Page 17 of Kingmakers, Year Two

It looks more like an Apple store than a house—a transparent prism of glass propped up on stilts, so that half the floor overhangs the lake. Privacy be damned, no curtains or blinds block any of the windows. You can see right inside the rooms to my father’s sleek, modern furniture and my mother’s bold paint-spattered art on the walls.

I can see my mom sitting at the kitchen table drinking her morning coffee, wearing her favorite ratty old Cubs T, her hair twisted up in a bun with a pen stuck through to hold it in place.

She glances up as soon as I come in the house, her brilliant smile breaking over her face like she’s been awake for hours, and not twenty minutes at most.

“There’s fresh coffee in the pot,” she says. “Unless you’re planning to go to sleep in a minute.”

She’s poring over a bunch of documents that look like real estate transactions. Probably some new development with Uncle Nero. As soon as one’s finished, he’s onto the next.

“I’ll just have one of those.” I snitch an apple slice off her plate.

“Congratulations,” she says to me.

“For what?”

“Iggy’s song. I checked the charts as soon as I woke up.”

I can’t help smiling. I never told my mom anything about the drop party or the single coming out. She’s a sneaky fucker, just like me. Always gathering information.

“He’s going to L.A.,” I say.

“That’s great,” my mom replies, with real pleasure. “He’s a good kid, he deserves it. You should be proud of yourself, Miles.”

Satisfaction is the enemy of success. I’ll be proud of myself when I’ve got the whole damn world at my feet.

“You’re a good friend,” my mom says.

“I took a nice commission out of the deal,” I tell her, grabbing another apple slice.

“I know why you did it.” She’s looking at me in the way she always does, like I’m the best person in the world. Like she can’t help grinning just from the sight of me.

This is not deserved. I can be a selfish asshole. A real piece of shit. My mom doesn’t care—she’d always pick a volcano over a pleasant mountain stream. To her, the only sin is to be boring.

“Are you packed for school?” she asks.

“Just about.”

Meaning I’ve packed zero items into my suitcase, but I have considered doing it.

My mom snorts, not fooled for a second. “I bought a couple fresh uniforms for you.”

“What size pants?”

“Thirty-four long. You’re still growing.”

She stands up so she can ruffle my hair. She has to go on tiptoe to do it. I put my arms around her waist and hug her, lifting her off her feet. She laughs and tries to hug me back, but I’m squeezing her too hard.

“It’s a dark day when your kids could send you to your room if they really wanted to,” she says.

“Don’t worry,” I tease her. “I’m still scared of Dad.”

“Thank god.” She laughs.

I’m not actually scared of my dad. I might be if I only ever saw him on his own, with his electric stare and his way of barking orders that seems to snap men to attention like they’ve been hit with a whip. But then my mom sidles up to him, taking little jabs at him, making him laugh when you’re sure he’s never cracked a smile in his life. And you realize he’s got a soul after all, however hard he tries to hide it.

He’s a good man. My mom’s a good woman, the best woman.

I still can’t wait to get out of here.

---