“Want to go on a trip with me?” he asks.

I sit up in bed and put a sweatshirt on. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“Newport Beach,” he says. “I gotta look at something for my dad. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“But I have a history paper due on Monday,” I tell him, gazing over at my backpack in the corner.

He shrugs. “So bring your books,” he says.

I get changed and throw my backpack into the car. As he drives, I ask him about this place we’re going.

“It’s just a place my dad’s thinking of buying,” he says.

I think back to his phone call with his dad the other night.

“He’s very particular,” Jay adds.

I got that. “Has he always been like that?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Jay shifts gears as he drives. “When I was little, he used to make me do my homework in the snow in my underwear,” Jay says.

“What?”

“To make me faster at it,” he says. “Especially the math. Said I was too slow. And if I cried, he’d keep me outside. Even in the dead of winter.”

I remember when he first said that thing about being naked in the cold when we were playing two truths and a lie in English class. At the time, I thought he meant something sexual. Now, looking over at him, I feel so bad he had to go through that.

“How old were you?”

He keeps his eyes glued to the road. “I was eight,” he says quietly.

Eight? Who would do such a thing to an eight-year-old?

“At ten, I had to swim across a ten-mile lake. Sailed a boat solo from Hong Kong to Macao when I was twelve. Anything to make me stronger . . .” His voice lingers. “That’s why he sent me here by myself. To toughen me up.”

He turns onto the highway, and I can feel the engine rumbling behind us as he kicks the car into high gear.

“And what happens if you say no?” I ask him.

Jay glances at me. “My dad’s worth four billion US dollars. He’s not exactly the kind of guy you say no to.”

“So?” I ask. “He’s still your dad . . .”

Jay reaches to turn on the radio. The sound of DJ Khaled fills the car, making it hard to continue the conversation. I look out the window, thinking about my own dad. He had his secretary track down and send me a box of first-edition Fitzgeralds, which my mom told me not to bend or even open, because then I can’t resell them later. A lot of good they’ll do me in English. I peer over at Jay, wondering if he feels similarly stifled sometimes.

“Ms. Jones, my English teacher, asked us a question in class,” I shout to him over the noise. “‘What does it mean to live well? And on what terms?’”