The Old Wheel, page 39
part #2 of The Adventures of Holloway Holmes Series
“I’m going to skip prom, spend the rest of my life single, and die alone, at home, a virgin.”
“A little late for that,” Dad muttered.
I broke away from the mirror and rounded on him. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not that bad,” Dad said in a soothing voice. “You look very handsome.”
“That’s what parents say. Because they’re legally obligated.” I held out my arm, so he could see the tux’s sleeve sliding up past my wrist. I showed him the trousers hitting me above the ankle. I crossed my arms for emphasis, and in the silence, you could hear the seams in the shoulders straining. When I’d asked about renting a tux, he’d produced this abomination from under his bed. He probably thought I didn’t know about what else he kept down there. The gun safe, for one. That was new.
“Ok,” Dad said. “You’re a little bigger than I was when Mom and I got married. God knows you’ve been working out enough.”
“I look like Frankenstein.”
“I thought Frankenstein had cut-offs.”
“Dad!”
“We’ll figure it out, buddy. We’ll get it tailored.”
“Tailored? No. This thing needs to be burned. And then somebody needs to perform an exorcism on the ashes. And then I can die at home, alone—”
“A ‘virgin.’ Yeah, I heard you.”
Proof of bad fathering: he even drew the air quotes with his fingers.
“I’m glad this is funny. I’m never going on a date again. I’m never going to fall in love. I’m never going to move out. I’m going to die alone, in your basement—”
“We don’t have a basement.”
I drew myself up—which, ok, was kind of hard because the jacket was so snug—and glared at him.
Dad was rubbing his chin suspiciously and refusing to look at me. “What about Glo? You two are cute together. Oh, wait—what about Rowe?”
“Don’t do that.”
“He’s a nice-looking guy.”
“You are not going to weasel out of this by pretending to be supportive of my bisexuality.”
“Hey, hold on, I am supportive—”
“Glo is dating Rowe!”
“Oh.” Dad rubbed his chin. Vigorously. “Well, how was I supposed to know that?”
“They sit on your couch and suck each other’s faces off!”
“What about Emma? You’re always hanging out with Emma.”
“Emma is going with Rowe and Glo. They’re together.”
“Why—
“If you ask me why I don’t go with them, I’m going to Hulk out!”
“You’re halfway out of the tux already.”
I was still trying to Hulk my way out of the tux when the knock came at the door.
“It’s not even that I’m mad,” Dad said as he headed down the hall. “I’m just disappointed.”
“That’s not how you’re supposed to use that!” I shouted after him.
“Perfect timing,” Dad said at the other end of the cottage. “Will you please be a gentleman and ask my son to prom?”
I couldn’t stop my squawk of “Dad!”
“Sorry, Mr. Moreno,” Rowe said, his voice moving toward me. “I’m going with Glo and Emma.”
“Can he go with you?”
“Stop embarrassing me!”
Rowe appeared in my doorway. He was one of those obnoxiously masculine guys: he had a few inches on me, as well as probably fifty pounds of muscle, and he had that Minnesota-Scandinavian look of perpetually ruddy cheeks. Combined with puppy-dog brown eyes, an annoyingly full beard, and disheveled blond bangs, he pretty much had the whole package going. So, if he’d asked, I probably would have said yes. To prom, I mean. Not that he was bi. And not that he would have asked me if he was. Not that I even thought about him like that.
He took one look at me and burst out laughing. “Holy cow, man. That’s hilarious!”
“It’s not a joke,” I snapped. I tried to squirm out of the jacket, but I couldn’t. “For fuck’s sake, help me!’
“Jack,” Dad bellowed from the front of the house.
Rowe was still laughing as he tugged off the jacket. When it came loose, I said, “Knock it off. It’s my dad’s fault.”
“Rowe, please tell him to be polite to his elderly parents.”
“Stay out of this,” I shouted back. “You’re the whole reason I’m in this mess.”
“Dude,” Rowe said with a smile.
I glowered at him too because Rowe was like a teddy bear, and he could take pretty much any amount of glowering and it didn’t have any effect on him. I shucked the tuxedo pants, found a pair of shorts and one of Dad’s old Nirvana tees, and pulled them on. It might have been my imagination, but the shorts seemed to hit me higher on the thigh than I remembered, and the shirt might—might—have been a tiny bit too small. I considered changing again. But what if it wasn’t my imagination? And by then, Rowe was straddling my chair backward, waiting. He was already geared up: running shoes, mesh shorts, a Sin City t-shirt in a bro cut.
“Ready?” Rowe asked.
“Yeah, almost, hold on. Let me finish of dying from parental neglect and internalized humiliation.”
Rowe worked a finger in his ear.
“Rowe’s not going to want to date you if you treat your father like that,” Dad called back.
“Everybody’s a comedian,” I said.
I flipped off the lights, and Rowe trailed after me. “So,” he said, “I was thinking we’d change things up. We’ll finish with sprints this time.”
