Select (Select #1)
Marit Weisenberg
In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.
—Aristotle
AUGUST
“Julia!”
That startled me. I turned my head, tucking my hair behind my ear so I could see Angus come to stand beside me.
“Hey.” He stopped and focused on the wall-length curved panel. The light of the TV sliced into the dimly lit room, rudely cutting through the Zen-like atmosphere. I thought my family would just flash across the screen, but the camera held on them.
“Novak Jaynes and his wife, Dr. Victoria Jaynes, major donors to the new University of Texas Medical School, are here with their daughter.” You could tell the commentator was unsure of what he was allowed to say, and that he wished the camera would move on. Due to a well-publicized Securities and Exchange Commission investigation, this year there would be no hailing “the Oracle of Austin”—my dad, the investor with preternatural abilities.
Angus was temporarily still while he watched Novak, Victoria, and my sister in their suite at the football stadium. I was impressed with Liv. I knew the toll this must be taking on her, trying to keep the public from penetrating the imaginary wall of glass Novak had taught us all to erect. No one in my family looked overwhelmed by the sensory overload of the football game or by the fact that people—now a cameraman—were studying them. It was impossible not to stare. Even for me. They were a perfectly matched, elegant family, with their sun-streaked brown hair and beautiful, fine features, although now my sister was taking it to a different level. It was like they’d externalized being members of the One Percent.
Angus paused to look again—at my almost-grown-up sister, I knew—a second longer than I would have liked before getting back to business.
“Come on. They’re waiting for us,” he said.
To my surprise Angus ran his hand down my tattooed arm before catching my wrist, then my hand, and pulling me out of the room. We interlaced fingers. He didn’t ask why I wasn’t at the game. He knew. Everyone knew I wasn’t invited. But Angus was maybe the only person who actually seemed more interested in me than in them.
A voice in my head whispered that maybe he only wanted me for what he thought I could teach him.
“You suddenly interested in UT football?” Angus joked lightly.
I laughed and said, “Very interested in football.”
But I was embarrassed I’d been caught watching.
We walked hand in hand through Paul’s parents’ many living rooms. Through the windows we could see some of our group wrestling on the grass in the side yard. When we stepped outside, Angus immediately dropped my hand.
I didn’t understand why it hadn’t happened between us yet. Every night this summer I thought he would make the first move. Maybe he was waiting for me to take the first step, but I wanted it to come from him. He got everything he wanted, and I didn’t want to fall in his lap too.
The moment I stepped outdoors, I felt as if I were enveloped in a swamp. Not everything could be controlled, I guess. But the landscape was lush. Only money could tame a garden like this into submission in the August heat of Texas. The harshness of the black gravel contrasted with the softness of the flowers, the symmetry of the stone pathways, and the soothing paleness of the white-brick monolith behind me.
The boys were unusually sweaty. T-shirts clung to shoulder blades, and I could see beads of perspiration on those necks not covered with light-brown hair. They looked uniform with their honey coloring. I was always aware of how I stood out.
Angus and I came to stand near the boys, waiting patiently for them to finish playing. Next to me, Angus removed his hand from the back of his neck, revealing one tattoo. His arms were covered with ink as well—designs of black bands around them, as if he were in mourning. I wasn’t sure if it was in honor of our ancestors or if it was a statement about his current situation. I could tell he felt me appraising him, and I quickly looked away.
We watched the dog pile. The boys looked like they were going to kill each other tonight. Their cuts and bruises would be unusually bad, but at least they would disappear quickly.
I noticed Paul standing off the path and directly on top of some landscaping, size-thirteen boots crushing flowering ground cover—a minor fuck-you to his parents. He lit a cigarette and, through that first cloud of smoke, squinted up at us as we joined the all-male group. Instantly Paul’s body language changed, now less the punk and ready to defer to Angus. And when they realized Angus was there, none of the boys resisted the instinct to turn their bodies to face him, in an act of deference and respect—the same as we all did when my father was in the room. I wasn’t sure if Angus was aware of it, but when it was just the two of us he in turn angled his body toward me.
Sebastian had been blocking my view of Ellis, and when he shifted I saw what was going on. A knife was plunged into Ellis’s right hand—a steak knife with a curved silver blade protruding from his golden flesh. There wasn’t the least sign of blood. The boys stopped wrestling all at once and gathered around, watching and taunting, voices too loud for the serene setting on the water. Driving it deeper, Ellis maintained his impassive face, and the group, fiercely competitive with one another, attempted to look unimpressed. Ellis was getting good.
All at once he crashed, turning white as the blood drained from his face. Angus broke through the group, grasped the handle, and in a smooth, confident maneuver removed the knife. I saw the deep wound between the knuckles begin to seep just a bare amount of dark-red, almost-black, blood. Well done, I thought. Ellis had almost controlled his response to the pain. Now he seemed to be recovering. He hid his compromised hand behind his back, wanting to protect it from the critical eye of the group.