Page 87 of Don't You Pucking Dare

"A phone call?"

"A phone call." I can picture her pacing, probably in her boyfriend’s rundown apartment with cigarette burns on the carpet. That's where she always ends up.

"For?" I trace the groove in my desk where I once dug my pen in too hard.

"If you didn't get the fucking phone call, just say so." The edge in her voice makes my shoulders tense. Some things never change.

"Mom, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"This is my phone number. You need to save it." I barely believe her. I bet it’s her boyfriend’s number.

"Okay. Is everything okay, mom?" Outside my window, a group of students passes by, laughing. Normal people living normal lives.

"No, I'm not. He owes me. He fucking owes me everything he's got."

"Mom, are you okay? You sound… crazy." The words escape before I can stop them.

"Don't fucking tell me I sound crazy!"

Her screaming fills my dorm as I pull the phone away from my ear. Then she starts mouthing off all the terrible shit she possibly can.

My last straw is when she says, "Do you know what I've done for you!"

I end the call. The silence hits like a physical thing. My hands shake, and the cello calls to me from its corner, promising the only kind of control I've ever really had.

Her silence broken by greed. The irony would be funny if it didn't hurt so much.

My phone lights up again. Different number. The sun has shifted, throwing shadows across my practice space like prison bars.

"Hello?"

A man’s voice says, "Hello, is this Lola Kemper?"

"Yes, this is her." My reflection watches me from the window, pale and wary.

"Hi, Miss Kemper. My name's Daniel Rothschild, and I'm calling in regards to your father, Rick Kemper." Professional voice, practiced sympathy. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Are you able to come down in person so that we can have a chat?"

My heart skips against my ribs. "A chat? We can chat now." I press my free hand against the cool glass of the window, leaving fingerprints on the surface.

"Well, Miss Kemper, you are your father's only beneficiary and we need you in person to sign documents before we can release anything to you."

My gut sinks. "Release what to me?" The dorm suddenly feels too small, the walls pressing in.

"He left you a letter and $1.5 million dollars. When you turn 25, you’ll receive the other half."

The words hit like wrong notes in a familiar piece. Three million total. I know where that money came from—the illegal trafficking houses tucked behind legitimate businesses, the girls who disappeared after asking too many questions, the deals made in rooms that I never want to be in. Everything he touched turned to poison, and now he's trying to spread it to me from beyond the grave.

My hand shakes as I write down the bank details in my composition notebook, right next to the melody I wrote thinking about Brody last week. The pen tears through the paper on the last digit.

My mom calls again. Mystery solved. The prodigal mother returns, drawn by the scent of money. Probably knew about it before his body was cold.

I sink into my office chair, the material cracking under my weight. Around me, the evidence of my life clutters the smallroom—dog-eared sheet music, coffee-stained music theory textbooks. All of it suddenly feels like a lie. Like I’m not meant to be here, that I am not because of my talent but because of Rick Kemper.

I grab my phone from where it sits next to a stack of Bach compositions.

Lola: I need you

Brody shows up fifteen minutes later, leather jacket carrying the crisp air. I'm still in my practice clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater that slides off one shoulder. The bruises on his face are fresh, dark against his skin, but they barely register in my head what it means. All I can see are zeros spinning behind my eyes. Three million. Life insurance. Who knew about this?

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