Page 13 of A Vicious Rumor

I couldn't hold back the low growl. "You know what," I seethed, pushing my half eaten bowl of cereal away from me. "I'll do you one better, since you're so anxious to get rid of me like everyone else in this world. I'll leave today."

I stood up quickly and the chair behind me toppled over, clattering to the floor.

"Tyson!" my father exclaimed. I didn't bother turning around to pay attention to him. I didn't even bother responding to him. He was throwing me out of my own home because what? I got in a few arranged fights at the school and got tattled on? Total bullshit. Maybe I didn't want to stick around Potomac for the entire summer, but I'd at least like to have been given the opportunity to decide that for my fucking self.

I climbed the stairs two by two and slammed the door to my room. I grabbed a duffle bag from the top of my closet and began shoving clothes into it. I honestly didn't even care about anything at this point. More than anything, I was just so fucking angry. Once I'd shoved enough into the bag, I made my way back downstairs and through the kitchen.

"There," my father said, pointing to a post-it note with an address and telephone number on it. "Call me when you get there. Your mother's already been told you're coming."

"She's not my mother," I said, grabbing the note and slamming open the front door to the home. I threw the bag into the back of my Wrangler, stuck the note to the dashboard and peeled out of the driveway without so much as a "goodbye" to my father.

Not like he even came to the door to see me off, anyway.

I took the long drive along the George Washington Parkway. I took my time and didn't rush, letting people honk their horns at me or pass me and flip me off in the process. I always wondered about people who did that sort of stuff on the road. Clearly the person in front of you didn't care about you, otherwise they would have driven faster or changed lanes in the first place. What did giving someone the middle finger ultimately do other than make you look like an angry asshole?

And I knew a lot about being an angry asshole.

I just let the traffic pass me by and continued down the road at my pace, enjoying the view and thinking about what my life was going to be like this summer. Sure, it'd be easy enough for me to just drive back to the house, but at this point, I didn't even really think I wanted to. I was tired of the spoiled rich kids at the school. I had to deal with them throughout the year. A break for the summer might actually be a welcome relief. As for my Dad, well I was definitely tired of hearing his shit.

It was entirely frustrating that he wouldn't involve me in the family business. I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to help save what my Grandfather had built through his own sweat, and instead, my father was pushing me aside. My Father had never had a good relationship with my Grandfather. A small part of me always wondered if he just didn't care what happened to the company because of it.

I sighed and took the exit for the 14th Street Bridge. The Washington Monument always looked slightly out of place to me. There was something about it that never sat right with me. Sure, it was pretty tall when it was first built, but it's nowhere near how tall buildings can be built these days. And yet, the entire city was forced to keep itself down because of it. Buildings could only ever be 130 feet. All because someone designed a spire in the 1800s. Had they designed a different type of memorial, one that wasn't all about height, I was sure the city would look very different than it did today.

I love people who say you can overcome your circumstances. If the capital of the free world can't grow because of its circumstances, what made people think I could?

Another ten minutes on the highway and I was taking the exit for Anacostia. My mind started to drift to my mother. I hadn't seen her since my last visit, and I wasn't sure about how I felt about seeing her again. I grabbed my phone from the passenger seat and punched in the address on the sticky note quickly so I knew where I was going.

If the entire city felt stunted, Anacostia felt even more so. The area had struggled for a long time. It's where people who couldn't afford the city lived their lives. Push them back across the river once the suits were done with them, that sort of thing. When I was a kid, in the "before times," when people didn't know I was the son of a stripper and I thought my ex-Mom was my real Mom, I'd been taught to think I was better than people who lived in areas like these.

No one had ever said it explicitly, but no one ever would. Swallowing your feelings until it eats you alive. That's my definition of resentment. And it was thick in the city. Especially in Anacostia.

Then when I found out who I really was, and when everyone else found out, too, I learned my place pretty quickly. Or rather, I was told where I belonged. But, I wasn't accepted there, either. The kids on this side of the river only ever saw me as an entitled rich kid.

No matter where I went, people only ever saw my "other" self. So, I didn't fit in anywhere.

I turned down a small street. Two story brick apartments lined the entire drive. All of them looked exactly the same, except for the bit of personality their residents tried to give their front yards. Some cared, you could tell, and some definitely did not. Number 227 belonged to one of the residents that definitely did not care, and it was my home for the next two months.

I sighed and pulled the Jeep into the small driveway before throwing it into park. My surroundings felt as bleak as my circumstances. Unit 227 was a middle unit in a row of four. The grass was far overgrown, to the point where it had sprouted in an effort to make more grass. There was a stray tire in the front yard too, which was entirely too cliché for my liking. Add to that the sidewalk that was cracked and overgrown with weeds and the trash cans out front that were overflowing and I was not looking forward to what I was going to find inside.

This wasn’t the same place I’d stayed at last time, which made sense for the woman. She was the sort to move around a lot. Had my father even checked to see what sort of state my mother was in before excommunicating me from Potomac for the summer?

That was a dumb question. Of course, he hadn't. He wasn't thinking about anyone but himself these days.

I made my way up the sidewalk and felt eyes on the back of my neck. I turned around to see a few passerby's giving me the once over, along with a woman sitting on her porch across the street, smoking a cigarette. I waved to her, but she didn't wave back.

I got it. A neighborhood like this. A strange, rich looking kid pulls up. People didn't trust me. I wouldn't either.

It's because they saw the "other" in me.

I approached the storm door to find it mostly shattered. I reached past the shards of broken glass and knocked on the door.

No answer.

I knocked again, a bit harder this time.

Still no answer.

I scrunched my eyes closed and fisted my hands. I tried to calm myself down. This entire situation was almost as embarrassing as it was frustrating. Just as I was about to reach forward to knock a third time, the door swung open.

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