Page 48 of sWitch

I checked my watch—seven in the morning. His game would be in the afternoon; plenty of time to do some scheming of my own. Our car vroomed to life, and I rolled down the row of fenced trees, passed tiny designer dogs, and beeped the intercom at the grand front gate.

“Name?” buzzed through the speakers.

“Liz Bien.”

Watson paused. “We don’t have a Liz Bien on the visitor list today. What is your purpose here?”

“No? Liz Bien from Scissor City isn’t on the list? Anyway, pizza delivery. Large pineapple and pepperoni. I’ve got Mr. Monroe’s chiseled jawline along with his savvy business sense.”

There was a long pause, and I swore, if you could audibly hear an eye roll, you could have heard Watson’s annoyance through the little metal box. The gates swung open. “Welcome home, Remy.”

“Hey, that’s Liz Bien to you, Watson.”

I didn’t bother knocking; I walked right in past an aghast butler and down the hall to my dad’s office. The staff all turned to gawk as I bounded into my dad’s favorite room. He looked up from behind his desk with a puzzled expression. “Jeffrey, I’m going to have to call you back.” He let out a heavy exhale. “What can I do for you, Remy?”

My attention caught on a pyramid paperweight on a bookshelf. Picking it up and weighing it in my palm, I casually strolled Dad’s stuffy office. “You know, I have this really clear memory from my childhood. Me and Trev were seven. I stole a Swiss Army knife from Watson. He left it on the counter, and I swiped it and scurried up with Trevor to our treehouse.”

“I’m sure Watson forgives you.”

“Don’t you remember what happened? Of course, you don’t. Well, me and Trev were opening and closing all the gadgets over and over. Trev was holding it when Mom called up to us that dinner was ready. I panicked, thinking we’d been found out, and quickly went to close all the open blades, not realizing Trev’s finger was in the way.”

“Yes, I vaguely remember you two stumbling into my office crying.”

“I felt horrible that I’d hurt him. You remember what you did?”

“I gather you’re going to tell me.”

Stopping by Dad’s giant oak desk, I sat the paperweight down. “You scolded me for beingirresponsible, but you punished Trevor and sent him to our room for beingcareless.”

Dad leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers against the wood. “My day is stacked with meetings, Remy. You know my work week begins on Sundays. Can you get to the point?”

“That sums us up to you, doesn’t it? I’m irresponsible—wrecking the car, dropping out of school to tattoo, peppering my body with all the ink and holes I can find. It’s irresponsible, but it’s working out for me. Like you said at dinner, you respect my work ethic and ingenuity. Hell, that was news to me.”

Mr. Monroe folded his hands in his lap, impatient for me to continue so he could get back to his phone call about Parisian quartz or Japanese marble.

Leaning forward, I explained, “Trevor, to you, is careless. The dude’s really smart, great grades, the star athlete on his soccer team—but you’ve never thought it was enough. There’s no money in it. He doesn’t want to follow in your footsteps and peddle countertops. He wants to kick a ball around and study what-the-fuck ever in college. Carless, right?”

Dad straightened his tie. “There’s truth to my assessment, is there not?”

“No, you see, you’re right about me. I’m irresponsible, reckless, impulsive. I’m a self-absorbed asshole half the time. I get that from my dad.” Dad huffed, but I carried on. “But you’re wrong about Trevor. He cares. He cares alot, about everybody. Me, his team, helping anyone who’s going through something tough, like he helped Fauna, however unconventional that ordeal was. And, for some crazy reason I’ll never understand, he cares what you think of him.”

The phone rang, and I reached over, picked it up, and dropped it back on the receiver, holding up a finger to silence my dad’s fury. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to cancel your day, shuffle your shiny penny loafers down this long, overly vacuumed and dusted hall and into my mustang that smells like nacho cheese, and we, father-dearest, are going to my brother’s, your son’s, soccer finale—series ending—what the fuck ever kind of important sports ball game it is.”

My father rubbed his temple. Surely, a migraine was already budding through even the briefest of interactions with me. “Remy, I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“Dad, I swear to God, if you don’t get in my goddamn car… When you die, I will book an immediate flight to Vegas, gamble every scent of my inheritance, this house included, and get tied up with whatever mob runs the casinos. They’ll come after Mom looking for me, and they’ll take your business as collateral, and we’ll all be subject to their criminal whims?—“

“Okay, alright, enough with the theatrics. God, you are as histrionic as your mother.” He stood. “Let’s go see this game that is so important. I can spare an hour for lunch.”

Super, and I meansuper, fucking pleased with myself, I drove us to the game. My father looked like a penguin in the desert, an elephant in a tree, or any sort of ananimal doesn’t fit herescenario you can think of. He was silent on the drive, except to remark that my car did, in fact, smell like nacho cheese. Damn, I spilt my Taco Bell orderone time, and I’ll forever be cursed by its ghost haunting my otherwise spotless interior.

“Is it always this…populated?” Dad asked as we found our seats by Fauna in the stands.

Fauna waved and smiled at my dad as I wrapped my arm around her. “Hi, Mr. Monroe. Yes, it’s always this busy. Everyone’s here to see Trevor, though: scouts, national teams. He’s the one to watch.”

“Your hair is pink,” Dad answered plainly.

Fauna nodded. “Yep, it’s my favorite color.”

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