Jerome continued with the sports awards and then moved on to academics. One by one Charles’s friends rose to claim plaques. The Academic Achievement of the Year was last, and Jerome took a long time winding up to it. Bronwyn squeezed his hand. Charles glanced at his father. He was still there, listening. When Jerome called out Heather Lawrence’s name, Charles stood halfway anyway. Bronwyn pulled him down.
Heather Lawrence made her way across the grass. She was in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down from a childhood illness. She was a coxswain for the boys’ crew team; the crewmen gently carried her into the boat whenever it was time to practice or race. Charles had a lot of classes with her; Heather diligently turned in papers and gave oral reports from her chair. She’d been accepted at Harvard and Brown, but she was going to Penn to remain close to her family.
Bronwyn dropped Charles’s hand and began to clap. How could she not clap? How could any of them not? When Charles glanced at his parents, his mother looked sheepish. More than likely she’d assumed Charles would win, too, forgetting about Heather entirely. His father clapped tepidly, his expression not wavering. From the back of the garden, someone yelled out, “Yeah!” Charles swore it was Scott’s voice.
After that, Jerome thanked everyone for coming and the crowd began to disperse. Scott approached Charles’s table, his arms across his chest.
“Uh, hi,” Schuyler, one of Charles’s friends, finally said.
“Hey,” Scott answered.
He stared right at Bronwyn, coolly and challengingly. Bronwyn flinched and looked away, and Charles oscillated between the two of them, wondering if he was missing something. Bronwyn ran her tongue over her teeth and stood up. “Excuse me,” she said, walking back into the house.
“Are you all right?” Charles called after her.
“I’m fine,” Bronwyn said over her shoulder, shooting him a smile.
Charles’s other friends, likely sensing the tension, congratulated Scott on his award. Scott blinked, his trance broken. He stared at the plaque in his right hand. “Right,” he said, indifferently.
Scott’s fingerprints were all over the brass plaque. It would languish in some cardboard box under his bed, unappreciated. Ha, he no doubt thought. Dad came home from work just in time to see you lose … again. Why else had Scott stopped at this table? Charles’s gaze slid over to their parents. Their mother was still sitting at the table, but their father was gone. Charles could practically hear Scott’s thoughts as he loomed over them, his suit smelling vaguely of mothballs. You think you’re so great with your fancy friends and your ass-kissing, but I know how it really is.
But when Scott met his eye, his face wasn’t full of nasty smugness but of pity. He lingered on Charles for a moment, and then turned toward the house. Rage flooded Charles’s body. Smugness he could handle, but pity was reprehensible. After a few shallow breaths, Charles stood up roughly, bumping his knees against the bottom of the table, and followed his brother through the side door.
He found Scott standing in the mud room next to the washing machine. The air felt ionized, fraught with another presence, as if someone had just slipped out of the room. “Apologize,” Charles boomed. “Apologize now.”
Scott gazed at him warily, exasperatedly. “Apologize for what?”
Charles twitched. Scott stared at him, waiting. Pity crossed his face again. He threw his shoulders back, waved his hand, and turned toward the kitchen.
“Come back!” Charles screamed.
He chased Scott into the mud room, spun his brother around, and pinned him against the utility sink. His insides felt black and curdled. Lava rose to his throat and spewed out his mouth. “This is all just a joke to you, isn’t it,” he said through his teeth. “You don’t get what you have. You should be grateful. But instead you act all … entitled. Like you deserve this. But you’re a piece of shit. You came from nothing. And you will be nothing. You’re the joke, don’t you see? You’re going to end up just like where you came from. Nothing but a n–n—”
The word hung on his lips. He reined himself in, holding back, but it was still out there, as good as said, radiating out in toxic, concentric waves. All the pain inside him, all the dark, insecure caverns of his mind illuminated.
Scott didn’t flinch. His gaze was eerily neutral. There was a presence behind them, a horrified crowd, a gasp. Charles could smell Bronwyn’s perfume. He heard his father’s signature, guttural cough. His father had heard every uttered, and almost uttered, word.
Scott had the view of whoever was behind them. His gaze wavered from Charles, and his eyes dimmed. When he refocused on Charles again, things got blurry, and in a split second Charles was on the ground, gasping for air. Scott’s face loomed above him, his breath hot on his cheeks. Their father appeared and pulled Scott to his feet. Charles rolled to his side, coughing.