Unwinding his cashmere scarf, Felix banished the image of all those damn key chains scratching the blemish-free ash lid. He would not comment; he simply would not.
“Dad, I’m sorry.” Harry fell to the floor and levered off his Converse. “I know how hard you’re trying to make everything work, and I don’t mean to make it harder. It’s just that I’m so overwhelmed.”
“Welcome to my life.”
“I was thinking. In the car. What if I took a gap year? I could—I don’t know. Get an apartment with Max and—”
“And do what, Harry?” Felix’s left eye twitched. Brilliant. Now he had a tic. “What will you do for money?”
“I’ll get a job.”
This was a prime example of Harry not thinking, of Harry making illogical, uninformed decisions. This was a knee-jerk plan aimed to appease, nothing more.
“A job,” Felix said. He hung up his scarf and coat. “And what job are you qualified for?”
“Lots. I could sell video games at GameStop.”
“You have no life skills, Harry. In this economy, if you don’t have a college degree, you might as well hold up your hands in defeat and say, ‘Fine, I’ll live in a cardboard box.’”
“That’s stu—”
“Stupid?” Felix tapped his palm. “Were you going to tell me I’m stupid?”
Harry cleared his throat multiple times. “Can Sammie come over?”
“No. You have homework. And after supper, we are going to look at college brochures, and that includes the one for Harvard.”
“Even if I don’t want to go down that route?”
“This is not an option, Harry. You are going to college. You are going to a good college.”
“I’m not disagreeing.” Harry’s shoulder shot up and down as his head ticced sideways. Again and again. “But no one’s asking what I want here. Not you, not Mom, not the school. It’s all about perfect SAT scores or my imperfect brain. And I’m sick of it. I can’t do this right now. Everyone has to back off. Stop pushing so hard.” Harry’s entire body seemed to judder with a scattershot of tics. “When I get overwhelmed, Mom encourages me to break things down and set small goals. You should try it sometime—thinking small. Aiming low. Way cheaper than therapy.”
Felix dug his fingernails into his skin until pain numbed his hand. “Now you’re telling me I need therapy?”
“That’s not”—Harry started stuttering—“what I said.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but a few hours ago, weren’t we talking about trust?”
Harry pulled out a barstool and collapsed onto it. A heap of Harry. “You . . . don’t think . . .” His words came out slowly, with long gaps between as the Tourette’s took hold. “This thing . . . you have . . . for order . . . is a little odd?”
“I’m a Fitzwilliam. We’re all a little odd.” Felix straightened his spine; his hand had begun to sting. “Yes, I’m a perfectionist. That’s why we have this great life, why I have a well-paid job, why you go to a private school, why your mother could stay home with you, why we have this house. There is nothing wrong with being a perfectionist.”
“You set standards no one can live up to.” Harry sounded tired—deflated and defeated. “Standards I can’t live up to with a GPA off the charts and perfect SAT scores. What else do you want you from me, Dad? Because I don’t get it.”
“It’s not that simple, Harry. Not everything can be judged by test scores.”
“By what, then? What am I doing wrong?” Harry paused and cleared his throat repeatedly. Felix waited. “Do you have any idea what half of the kids in eleventh grade are doing? Sleeping around, drinking, taking drugs. The other day, a senior offered me a shitload of money for a handful of Klonopin.”
“I hope you said no.” Kids were dealing prescription meds? He would have to report this to the school director.