Chapter Text
“Droplets, droplets: We are all identical drips and drops of people, hovering, waiting to be tipped, waiting for someone to show us the way, to pour us down a path.”
– Lauren Oliver, Pandemonium
To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure why we have the pool. I don’t swim in it. My dad doesn’t swim in it (or isn’t allowed to swim in it, over mom’s fear of the neighbours seeing how fat he’s become in his middle age). And I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen my mom swim in it over the past few summers – all times when the twenty-something year old neighbour just happened to be trimming the hedges that connected our back yard to his.
So, I’m especially unsure why, exactly, mom thinks it’s necessary that she needs to hire a pool cleaner to clean said never-swum-in pool.
Apparently, it’s because the hedge likes to shed, and the leaves block the drain. Yeah, okay. I’m pretty sure I can see a grand total of three leaves floating in the water, from my perch on the kitchen bar stool. I drum my fingers against my temple, watching one leaf drift into the shallows, beaching itself upon the blue-tiled steps. It’s May. The hedge shouldn’t even be shedding at this time of year. Jesus.
But when you’ve got money, supposedly the logical thing to do is to spend it all on unnecessary commodities that we probably – definitely – don’t need. My mom’s pretty damn good at that.
Okay, so maybe it’s nice being spoiled once in a while. I’m not gonna lie about that – especially since dad brought back the new Xbox One the other week, to make up for not having made a single dinner at home for the past ten days. Not that I really noticed anyway. He couldn’t care less about his home life; I know for a fact he’s banging his secretary every night at the office. The blonde ditz has been stupid enough to call the house phone on more than one occasion whilst I’ve been here.
“Jean,” I hear my mom croon as she wafts into the kitchen in sky-high black heels, her ankles wobbling. She looks ridiculous, as usual, the epitome of a once-upon-a-time trophy wife, her lips and forehead strained with Botox. “Jeeaaan, darling, do you have twenty dollars on you? I forgot to go to the ATM this morning.”
I roll my eyes, and tug my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans; the mottled leather still stinks of tanning chemicals, despite having had the thing for almost a month now. There was nothing wrong with my old wallet, of course – but mom insisted the old one was ugly. It’s Hugo Boss or the highway, in this family.
I have two, crumpled tens folded up; I hold them out to my mom, who plucks them from my fingers with her newly-buffed dark red talons.
“Thank you dear – I totally forgot to get any cash to pay the pool cleaner today,” she says, extending her vowels in a dramatic fashion. From the drawer adjacent to the stool I’m slumped on, she pulls out a plain envelope, tucks away the money, and presses it closed. In her near-illegible scrawl, she pens something along the lines of: Trost Pool Servicing & Repair.
The summers in Trost are pretty fucking hot, and pretty much start come the middle of April. I’m sure most houses in this neighbourhood have a pool – it can’t be a bad business to be in at this time of the year, that’s for sure. Although, saying that, I can’t quite remember at what point last year’s pool boy just stopped coming. It was probably something to do with the goo-goo eyes that my mom had the tendency of throwing his way, and my dad – the big, fucking hypocrite – probably picked up on that.
I can’t even remember what that pool boy looked like, to be honest. Last summer was a bit of a drag, what with all the studying for my high school finals, and then the following burn out after all that intensive brain-cramming, which lasted for pretty much all of July and August. I remember I watched a fuckload of TV that summer – mainly because, hey, the couch was pretty fucking comfy and I couldn’t really find it in myself to actually leave it, but also, because it was the best place to be to avoid my mom’s ridiculous attempts at flirting with said pool boy. Yeah, that was kinda fucking embarrassing. The “kinda” is an understatement.
But hey, I managed to marathon the first four seasons of Breaking Bad in like, three weeks, because of that. So all was not lost.
I start daydreaming about the epic finale of the fifth season whilst my mom potters around the kitchen, placing the envelope on the marble counter-top right next to me. She spots her reflection in the window, and begins to plump up her perm – I sigh, deliberately loudly.
“What?” she hums, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I spin around on the bar stool to face her, resting my elbow on the counter-top, and my chin in my hands.
