Chapters (43)
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Ben Philippe
- Back Ad
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
“Are you friends with her?” Dad asks. “I can never keep track of all your friends.”
“We run in different circles.”
The truth is it had taken weeks last year for me to realize that the new resident of the top-floor unit was that intense girl from school.
“You know, Chantale Troy needed a contractor to do some work for her when she first moved in. I tried to get Lionel that job,” Dad says to no one in particular, chewing more angrily at the mere name. “Another job he was too good for.”
Ma and I share a look. It’s not every dinner that that name comes up.
Lionel Haltiwanger—or Lion, as he prefers to go by—is Dad’s younger brother. He lived with us for a little while when he first came here to the States, orphaned and on a student visa. It didn’t take long for us to realize he and Dad are very different people. To Dad, Lionel Haltiwanger would be the eager-to-learn little brother he would shepherd toward a better life in America. In actuality, Lion was a smirking and charming young guy with aspirations of a music-producing career. He’d never seen a corner he didn’t think he could cut and loved to talk about the lavish parties he’d DJed for back in Haiti.
Brothers, Ma used to say when dinners got too tense and Dad looked like he didn’t recognize the young man—really, only a few years past being a teenager himself—he’d brought into his house. He’s getting the hang of America, Ma would say. Give it some time, Jacques. That was until Dad found little bags of not-oregano and pills of not-aspirin in Lion’s corner of the room we shared with a curtain in the middle. That was five months ago, and I don’t think he’s even seen Dad.
Ma clears her throat and turns to me. “I can’t believe you have your Columbia interview tomorrow.”
“It’s going to be great.” Dad smiles because nothing clears the dark Lionel cloud from his face faster than planning for Columbia University.
That’s why I really need to lock down this interview. I’m an A-minus student with SAT scores in the 92nd percentile after two tries—great, not exceptional—and nothing less than a glowing “O Captain! My Captain!” interview recommendation is going to get me through Columbia’s gates. The informal interview with an alum had already required Mr. Vu to call in a personal favor on my behalf.
“Just be yourself, all right?” Ma says, patting my arm lovingly.
I Smile, and feel guilty. Ma deserves only the real thing.
Unfortunately there’s no market value in that.