That’s why I know he won’t have a problem with the MacLaine asset I’ve come to claim.
“Your sister. I want your sister.”
There’s a long pause as my demand sinks in. “My sister isn’t for sale.”
It’s an admirable show of chivalry, but we both know his refusal reeks of bullshit. Business is business or we wouldn’t be sitting here now.
“Malcolm.” I lean back in the chair and regard how he flinches when I call him by his first name like an old friend. “We both know that everything is for sale, even Adair MacLaine.”
Sterling
Five Years in the Past
Valmont Tennessee is nothing like the city. In New York, every street is crammed with life. It bursts out of cracks and alleys. It assails your senses. Tourists find it overwhelming. To me, it’s as close I get to feeling home. At least, it was before.
Before Francie got ideas in her head about my future. Before my test scores came back and my teachers took notice. Until that point, I was just another foster kid living on time borrowed from the state. After, people started tossing around words like genius and university.
I filled out the applications to make Francie happy. I’d had enough shit foster moms to know things with her were as good as it was likely to get. I didn’t expect the acceptance letters. Not from the schools I applied to, even with the high test scores and the decent grades.
When she walked into our cramped kitchen in Queens, clutching an envelope with the Valmont University crest on it, her eyes glistened.
“We can’t afford it,” I said flatly. That was my plan all along—set the bar impossibly high so it was easier to just duck under and continue on with my life—the life I’d built here. I’d cleaned up my act enough that I’d gotten to stay here for three years. I wasn’t leaving now. “Community college is fine.”
“You’re too smart to get stuck here, Sterling. You don’t belong on the streets.”
That’s when I’d noticed she was actually crying. I couldn’t stand it when she cried—and I had made her cry a lot. I’d broken more than a few foster parents in the first few years I was in care. That’s how I wound up with Francie in the first place. I never understood why she kept me. But every time I’d come home with a bloody nose, she’d gotten me cleaned up, washed my clothes, and got me a hot meal. Then she’d laid down the law.
There were rules in Francie’s house. Rules that my friends hadn’t had. Good grades—and I’m talking there had better not be a minus behind that A—were expected. Dinner was at six. On Sundays, I escorted her to mass at Our Lady of Mercy. For that, she didn’t kick my ass out. I’d barely managed to meet those expectations my first year with her. She’d been more lenient back then. Over time, I’d done more. I listened when she told me to take harder courses, even though it meant taking shit from the guys. I let her read some of my stories, but not everything I wrote. Some things didn’t need to be shared. This is where good behavior had gotten me. Despite my frequent street fighting, which was inescapable in our neighborhood, I’d kept my grades up and had taken the stupid college entrance exam—without actually planning to go. Until the fucking score came in the mail. I should have known by how excited she was that she expected me to go. Or when the guidance counselor called me in to her office to have a serious talk about my future.
I never decided if I’d failed to set the bar high enough or if Valmont University had lowered it to accommodate me. I’d read the brochure, but I didn’t buy what it was selling. It was a bit too glossy, too photoshopped to be believed. It wasn’t a world I belonged in. Valmont may be a half hour outside Nashville, but it has one foot firmly planted in the past while the other tries desperately to drag it along toward the future.
I’m not stupid enough to believe my scholarship covers the entire cost like she claims. Watching her eat off the dollar menu on the fourteen-hour drive confirms my suspicion. That’s why Francie is different. She could have kicked me out when I turned eighteen, but she didn’t. It’s also why I’ve agreed to give Valmont a try. One semester and I’m out. Before we hit the Tennessee border I’m already checking local help-wanted listings on my phone. I doubt she can afford this, no matter what she says.
When we reach campus, certainty replaces doubt. I’ve been on college campuses before. NYU sits in the middle of the goddamn city, after all. But this isn’t a cluster of buildings crammed into Manhattan, it’s an entire city itself. Thick, wrought iron gates open to University Drive, and overhead, oak trees form a canopy of shade as dappled, emerald light dances off the hood of our white Mazda.
“This is the oldest remaining stone street in the city,” Francie informs. She’s been devouring every bit of information she can scrounge up on this place. She sighs, drumming her long, brown fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m jealous.”
“Of what? The shitty road? It hurts my balls.”
Her smile wilts at the corners of her mouth and she casts that look at me—the one that says my attitude is not appreciated. I’ve flattened her mood, one skill I’m particularly adept at: hurting good people. It must be genetic. My piece of shit father was the master of it.
“It’s nice,” I say, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. The stone street really does hurt my junk. I wonder what kind of sick fuck decided to keep that delightful bit of history around.
“With that enthusiastic endorsement,” she says
