Page 23 of Caught in a Storm
Grady smiles at Patty. “Well, funny thing is, we’re doing really good. Records are cooler than they’ve been in years. We’re cooler. What’s old is new again, right?”
“Maybe it’s just a trend,” says Patty. “But we’re gonna capitalize on it.”
“There are other apartments,” says Grady. “Maybe you can find a new place around here. Somewhere even better.”
It’s a nice thought, but heartbreakingly naïve. All three of them know that Fells Point is mostly luxury condos now, or tiny row houses tucked quietly away from everything that Billy loves about living here. His apartment is one of a kind.
“I’m sorry, Billy,” says Grady, and this time Patty doesn’t scold him for it.
Gustavo catches Billy’s eye from Hot Twist. Oblivious to what’s happening, Gustavo smiles, then gives Billy the finger. Daquan drums down the street, and people shout and laugh and sing. “Yeah, G,” Billy says. “I’m sorry, too.”
Part 2
Cardi Party
Chapter 13
Billy is late. Which is why he’s running, kind of, across the shadowy Ruxton Academy parking lot in northern Baltimore. He isn’t built for speed, and he smoked in his twenties, so his shoes sound like anvils on the pavement, and he’s gasping more than is reasonable for a forty-five-second jog. He weaves between BMWs, of which there are many, and a few Land Rovers. He hip-checks a silver Jaguar as he rounds a corner heading for the entrance. The alarm chirps out a shrill little warning.
His lessons ran until six, then he decided he should probably change, because he was wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt, and you shouldn’t have “sex” written across your chest at parent-teacher night. Then, of course, the Champagne Supernova chose tonight to be difficult. Traffic was snarled in its usual places, too. These are reasonable excuses across the board, but Billy is preparing himself for the look that Robyn will give him.
Oh, Billy, come on.
He pushes through the front doors and comes to a sliding stop atop the Ruxton Academy crest, which is inlaid into the floor. Billy can either go left or right. He chooses left, which works out. Robyn texted that the room, 118, is in the English department, and Billy sees stenciled drawings of Shakespeare, Dickens, and Poe on the walls. He passes Mr. Butler’s office, Ms. Stringer’s office, and then Mrs. Duncan’s office. 118 is next to Maya Angelou and a small caged bird.
Three faces turn, six eyes, two of which narrow.
Oh, Billy, come on.
“Hey, everyone. Sorry. My car…” He leaves the rest to their imaginations, hoping they’ll come up with something harrowing—a multivehicle pileup, escaped animals on the highway.
Caleb’s academic advisor, Ms. Modell, stands and shakes Billy’s hand. She’s a serious-looking young woman in a navy-blue blouse and checkered skirt. Robyn and her husband, Aaron, have come from work, so they’re dressed like they’re initiating a corporate takeover. Robyn looks terrific, and Billy wishes he had a wardrobe do-over. Something with a collar would’ve been nice, and khakis, perhaps. Realizations like this, unfortunately, always come in retrospect.
Aaron shakes his hand, squeezes his elbow. “Billy,” he says. “Good to see you.”
Billy kisses Robyn’s cheek. “Sorry,” he whispers.
“You didn’t miss a thing, Mr. Perkins,” says Ms. Modell. “We were just chatting about Caleb. I should apologize myself. I didn’t realize until this evening that Caleb is from a nontraditional household situation.”
Billy assesses the furniture as he sits. An extra chair has been dragged over to accommodate the odd shape of their parental unit. “Well, that’s us,” he says. “I’m dad, she’s mom, and he’s the stepdad.”
“Some might say co-dad,” says Aaron.
“We’re still workshopping that term,” says Billy.
“Billy and I were never married,” says Robyn. “So Caleb has only known us as two separate homes. Aaron and Billy are both very involved. They’re good dads.”
“I can see that,” says Ms. Modell. “Well, whatever the arrangement, it works. You should all be very proud. Your son is a fantastic student. Top ten percent—officially now.”
Caleb’s three parents smile. Billy knows how hard Caleb worked this year to break the top ten, and a lump of pride forms in his throat.
“As you know,” says Ms. Modell, “Caleb has applied to some very competitive schools. U. of Maryland is a definite yes. He’s in-state, and his grades are stellar. I’m confident about Hopkins, too. We have a wonderful relationship with the admissions department over there. Stanford, though…well, Stanford is our reach. Your influence as an alum, Mr. Frazier, could definitely help, but you never know. Stanford is unpredictable.”
Everyone nods; Billy unbuttons his cardigan, hoping not to start actively sweating from all that accidental cardio.
“In years past,” says Ms. Modell, “they’ve focused heavily on extracurriculars over there—athletics, student government, that sort of thing. Lately, though, with quants and computer programmers doing so well out in the world, they’ve made room for more academic-minded kids like Caleb. The app he built for his analytics class is a perfect example of that.”
Another lump forms, and Billy insists to himself that he won’t turn weepy in front of these beautifully dressed professional people. He clears his throat. “One heck of a piano player, too.”
