Page 23 of For The Record

RB: Oh, definitely. But you know, I have talked to… I have talked to the person who the song was about and we’re both fine with it. I’ll just leave it at that. People can talk all they want about THYM and call it a hateful diatribe against my ex-girlfriend or a part of this new wave of doxing and misogyny - whatever, you know? There are issues like that out there, but I don’t think this song is part of it.

MW: Well, that’s been Ryder Black. Thank you again for agreeing to do this interview with us, and I’m sure we’ll see your album rise to the top of the charts.

RB: Thank you. I hope so, too.

Chapter 11: Leo Perez

I remember my twelfth birthday. It was the day after my mother’s wedding to Ricardo Aguilar. The day my life would change forever. One year later, Raina would be born. But of course, I couldn’t see any of that yet. I could only see what was right in front of me, or rather, who was right in front of me.

A glittery, shiny, glamorous future. My father pulled up to the house in a gleaming black Bentley, his charcoal suit pressed, his face carefully Botoxed to be wrinkle-free at forty-five. His hair was slicked back into a neat coiffure, his patent wingtips polished to a shine. He carried a box in his hand, one the size of a Rubik’s cube, but made of black leather instead of colourful plastic squares.

The air smelled of spun sugar from the cotton candy machine that I had begged my mother for. She had invited all my cousins who were the same age as me. A bouncy castle was being set up in the corner of the yard. Ricardo had spared no extravagance in making me—and by extension, my mother—happy. He was good that way. I didn’t recognize it then. I only saw that I would have to share her with somebody else.

And so, I turned to my father. My real, true father, or so I thought he was. One I really had to share, not just with one person but with an entire family. An entire family who knew nothing of me, and if they did hear of me and Mama, would consider us nothing more than home wreckers. A mistake. A sin.

He stood there, on the lawn, completely out of place. Children were running around the yard, playing tag and hide and seek, ducking under the white awnings of the rented tent where my mother and Ricardo had held their reception. They’d wed in a Catholic church, of course, like any good Hispanic couple, and I had been so proud to walk my mother down the aisle, my height already shooting up so that we were both five-foot-five.

And now he was here. Antonio Perez, in the flesh. My father. Rich. Movie-star handsome, though he wasn’t one himself. My starched suit and collar felt itchy and I wanted to unbutton it, to look cool, but one look from my mother kept my hands at my sides. “Hello, Leo,” he said. “My son.”

I was his only son. It was a fact I was proud of when I considered his wife and his daughter. I was the only boy. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?

I didn’t know how to address him. I erred on the side of politeness. “Hello, Mr. Perez.”

He laughed, and my mother excused herself to go talk to Ricardo. “Your mother must be a real stickler for etiquette.”

Something about his words struck me. I didn’t like his laugh. It was like he was laughing at a joke I couldn’t comprehend, something he had told about me rather than to me. “Yes, she is, sir.”

“I wanted to give you something for your birthday,” he said.

To this day, I remember being surprised that he knew it was my birthday at all. He certainly hadn’t been present for my birth. That was clear from countless pictures.

“You remembered?” My voice almost trembled, and I hated it. I hated that I had to be shocked at my own father knowing the day I was born, and I hated that I wanted anything from him at all.

“Of course, Leo,” he said, and his brown eyes almost seemed earnest. Sincere. Like he was a good man. “I wouldn’t forget my son’s birthday. Open it.”

He passed me the black box. Heavy in my hands, maybe heavier with the weight of my expectations for him and his broken promises to me weighing it down. I opened the lid slowly, feeling the smooth grosgrain leather against my hands. Inside was a beautiful, classic watch, the inside of the box engraved with silvery letters. A name in French, something I couldn’t pronounce.

“It’s a Patek Philippe,” he said. “They’re very expensive and very rare. My father gave me one of these when I turned eighteen.”

I didn’t ask him why he was giving this to me now and not when I turned eighteen. Because he was getting married, too. All the tabloids declared it everywhere:Antonio Perez marrying his wife and mother of his child, Belinda Gonzalez! She got the public attention, the appearances on his arm at red carpet events, the ring on her finger in addition to his child. My mother?

Well, she didn’t get any of that. Certainly not a public acknowledgement of her or her son’s existence.

“Thanks.” I snapped the box shut again, not wanting to look at the watch again. But I memorized the features: silver hands against a blue face, four different rings on the face with the month, the day of the month, and the time of day.

“This is a Grandmaster Chime,” he said, like I was supposed to be impressed. It kind of sounded like a position teaching at Hogwarts. “One of the most expensive watches in the world. One of them sold for thirty-one million dollars, Leo.”

I’d trade that much money to have a father who wanted to be in my life for more than a handful of occasions sprinkled throughout the years. But what was the use in saying it out loud? He chose Belinda and her daughter, Tiana, over me and Mama.

“Okay,” I said, not sure what he wanted me to say. If he wanted me to ooh and ahh and be impressed, it was not going to happen any time soon. “Like I said, thanks.”

He shook his head. Disappointed. That made two of us. “Take good care of it, Leo.”

Take care of the watch. Why should I? He never took care of me. “Yeah. I will.”

With that, he turned and walked away, not even bothering to address my mother or Ricardo. Good. Their happiness didn’t need to be ruined by him. I ran into the house and wedged the box into a shoebox and shoved it deep into the top shelf of my closet.

Six years later, I pulled it out, brushed off the dust, and strapped it on to fit in with the rest of the douchebags at UCLA with their daddy’s money. I tried my best not to feel like I was becoming one of them.

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