Forbidden French

I’m the first to admit I don’t play fair on the soccer field, but apparently neither does the guy trying to defend me. This whole game, he’s been an asshole, faking injuries, shouting for the referee to call fouls, jabbing me when he thinks no one can see him.

Now, he nearly trips me up as I’m headed downfield, and I curse but break away. When he catches me again, he shoves me, playing dirty. It makes no sense. There are only a few seconds left on the clock and they’re up two goals. Still, I’m not one to back down from a challenge. Some of these guys need soccer to keep their athletic scholarships. I don’t. I enjoy the sport. I enjoy running until sweat is dripping into my eyes. I love the ache of a hard-earned victory. So when he shoves me, I go low and slam my elbow into his stomach hard enough to send him keeling over in pain, but not for long. He’s up and swinging before I step back, landing a solid punch to my jaw before the ref gets ahold of him. My teammates don’t have to pull me back. I know when to quit. I smile like a prick as they drag him away from me, tacking on a departing remark because I just can’t help myself.

“Sac à foutre.”

French is my native language, so the insult rolls off my tongue in such a pleasing way. Nobody but Alexander understands it. He laughs beside me.

“I could have said worse.” I shrug, already heading toward the sidelines where my coach is waiting for me, fuming.

“Sure, like tu es un sac à foutre.”

I laugh despite the ache in my jaw.

“You’re a real idiot, you know that? We could have pulled out a win there at the end.”

I shoot him a sidelong glare. “We? You played three minutes the whole game.”

He looks insulted. “I’m a freshman.”

“I started as a freshman.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re a real sac à foutre.”

I smile just as our coach growls, “Emmett, get your ass over here!”

It’s hard to look contrite when you have the world laid at your feet. This game doesn’t matter. We’re not going to make it to the playoffs. Earlier in the season, we lost two of our best guys to injuries, and another starter got kicked out of St. John’s because of drugs. Pity. He sold good weed.

My coach does a rousing rendition of Guy Trying to Rein in a Troubled Youth. He tells me I need to show some respect and I can’t go through life ignoring the rules, but he’s wrong and we both know it.

I stand there, silent, until he gets it all out, and then he waves his hand in defeat and tells me to pack up my stuff with the rest of my team.

Alexander’s waiting for me like a dutiful puppy. When I start heading back across campus, he falls in beside me.

“Parents Weekend starts Saturday. Excited to see daddy dearest?”

I ignore him, but he persists.

“Maybe Maman will come.”

That’s laughable. She’s never come to a Parents Weekend at St. John’s. We barely keep in touch, though she did call me out of the blue the other day. I almost let it go to voicemail.

“Oh Emmett! I miss my boys. Are you doing well? Learning and behaving as I taught you to?”

“I’m sorry. Who is this?”

She acted like she was in on the joke.

“Emmett, don’t be silly. Now, have you heard from your papa lately?”

It’s truly pathetic. After all this time, she’s still infatuated with my father.

Frédéric Mercier is a complicated man. Most people wouldn’t want to sit across from him in a boardroom, let alone a dinner table. He scared me when I was young, and any comfort to be found came from Maman. In our cold house, I equated happiness with her until I turned five and my father left.

Their divorce broke her.

She loved my father too much. When he left, our lives became a vacuum. I have memories of her being loving and attentive before they split up, but after, she checked out. Short trips turned into summers away from our home in Paris, winters with no phone calls. She was always off looking for her happiness, and apparently it didn’t include Alexander or me.

I used to give her the benefit of the doubt—it’s no easy thing to heal a broken heart—but that’s gone now. I see her for what she really is: selfish. Always searching, finding, leaving. When Alexander and I were still young and living in Paris, my father tried to be there some, but work kept him busy. You can’t be the head of a global luxury conglomerate and make it home for dinner every night, not to mention he remarried after he divorced my mother. Found himself a nice little family, a princess for a daughter.

Mostly, Alexander and I were left in the care of nannies, some nicer than others. They knew we wouldn’t be checked on, and that freedom bred carelessness and neglect. I was glad when we were finally sent to America to attend St. John’s. Here, we’re all on an even playing field, a motley crew of sad, neglected, rich kids. Poor us.

I almost lament the fact that my time here is coming to an end. The real world is biting at my heels, ready to sink its teeth into me.

It’s the reason Papa is coming to St. John’s for Parents Weekend. He has plans for me now that I’m eighteen and graduating soon.

On Saturday, I set my alarm for 9:00 AM and go for one of my long swims. Then I come back to shower and shave. I’m careful with my appearance, picking out a black suit. Other kids will be dressed more casually for the picnic on the lawn, but Papa will expect me to dress well. After all, I’m a reflection of him.

My roommate Harrison groans and flips over onto his front so he can mash his pillow over his head to block out the noise.

His parents aren’t coming today. I asked, and the last time he heard from them, they were on a yacht in Cannes with bad cell service.

“Could you get the fuck out already so I can sleep?”

Ignoring him, I focus on fixing the cuffs of my shirt. I pride myself on dressing well, something Americans could learn from the French, to be honest. Even if my father didn’t own half the luxury menswear market, I’d still care about the fit of my clothes, style, and appearance. American men equate that with homosexuality, like a man is more of a man if his pants are baggy, if he hasn’t washed his face in three days.

I’m early to the picnic luncheon, scanning the thin crowd out on the main lawn, but I don’t spot my father yet. Musicians with string instruments are already playing. Waiters in matching uniforms pass around canapés as well as sparkling juice for the students, champagne for the parents.

