She pushes a foot against the table leg, using the momentum to swivel her chair. “You know, I don’t think I appreciate your sass, Walsh.”
“I’m not sassy.”
“Said in the sassiest tone to ever sass.” She repeats, “No pictures. Now, what are we talking about today?”
Your camera phobia? I roll my eyes, then consult my notes from our last meeting.
“Why don’t you tell me a little more about why your dad made such a generous donation to the university?”
Summer nods, stalling her chair so she can lean forward on the table with clasped hands. I angle my phone her way to record her, “Daddy had been looking for years for a way to give back to Lakewood. Not only is it where he learned everything he knows, but it’s where he fell in love and made friendships he still upholds to this day. He firmly believes in the school’s commitment and dedication to developing STEM curriculums to advance the students of today, who will become the engineering pioneers of tomorrow.”
I hold my hands off my keyboard as she pauses.
Summer sits back, posture relaxed as she waves a lackadaisical hand in the air. I already predict the next words out of her mouth. Off the record—
“—it’s a huge tax break for Nolan. And I think he’s gonna use it to start recruiting computer dorks for his internship program. Two birds, one stone, all that.”
In the three weeks since we began working together, I’ve come to learn a great deal about the blond. Each bit of information can be separated into one of two categories:
On the Record.
She graduated top of her class from an academically aggressive private boarding school.
English is her major, as it is a versatile degree, and Lakewood provides a robust, yet flexible offering of classes in fine literature, rhetorical analysis, and critical thinking.
In a year, she receives full access to a considerable trust fund.
Her mother was an Alpha Beta Beta legacy.
That’s where Daddy dearest met his wife. Right here at Lakewood.
Those are the clean answers. The rehearsed ones, ready for public consumption in print. The true Summer comes out in the second category:
Off the Record.
“Tutors are easy to come by and generously paid.” Because I’d wondered how she received top grades when she has trouble adding basic figures.
“Give me any book that gets down and dirty. I’m talking nasty dirty. Like, read-one-handed-and-change-your-underwear-after dirty.” When I’d asked what fine literature she likes.
“More than you’ll ever make in three lifetimes.” On the actual net worth of her inheritance.
“Nope.” When I’d tried to ask more about her mother.
And anytime we talk about her father, “Nolan. Just call him Nolan.”
On the record, Nolan and Summer Prescott are the father-daughter duo of wholesome family legends. Off the record, there’s not a lot of love lost between them. By all appearances, Summer tolerates the man, without a care that he’s, you know, her dad. Last week, when I’d asked if she could bring me a picture of the two of them for the article, her response had been, “Don’t have any.”
I’d told her, “That’s fine if it’s not recent. It can be from any age. And really, an older one would add more sentimentality to the piece—”
“No, Walsh,” she repeated, in a stern voice that I’d come to know as a first and final warning. Back off or I leave. “I don’t have any.”
Needless to say, that went Off the Record.
I ask her a few more questions. Safe ones. Questions I know she won’t shoot down, even as the ones I really want to ask pile up in my notes.
Why don’t you like having your picture taken? Why don’t you have a photo with your dad? Why do you call him by his first name? Why don’t you want to talk about your deceased mom?
“How do you feel about your father’s work?” I ask now.
On the Record. “I’m proud of what Daddy’s accomplished in the field of prosthetics. He’s making the world more accessible to an underserved community of people.”
Off the Record. “Nolan could do a great deal more funneling his money into charities, instead of making another over-priced robotic arm that those underserved communities will never be able to afford.”
“Now,” Summer sets down her phone again. She senses the end to my interview, and I know what’s coming next. Teasingly, she asks, “How was your weekend? Any hot dates? Any secrets you want to get off your chest?”
We’ve developed a routine, Summer and I. Interview first, since most of our meetings are limited on time, depending on both our schedules. Today, I’d had to skip my normal Monday morning newspaper meeting, since it’s the only time Summer is free this week. My questions come first, as I have a deadline. And when she finishes answering my questions… I have to answer hers.
I save my notes, make a show of putting my things away before I have to run to class. “No hot dates. For me, at least. I did walk in on my roommate and her boyfriend, though.”
Summer’s eyes widen, eager for gossip. “Doing what?”
“What do you think?” And because I know she won’t let up until I tell her everything, I dive into the story of me coming home from a work shift Sunday morning, only to find Rylie and Levi in various states of undress for what they called a “private art session”. Not so private, since it was on our couch. On top of my blanket. What had ensued had been traumatizing on all ends, except maybe Levi, who hadn’t been able to stop laughing the entire time I’d tried to give Rylie a disapproving look, while not directly looking at her.
“Needless to
