severe, he’s been employed by my father since GHV’s infancy, and I liken him to a loyal valet. If my father were on fire, Wilson would throw himself onto the flames. He’s with him every waking moment. I have no idea what his salary is, but whatever my father is paying him, he should double it.
I stroll over toward them in an effort to rip off the Band-Aid. The sooner we begin this charade, the sooner it will end.
My father spots me when I’m a few feet away and dismisses the headmaster with a bored flick of his hand. As I approach, he takes me in, looking for any shortcomings. I think he’s disappointed he can’t find any—after all, I take after him so well. I could be a carbon copy, as tall and formidable as he is. We share the same black hair, the same dark eyes. He’s clean shaven so I can see the permanent dimples in his cheeks and chin, the same as mine.
He glances behind me, his eyes narrowing.
“Where is your brother?” he asks with a thick French accent.
Mine is mostly gone thanks to so many years spent at St. John’s.
I slip my hands into my front pockets and shrug. “Busy, I suppose.”
He doesn’t like this. His lips flatten into a disapproving frown.
“You’ll tell him to call me,” he says, switching to French. He feels more comfortable with his command of his native language compared to English, though his English is just fine. Better than mine, really, but he has an ego to contend with, so we speak French whenever the audience allows. “I’ve traveled a long way to be here today. It’s a disappointment not to see him.”
Well if we’re bringing up family…
“And how is Emelia? Give her a hug for me.”
“Watch your tongue,” he says swiftly, his gaze flitting back to me with a harsh glare.
He doesn’t like me bringing up my half-sister, which means I enjoy it all the more.
I suspect my father was cheating on Maman before their divorce, and Emelia is likely a product of that infidelity. She means nothing to me, the daughter of his second wife, a woman he’s no longer even married to. I never see her, never think of her really.
“You should enroll her here at St. John’s. Alexander could keep a close eye on her.”
His features harden as he assesses me with cold, calculating eyes.
“It’s such a shame you still act this way. You’ll be graduating soon. I think it’s time you grow up, no?”
I look away as my jaw clenches, my molars grinding in annoyance.
There’s a silent standoff. He knows he’s won when he tells me, “It’s time to discuss your future. You graduate in two months.”
“Ten weeks,” Wilson confirms like some automated machine.
“There’s a place for you at École Polytechnique.” His alma mater. “You’ll begin courses over the summer. A counselor has assured me you’ll be placed in advanced classes and on track to graduate early. At night and on weekends, you’ll intern for GHV, working your way up from the mailroom. When your coursework allows, you’ll also travel with me and attend board meetings. Wilson will facilitate that.”
He looks back at his assistant, and Wilson nods in confirmation.
“And when I graduate?” I ask, mostly because I’m curious to know how far they’ve planned out my life.
He replies without missing a beat. “You’ll take your place at GHV. By then we’ll need someone manning the North American division.”
Some sick part of me relishes the idea that he wants me to follow in his footsteps, to fulfill my destiny as the heir to his empire. Despite the rebel in me, I want his validation and his praise. That lonely boy in Paris would have loved to make his papa proud.
I know better now. I wish I could rise above it all, disregard his feelings, and pave a path of my own like Alexander is trying to do. My brother can be meek and a follower, too susceptible to drugs and partying, but at least he had the courage to skip this luncheon. At least he isn’t the spitting image of our father.
Wilson steps forward and adjusts his glasses. “Sir, the meeting with Moncler is in half an hour. The signal here is spotty. I suggest we head back to the airport, though I’ll defer the decision to you.”
My father nods without argument, already prepared to leave.
There will be no picnic blanket and sandwiches for us, no brief catch-up and posed photos for Facebook. What was the point of him being here at all? Was it simply so he could take stock of his investment? Check to see if his prized racehorses are being properly cared for?
He gives me one last once-over, pausing when he reaches my face.
“I don’t want to see anything like that ever again. You’re a representation of the Mercier family, and you’ll behave accordingly.”
He’s referring to the shiner on my cheek from where I took that punch at the soccer game.
Then he turns, motioning for Wilson to hand him his phone, and poof, he’s gone. Back from whence he came.
Tonight, I wish I had an actual friend. I used to have one here. Jonathan was his name, but he graduated a few years ago. His family is in the wine and spirits industry. Actually, my father tried to buy their company a few years ago, but they held out. Jonathan’s a good guy. We played soccer together, talked about more than the usual locker room bullshit. He also left me with a bottle of whiskey as a parting gift before he left St. John’s.
I’ve had more than my fair share of the bottle tonight. My head is spinning, but I take another sip because I want to keep a firm grasp on this oblivion. I like it here where the world is paused, the chaos muted. I’m in the library because it’s quiet and no one will look for me here. The guys will knock on my door, wanting something. I want to stay in the back stacks, where the books are so old and the smell of mildew is so strong and sweet that I feel like I’ve fallen into a dream.