Near the main building, I spot my father intensely discussing something with the headmaster, likely advising him on how he could better run his school. At his side is his assistant, Wilson, with his iPad at the ready. Older and severe, he’s been employed by my father since GHV’s infancy, and I liken him to a loyal valet. If my father were on fire, Wilson would throw himself onto the flames. He’s with him every waking moment. I have no idea what his salary is, but whatever my father is paying him, he should double it.

I stroll over toward them in an effort to rip off the Band-Aid. The sooner we begin this charade, the sooner it will end.

My father spots me when I’m a few feet away and dismisses the headmaster with a bored flick of his hand. As I approach, he takes me in, looking for any shortcomings. I think he’s disappointed he can’t find any—after all, I take after him so well. I could be a carbon copy, as tall and formidable as he is. We share the same black hair, the same dark eyes. He’s clean shaven so I can see the permanent dimples in his cheeks and chin, the same as mine.

He glances behind me, his eyes narrowing.

“Where is your brother?” he asks with a thick French accent.

Mine is mostly gone thanks to so many years spent at St. John’s.

I slip my hands into my front pockets and shrug. “Busy, I suppose.”

He doesn’t like this. His lips flatten into a disapproving frown.

“You’ll tell him to call me,” he says, switching to French. He feels more comfortable with his command of his native language compared to English, though his English is just fine. Better than mine, really, but he has an ego to contend with, so we speak French whenever the audience allows. “I’ve traveled a long way to be here today. It’s a disappointment not to see him.”

Well if we’re bringing up family…

“And how is Emelia? Give her a hug for me.”

“Watch your tongue,” he says swiftly, his gaze flitting back to me with a harsh glare.

He doesn’t like me bringing up my half-sister, which means I enjoy it all the more.

I suspect my father was cheating on Maman before their divorce, and Emelia is likely a product of that infidelity. She means nothing to me, the daughter of his second wife, a woman he’s no longer even married to. I never see her, never think of her really.

“You should enroll her here at St. John’s. Alexander could keep a close eye on her.”

His features harden as he assesses me with cold, calculating eyes.

“It’s such a shame you still act this way. You’ll be graduating soon. I think it’s time you grow up, no?”

I look away as my jaw clenches, my molars grinding in annoyance.

There’s a silent standoff. He knows he’s won when he tells me, “It’s time to discuss your future. You graduate in two months.”

“Ten weeks,” Wilson confirms like some automated machine.

“There’s a place for you at École Polytechnique.” His alma mater. “You’ll begin courses over the summer. A counselor has assured me you’ll be placed in advanced classes and on track to graduate early. At night and on weekends, you’ll intern for GHV, working your way up from the mailroom. When your coursework allows, you’ll also travel with me and attend board meetings. Wilson will facilitate that.”

He looks back at his assistant, and Wilson nods in confirmation.

“And when I graduate?” I ask, mostly because I’m curious to know how far they’ve planned out my life.

He replies without missing a beat. “You’ll take your place at GHV. By then we’ll need someone manning the North American division.”

Some sick part of me relishes the idea that he wants me to follow in his footsteps, to fulfill my destiny as the heir to his empire. Despite the rebel in me, I want his validation and his praise. That lonely boy in Paris would have loved to make his papa proud.

I know better now. I wish I could rise above it all, disregard his feelings, and pave a path of my own like Alexander is trying to do. My brother can be meek and a follower, too susceptible to drugs and partying, but at least he had the courage to skip this luncheon. At least he isn’t the spitting image of our father.

Wilson steps forward and adjusts his glasses. “Sir, the meeting with Moncler is in half an hour. The signal here is spotty. I suggest we head back to the airport, though I’ll defer the decision to you.”

My father nods without argument, already prepared to leave.

There will be no picnic blanket and sandwiches for us, no brief catch-up and posed photos for Facebook. What was the point of him being here at all? Was it simply so he could take stock of his investment? Check to see if his prized racehorses are being properly cared for?

He gives me one last once-over, pausing when he reaches my face.

“I don’t want to see anything like that ever again. You’re a representation of the Mercier family, and you’ll behave accordingly.”

He’s referring to the shiner on my cheek from where I took that punch at the soccer game.

Then he turns, motioning for Wilson to hand him his phone, and poof, he’s gone. Back from whence he came.

Tonight, I wish I had an actual friend. I used to have one here. Jonathan was his name, but he graduated a few years ago. His family is in the wine and spirits industry. Actually, my father tried to buy their company a few years ago, but they held out. Jonathan’s a good guy. We played soccer together, talked about more than the usual locker room bullshit. He also left me with a bottle of whiskey as a parting gift before he left St. John’s.

I’ve had more than my fair share of the bottle tonight. My head is spinning, but I take another sip because I want to keep a firm grasp on this oblivion. I like it here where the world is paused, the chaos muted. I’m in the library because it’s quiet and no one will look for me here. The guys will knock on my door, wanting something. I want to stay in the back stacks, where the books are so old and the smell of mildew is so strong and sweet that I feel like I’ve fallen into a dream.

Then I hear it.

Someone.

“What the fuck do you want?” I growl.

There’s a sharp intake of breath and then scurrying feet. I turn to see a blur of pink tulle. It’s the Davenport girl. The basket case.

I saw her earlier. She was dressed in that same pale pink tulle dress, her dark hair softly curled. She looked like a doll fresh out of the package. At the Parents Weekend picnic, she sat dutifully on a blanket beside an older woman while three sharply dressed attendants flitted around at their beck and call.

Everyone at St. John’s whispers about Lainey. She’s fragile. Small. Thin. The kind of quiet that scares the shit out of people. Is she lonely or is she haunted? I’ve heard the jeers about her, the sick shit people say even though she’s just a kid.

I feel bad now that she was the one I yelled at.

Of everyone at St. John’s, she deserves my wrath the least.