I groaned. “No. I changed my mind. I’m not going.”
He bumped me, and I stumbled into a half-jog and caught myself on the counter. I stopped when I saw the envelope there—the kind of reinforced cardboard mailer that official documents might come in. Lord knows I’d seen enough of those in the year after the accident. Only instead of Dad’s name, it had mine, and there was no return address.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Rowe brought it in,” Dad said from his recliner, where he was flipping channels.
“I found it on the porch.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Well, son, there’s this thing called an envelope—”
“I’m going to run away,” I said as I grabbed the mailer. “I’m going to join the circus.”
“The incredible growing boy,” Rowe said. “No clothes in the world will fit him.”
Dad sounded like he was choking, but he managed to say, “It’s probably a college packet.”
“Yeah,” I said as I opened the envelope. “With my grades.”
Two pieces of paper lay inside. The first looked like a greeting card, but when I touched it, it was different—heavier, with a feel and texture that said it was seriously expensive. I pulled it out and gave it a closer look. It wasn’t a greeting card; it was an invitation.
You are invited to the Zodiac “Fabulous Five” Anniversary Party. Below that, it gave details—the party was Saturday, tomorrow, and I was allowed to bring a guest. The only people I knew at Zodiac, the tech conglomerate located at the north end of Utah Valley, were Maggie Moriarty and Blackfriar Holmes. Both of them, I was pretty sure, had tried to kill me. So, all things considered, that was a pass.
I shoved the invitation back in the mailer and took out the smaller piece of paper. It felt different from the invitation—cheap, like copy paper. On it was printed a single sentence: Come if you want to know the truth about your mother.
“Well?” Dad asked. “What is it?”
Giving Rowe a warning look, I dropped the paper back into the mailer. “Like you said. College stuff.”
“What college?”
“BYU.”
Dad snorted a laugh.
I took the mailer to my room and shoved it under the mattress. When I rejoined Rowe, he was giving me a look, which I chose to ignore.
“All right,” I said. “We’re leaving.”
“Go easy on the sprints,” Dad said. “If you puke on my porch, you’re cleaning it up.”
“See?” I asked Rowe as I ushered him out of the house. “See what kind of love I get?”
The May evening was soft in the twilight, the air sweet with the smell of the water from the sprinklers, the new growth of grass. Rowe was giving me that look again.
“We’re not going to talk about it,” I said. “And you’d better not say anything to my dad.”
“If you need to—”
“I don’t,” I said. And then, because I couldn’t help myself, “I’m not getting caught up in that mess again.”
Rowe made a face. Then he said, “Race you to the athletic center?”
“Are you stupid? We’re doing sprints—God damn it, Rowe!”
I tore off after him.
But as I ran, words thundered in time with my steps.
Come if you want to know the truth about your mother.
Come. Come. Come.
And the answer rose inside me: You’d better believe I fucking will.
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks go out to the following people (in alphabetical order):
Justene Adamec, for pointing out plot holes that needed patching, and for her kind words about Jack and Holmes.
Savannah Cordle, for all her excellent questions that needed answers, for catching my missing commas, and for making me laugh through my tears with her final comment.
Fritz, for catching so many of my typos, for all his help with continuity, and most of all, for helping me with Ariana and how the truth about Aston comes out.
Austin Gwin, for spotting missing words, for asking about Emma and the blackmail, and most importantly, for everything about Jack and Holmes and what’s going on in Jack’s head.
Steve Leonard, for help with official Fleshlights, for helping me again with my In-N-Out references (Double-Double!), and for taking time to talk with me about Jack and Holmes (especially about Jack being an idiot).
Raj Mangat, for fixing my lip balm blunder, for catching so many continuity errors, and for her wonderful recommendation about the kiss (and for being so understanding about the final version)
Cheryl Oakley, for helping me fix Kazen’s phone and video; for reminding me that Jack is way past curfew; and, among so many things, nudging me to give a little refresher about Olin Campbell.
Pepe, for sending me corrections for my mistakes, for asking so many good questions about this book (some of which, I’m afraid, I have left unanswered), and for asking so many more excellent questions that will be answered in the next one!
Nichole Reeder, for, among other things, keeping track of what Aston actually said, locating Mr. Patrick in the vestibule, and giving me Inifiniti (not, sigh, Infinity).
Tray Stephenson, for catching my many typos, including the ones that were so close to being right, and for his helpful feedback on the next stage in Jack and H’s relationship!
Mark Wallace, for catching my many typos, for sharing his reader brain and his personal connections to the story, and for being spot on about my reaction to my mistakes (i.e., “I can’t believe I did that”).
Jo Wegstein, for help with an abundance of errors, and for special help with Roblox Robux, with trivia about the Ivys, and for her thorough recalculating of the timeline.
About the Author
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Gregory Ashe, The Old Wheel
