New Beginnings. Jill Barnett
car’s this way,” Mike said, walking to where he’d parked. They would laugh about this someday, but there was little room for family jokes inside the tight confines of Mike’s German sports car. Mickey needed to get the message that getting arrested wasn’t okay. His son hadn’t looked him in the eye again since he’d first walked into the detention room, and somewhere in the release process had taken on that typical boy-in-trouble attitude, mumbling or grunting responses. Behind his act and I-don’t-give a-damn demeanor, the truth was his fearless son was scared shitless.
Mike didn’t start the car. He called March on his cell, told her they were on the way home, then rested his arms on the steering wheel, still searching for what he could say that would make an impression on a bull-headed teenager without yelling at him like his own dad would have done. A couple of deep breaths and the best he could do was: “What the hell were you thinking?”
“It was a joke. We wouldn’t have even gotten caught if Gabe would have moved the car like we told him.”
“This discussion isn’t about getting caught. It’s about doing something stupid. Really stupid.” Mike started the car and headed home. “Where was your judgment?”
“Okay…I’m sorry.”
But his tone wasn’t the least bit apologetic, which really pissed Mike off. “You’re off to college in less than a year. A dumb jackass prank like this one could keep you from getting into the school you want. Your grades are high and your SATs are amazing, better than anyone else’s in the family. You can get into the best schools in the nation. We’re proud of that, son. Those kinds of grades don’t come easily. So why would you blow all that work for a few laughs from a bunch of your buddies?”
Mickey was staring out the window.
“Trust me. It’s not worth it. Your education is your future.” No matter how hard he tried to be different, there was an echo of Don Cantrell in what he’d just said.
After a few miles of prolonged silence, Mickey said quietly, “Maybe education is not my future.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve been thinking…I might not to go to college.”
That got Mike’s attention. “Since when?”
“I’m not going to be a doctor, so what good is a degree? I keep hearing how few graduates actually get jobs in the field they study. Why should I do all that work for a degree I won’t use?”
“Not an option. You’re going to school.” Mike punched the button on the garage door opener and pulled into the driveway. There he was again. Hello, Don.
“I’ve been thinking that I want to make the switch to professional boarding.”
Mike killed the engine and held up his hands. “No way.” He was mad at himself. Madder at Mickey. Mad that this wasn’t going well.
“You don’t think I’m good enough,” Mickey shot back, his voice high and angry. “But I am. I can outboard every person in this family. Just because you’re the big man who invented it, you think you can judge me? That’s fucking bullshit.”
Mike took a deep breath, then another, and said calmly, “What’s fucking bullshit, sport, is you not going to college.”
“You don’t think I can get sponsors for the circuit?” It was clearly a challenge.
Mike laughed at him, the sound loud and abrasive in the small sports car. “I know you can get sponsors.” He lowered his voice to an even tone. “Nice try. You want me to get pissed off and tell you I can stop everyone in the business from sponsoring you. Even if I could, I don’t work that way.”
“You can’t make me go to school.”
“And you can’t get me to fight with you over this. There is no discussion. Your mother and I raised you to make decisions for yourself. You’re a damned smart kid. Sometimes too smart for your own good. You know what you need to do. Picking a fight with me isn’t going to change the fact that you need an education in this world. It gives you a step up and the brains to make solid choices.”
Mike turned in his seat, giving Mickey a square look, so there would be no doubt he meant what he said. “Yes, we’re lucky. Our business has done well, but that business didn’t appear overnight. Your mom and I worked our asses off. You don’t get to skate inside the business because you’re my son and Scott and Phil’s brother.”
“I’ve worked in the factory and warehouses every summer since I was thirteen.”
All of four years, Mike wanted to say but didn’t. “So that’s the kind of work you want to do for the next forty or fifty years? You will need more than a last name to move into any good job out there without education and experience.”
“I can get experience on the circuit.”
“And you think school is hard work?” Mike laughed again and shook his head. “Be pissed off all you want. Try to pick a fight with me about college and change the focus of why we are even in this car and talking right now. We are here because you were arrested for blind stupidity and you’re in deep shit. Here’s the payback, sport. No car to drive until I see a big change.” Mike reached up to the visor and punched the garage door closed, then got out of the car. They faced off over the top of the Porsche as the garage door slowly went down.
“How am I supposed to get to practice?” Mickey said, his voice distinctly whining. “How am I supposed to get to school?”
“We live in a great city with public transportation. Use Muni. Use your friends. Your mom and I will drive you, when it’s convenient for us. You can walk. Ride a bike. But your idiotic decision just cost you a big chunk of your freedom. Get it?”
“Yeah. Great. I got it.” Mickey headed for the door but not before Mike heard him mutter. “Asshole…”
“You boys stop it,” March said, half annoyed and half laughing. Scott and Phillip had invaded her kitchen and were tossing a wooden pepper grinder back and forth like a football, first over her head, then holding it out to her, acting contrite, only to snatch it back when she reached for it, crowing and using the granite island to block her from getting to them.
“Aw, Mom,” Phillip pitched the grinder to Scott and scooted around the island. “What happened? You used to be quicker.”
“She’s getting older.”
“Scott!” She stopped where she was, hands on her hips. “Give me the grinder.”
“Nah.”
“I’ll tell Renee you let Tyler eat dirt.”
“Don’t believe her, big brother. Mom never breaks a promise. Over here.” Phillip stood behind her, all six feet two of him, his shaved head shining from the recessed lighting, his long arms in the air waving like an open receiver.
March jammed her elbow into his ribs.
“Ouch! Ma…” Phillip waved a yellow dish towel. “That’s a foul.”
“You knucklehead. I guess that’s what I get for saying hand me the pepper.”
“Is that what you said? We thought you said hand-off the pepper.”
“You always were a lousy liar.” She pulled out a small pepper bottle from the spice drawer. “You boys can have your toy. I’ll use this.” She hammered a bottle of seasoned pepper over the Caesar salad a couple of times, then looked up just as Mickey came out of the garage and stalked toward the kitchen, head down, looking guilty and sullen and angry. Her stomach sank.
Mike followed on his heels and paused in the kitchen doorway. One quick, pointed exchange and a nod told her everything with the police was okay.
She put her hand around Mickey’s neck and kissed his cheek. “Hey. Rough day.”
“Yeah…”