“Mom,” I say, laying it on flatly. Maybe this is why we have the pool. As an excuse for mom to enact a subtle form of revenge on the husband she’s-not-quite-sure is cheating on her, by fluttering her false eyelashes at whatever tanned, speedo-wearing college-dropout appears to unclog the pool drain of non-existent hedge leaves. Right.
“Oh Jean, come off it,” she replies with a sigh, tucking an ash-blonde curl behind her ear, watching me from the corner of her eye. Mum’s hair colour is the same as mine (at least, the top of mine), save hers is not natural. I reckon she only dyes it that colour because of the simple fact that I look nothing like my dad. He’s stocky, and round, with patchy, dark hair. I’m rather lanky, and I guess my face is more oval than my dad’s, and my eyes a lot lighter. She wants people to think that I take after one of them, at least.
Satisfied with her reflection, mom toddles across to the glass cabinet, and I return my stare to the stillness of the pool, the clip-clip of her heels rattling in my ears. The backyard gate squeaks open, as a collection of large nets, brushes and hoses staggers into a back yard (accompanied by, of course, the person struggling to hold all of this crap in a pair of tanned, freckled, clumsy arms, half covered by the horrific cornflower blue of a uniform polo shirt).
“Pool boy’s here,” I say categorically, pushing myself away from the counter top abruptly. Fifteen minutes early, as well. Time to make a quick exit. Maybe I’ll rewatch the Breaking bad finale, actually.
“Oh no, Jean, wait a second,” my mum calls, setting a pair of crystal tumblers down on the marble surface. “Can you fetch the lemonade from the fridge, and pour a couple glasses?” She waddles over to the back door, carefully grasping the doorknob so as not to break one of her stupid nails. “Don’t forget ice, okay?”
I stare at the door blankly as she goes to greet the newest victim to her predatory cougar-ness, rolling my tongue in my mouth incredulously. Thanks, mom. Really appreciate it.
I guess Walter White will have to wait.
I trudge over the fridge – true enough, a pitcher of mom’s lemonade is resting in the inside of the door. I grab a can of Coke for myself, and kick the door shut with my foot, probably with more aggression than needed.
As I pour the lemonade into the two glasses, I try to pull the tab on my Coke can with one hand – of course, the lemonade sloshes over the side of the glass whilst my attention is elsewhere. A fuck or two slips out beneath my breath, and I lunge for the paper towels.
I guess you’re wondering: Jean, why is such a handsome, charismatic, awesome guy like you kicking around at home, performing chores for his toy-boy desperate mom, when you should be out doing what normal nineteen-year-old university students do during a weekend (i.e. not studying).
Well let me tell you two things. Firstly, I’m pretty sure most university students equally prefer to lounge about the house all day doing pretty much fuck all.
But secondly, and this is kinda shameful to admit, I haven’t really spoken to any of my “friends” since half way through twelfth grade. And it may or may not have had something to do with the fact that I might have gotten a little trigger-happy with my fists in a certain Eren Jaeger’s face. He’s a dick, okay? He deserved it.
I’d much rather spend the day with mom than receive death glares from him and his posse. (Even if Mikasa is still absolutely smoking hot. Yeah.)
My eyebrows knit themselves into a deeper frown than usual, as my eyes roam over the photos plastered to the front of the fridge – the one of me, Connie and Sasha is still there, from when we took that road trip down south two summers ago. That was a good time. It kinda sucks that they avoid me too now, even if we do go to the same university, and I do happen to take three of the same classes as Connie. But I'm pretty used to the alone thing now.
I take another disgruntled swig of my Coke, as I toss the lemonade-soaked paper towel towards the trash. It’s cool. I’ve survived almost this entire first year of uni without talking to them. And I’m fine. Just peachy.
From the corner of my eye, I see mom engaged in an animated conversation with the new pool boy; she does that stupid, giddy little laugh, hiding her teeth coyly behind a well-manicured hand. I roll my eyes, and suck up my chagrin, taking one glass of lemonade in each hand.
“Oh Jean, there you are!” my mom coos, waving me over across the lawn as I emerge from the shelter of the kitchen, shoulders tightly hunched. “Come over here and meet Marco!”
