I’m referring to Kent and Stephen. We walk home together on Tuesdays because it’s the only day they don’t stay late on campus. They’re both student tutors and members of the Robotics Club, as well as delegates in the Model UN. Presently, they’re ramping up for competitions with the Physics Olympics. Poor Stephen’s been particularly stressed because he’s the team’s leader. For the two of them, their ultimate goal, other than winning the gold, is early admission to MIT. But on Tuesdays, their intramural bowling matches don’t start until early evening so we get to hang out a bit, which is always good for a laugh.
The lack of free time is what’s so bizarre about this school, beyond the blatant displays of wealth. I know loads of rich kids back in the UK, even some in line for the throne, but none of them live as large as my current classmates. The student parking lot is basically a Mercedes dealership. And the size of the homes up here? My God! Some of my mates have country estates, but those places are all cold and damp and threadbare, shot through with mice and quietly decaying. You have to sleep with a hot water bottle because nothing is properly heated. Plus, those castles have been in the family for hundreds of years—no one’s forking over a five-figure monthly mortgage on one that’s brand new and ready-made with a proper HVAC system.
Even more than the wealth, I’m dismayed by how little time there is to be idle, to just kick back. Most of the fun’s orchestrated and school-sanctioned, for the sole purpose of shining on a college application. Behind the scenes, I suspect there’s a fair amount of alcohol and drug use. No judgment, though—who wouldn’t want an escape from the unrelenting pressure of being conveyed from activity to activity 24/7? When do people sleep? I’m exhausted every day and I’ve yet to tackle more than half of my homework.
Anyway, the three of us were coming home when we spotted a man on a fancy riding lawnmower in front of my house.
“Someone’s clipping our grass!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, thank God,” Stephen said, letting out a mass expanse of breath. As we walked earlier, I noticed he’d been clutching his backpack with both fists. Very tense, that one. “My mother’s been sending angry emails to the neighborhood association every day, trying to call an emergency board meeting.”
“I’m so sorry, I had no idea,” I admitted.
Kent added, “Yeah, and if Mrs. Cho ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”
I expected to see Stephen’s trademark grin at Kent’s quip, or perhaps hear something equally cutting in response. They both have challenging, tiger-type mums who henpeck them to oblivion, inspiring their epic sessions telling “yo mama” jokes. But instead of smiling, Stephen nodded in grim agreement.
Stephen wasn’t playing today.
Huh.
As for the lawn situation, it had truly gotten out of control and absolutely was our own fault. In our defense, we’d never owned a suburban home before, just city flats. We planned to be in North Shore only for the year or so it’ll take Mum to photograph and write her book, so we planned to rent a condo, but Mr. Hochberg insisted we not “set money on fire.” Then this house came on the market, mostly furnished, and it seemed like kismet.
So, now we have this place where the sheer amount of space feels almost absurd after all the eighty-square-meter rabbit hutches we’ve lived in across Europe. My father spent the whole first week ignoring his studio and walking around the joint, peeking in walk-in closets and exclaiming about how marvelously beige everything was, how delightfully bland, like a cup of milky tea.
We didn’t know what to do with the grass, so we did...nothing. Then last night we temporarily lost Warhol in the jungle that had become the backyard. He bayed mournfully until we hunted him down (heartbreaking!) and that’s when it dawned on us that we should address the lawn.
Mum and I assumed Dad would hire someone to do the job.
Never assume.
Now he’s out there, cutting the grass himself on the lavish tractor mower just delivered from Home Depot, singing along badly to Johnny Cash, chuffed to bits about the whole enterprise. He offered to take us on rides around the yard. (We declined.)
As for him reaching under the chassis and clearing the blade? Well, that’s plain ludicrous. His hands are so valuable that they’re insured by Lloyd’s of London. Trust me, the first time Mr. Hochberg hears about Dad’s Great Landscape Adventure will be the last time.
“How are the boys?” Mum asks.
“Good.” I stop myself, thinking about Stephen’s taciturn presence. “No, scratch that. Stephen’s out of sorts. Kent says he can be moody, but this is the first I’ve seen of it. He’s not himself. He has the best grin in the world and he’s not smiling. I’m worried.”
Mum knits her brow and places a finger to her lips while she ponders. Finally, she says, “It is September.”
“That’s significant?” I ask.
She nods and one of her pencils comes loose. She tucks it back in, along with a stray tendril of hair. “Can be. In September, the days shorten rather quickly and the nights get longer. That can trigger Seasonal Affective Disorder—SAD. People often become depressed due to the lack of sunlight. You know, he can counter this with one of those light boxes that replicate sunshine. Lots of people at home have them.”
“Do they work?”
“Dunno. Never needed one. Just know that the autumnal equinox can be tough.”
I nod.
She wraps her arm around my shoulder. “Simba, if you’re worried about him, talk to him.”
I shrug. “We’re not tight enough for me to ask him about his inner feelings. Plus, I’m half British and we’re terrible at that sort of thing.”
She smiles as she runs her hands through the unshorn portions of my hair. (I’ve dip-dyed my bangs an indigo blue this week; they’re amazing!) “You forget you’re technically half American. You’ll be fine.”
Without needing to ask if I want tea, Mum pulls out a package of Jammie Dodger biscuits and plugs in the kettle. Our house came with a boiling water tap, but Mum doesn’t trust it to heat the water properly. In some ways, she acts more British than my Dad, who’s embraced all things American since we’ve been here. Case in point, the size of the telly he bought—we could land a plane on its surface.
“Let me guess—Dad did nothing in his studio today?” Galleries perpetually scramble to book my father’s next installation, long before he even brings his ideas to light. As he has unlimited free time and ample workspace here, we thought he’d be prolific, but that’s yet to happen.
“Let’s just say one of us has been productive. Interested to see what I just developed?”
With my mouth crammed full, I reply, “Absolutely!” Bits of crumbled cookie fall onto the floor but Warhol makes quick work of cleanup.
She comes out of her darkroom with a stack of slightly damp, chemical-smelling eight-by-tens. The pungent, sour scent of the fresh photos is as familiar as her gardenia and neroli perfume. She prefers film to digital because she loves the element of surprise film affords, and the delayed gratification, really, the whole scientific process. She claims anyone can “spray and pray;” film separates artist from amateur.
I thumb through the black-and-white photos. There’s shot after shot of enormous sport utility vehicles, all queued up, one after another.
“Was the vice president in town?”
“Nope. Keep looking.”
The vehicles snake into what appears to be a never-ending line, each one dark and shiny and sober, so many, it’s like they’re tracing the curve of the earth.
“A military funeral?”