They’re on a first name basis already. Wow, you move fast mom.
As I reach her, she procures both glasses from my hands, handing one out to the pool boy, and keeping one to herself.
“You must be thirsty, it’s soooo hot out today,” she smiles insipidly, fluttering her eyelashes against her cheeks. “I made some lemonade – would you like some?”
“Oh… yes please,” the pool boy replies, running a hand through his shallow, black undercut bashfully, “That’s awfully thoughtful of you, Mrs Kirschtein.”
I roll my eyes, and shove my hands deep into my jean pockets, hoping to be able to slink away as soon as possible. Leave my mom ample flirting time, of course. And not to mention that the sun is really, fucking hot today.
“Please, you can call me Céline,” she chuckles, placing a hand on my shoulder and drawing me closer to her. “And this is my son, Jean.” The looks she shoots me is one that I’m pretty used to. Gritting my teeth, I extend a rigid hand. Do I really have to be doing this? I couldn't care less about mom's newest boy-toy to be.
“Marco, right?” I offered blankly, moving my gaze to look the taller guy in the face. My eyes are instantly drawn to the array of freckles scattered across his sun-tanned face, four of which, in particular, draw a straight line across the bridge of his nose.
Too much time in the sun, much.
Marco smiles blindingly, and I can practically see a sparkle spring from his white teeth. He shakes my hand firmly.
“Yep, that’s right,” he grins. “Nice to meet you, Jean.” His tone is far too chipper for my liking. That'll soon change, believe me. He doesn't know what he's got himself into yet.
My mom squeezes my shoulder a little tighter as I drop my hand to my side.
“Jean doesn’t get out much, so he’ll probably be around most of the time, especially once the summer break comes.” Thanks, mom. Way to big up your own son. “So, if you need anything, and I’m not here, you can probably find him.”
I glare down at the lawn, practically drilling holes in the ground with my imaginary laser vision. I mentally instruct my mom to let me go and hermit myself in the lounge for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe she gets the impression from the rigidity of my stance, because she drops her arm.
“Alright then, get back to whatever it is you do all day.” Great. Walter White, here I come.
My steps only falter ever so slightly as Marco raises his glass of lemonade and calls over my shoulder: “Hey, thanks for the lemonade, Jean!”
I think I mutter a: “don’t mention it” under a gruff breath, but I don’t look back, until my feet meet the cool surface of the kitchen floor. I retrieve my half-finished Coke and take a long swing, watching as my mom teeters over to the pool shed, seemingly pointing out the combination to the padlock that keeps the wooden doors closed.
I raise the Coke can to the window, in a mock toast. Good luck to you, Marco.
I watch the Breaking Bad finale whilst comfortably reclined on the couch, with the air con on full blast. It’s just as epic as I remember. I can’t help but tap out the rhythm of Badfinger’s Baby Blue into the couch cushions as Walt finally succumbs to his bullet wound. Great tune.
I had to shut the windows around half way through though, because mom’s incessant nattering had managed to reach all the way across the yard, and I wasn’t sure how much more of Marco’s mildly awkward laughter I could take.
Almost as soon as the credits role, the phone rings, the shrill tring making me jump approximately six metres into the air, sending the empty Coke can that was sitting on my chest halfway across the room. Ungracefully, I roll (read: fall) off the couch, and reach for the handset on the end table, pressing it to my ear as I lie, face-first, on the wooden flooring.
“Hello?” I ask awkwardly, wriggling to free my other arm from beneath me.
“Hiii, is Mr Kirschtein there?,” comes the high-pitched, girly trill, which I have already come to find causes me a migraine. “It’s Charlotte, from the office.”
“You know you’re so lucky my mom doesn’t pick up when you call here,” I reply, in a dead-pan. I start to pluck at the fibres of the furry, white rug beneath the coffee table. “Hasn’t my dad told you to stop calling him here already?”
I think the anger has long since subsided – mostly all I feel is a mix of irritation at my dad for being such a careless and insensitive moron, and guilt for the fact I’m not exactly helping my mom out in discovering that her husband is a cheating bag of shit-for-brains.
“Call my dad on his mobile if you want to get laid that badly,” I add, briskly, not waiting for a reply as I slam the phone back into its cradle. I lay for a little while staring at the grain in the floor. I can only think I look fucking ridiculous.
“Who was that?” my mom’s voice echoes through the house, accompanied by the clicking of her heels on the kitchen floor. With a groan, I pull myself up onto my knees, and then use the edge of the couch to lever myself upright. I stretch my arms above my head, and my joints click.
“Double-glazing bastards again,” I call back, lying easily. It’s either windows, or it’s central-heating salesmen. And geez, it shouldn’t be this easy to lie to her face. I can’t help but feel the pang of guilt fall heavily into the pit of my stomach.
“Ugh, when will they learn,” my mom sighs, as I make my way back into the kitchen, rolling my shoulders some more to relieve the tension resulted from laying so long without moving. She has her back to me, loading the two, empty crystal tumblers into the dishwasher. “Everyone’s going to have their windows open in this weather, anyway! Why would you even want double-glazing?”
I resume my perch upon the bar stool once more, spinning on it absent-minded. I notice the white envelope has vanished from the counter-top.
“Pool boy finished already?”
“Oh yes, he didn’t stay long,” mom replies, shutting the dishwasher with a swing of her hips. “Apparently we’ve got a… chlorine imbalance? I think he said something like that. Anyway, he says he’ll come back tomorrow and get that fixed for us. But I’ve got aerobics with the girls tomorrow, so you’ll have to look out for him, and give him his payment when he’s finished, okay? So that’s no sleeping in ‘til three tomorrow.”
Oh gee, how fucking great.
“You that bored of him that you’re dumping him on me already?” I jibe sarcastically, folding my arms across my chest. “Not young enough for you, mom?”
Mom makes a scoffing sound and rolls her eyes, mimicking my folded-arms as she leans back against the counter.
“Please Jean, I told you to stop saying things like that.” I simply shrug.
I spend the rest of the day kicking around in my room, scrolling through a couple miles worth of news feed on my laptop, praying for the heat just to die down a little bit so I don’t feel like I’ve been plastered into these jeans with my own sweat. (I refuse to wear shorts, okay? I look like an idiot in them.)
Every so often, my eyes drift over the messy pile of textbooks and course notes teetering over the edge of my desk, reminding me of the ever looming approach of my finals in just over a month and a half.
Man, am I looking forward to that being done and dusted. It’s been months and I still don’t understand most of my Philosophy coursework (I’m still not entirely sure what persuaded me to take that elective in the first place, if I’m honest). It’s probably entirely my fault for the simple fact that I couldn’t decide what major to pick. Still can’t, if I’m honest. The sooner the summer break comes, the better. I can at least wallow in misery that’s not university-related. Perfect.
I rummage through my desk drawer for the opened pack of Marlboro’s that I know are buried there. Good thing my mom doesn’t do the cleaning around here. She’d go ballistic if she founds these. (And the house keep tends not to go through my stuff anyway.)
I can’t smoke in my room, so I get a leg up on my window and clamber out onto the roof, scrambling up over the slate-grey tiles to perch atop the gable. It’s a decent enough place to sit – even if it does kill my balls sitting there for too long – because you can see most of Trost from here. The sea of identical, suburban roofs extends for block after block, but the far distance boasts the sky scrapers and office blocks of midtown, somewhere in which my dad’s probably shagging his blonde secretary over a desk.
My Zippo takes a couple attempts to catch – that’s something I probably do need a new one of – but soon I taste the sweet release of nicotine burning at the back of my throat. I inhale and exhale deeply a few times, letting the smoke delve all the way down into my lungs, and back up again. The ash falls away between my fingertips and rolls down the roof into the gutter.
My name is Jean Kirschtein. I’m nineteen years old. I’m a student at Trost University, and I’m failing Philosophy. I currently have no friends, and I like to angstly smoke cigarettes on the roof of my house. My dad is banging his secretary, and my mom probably wants to bang the new pool boy, but neither of them know about the other. Only I know.
Welcome to my life.