The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [11]
“Don’t be silly,” I jump in.
“It’s okay,” she adds with a wave that tells me not to worry about it. She’s never one to complain. “You two should have some time together. Oliver, I’ll call you later.”
Before either of us can stop her, she walks up the block. Charlie’s eyes are on her L.L. Bean duck boots. “My God—my whole sorority had those,” he whispers. I pinch the skin on his back and give it a twist. It doesn’t shut him up. As Beth walks, her beige camel-hair coat fans out behind her. “Like Darth Vader—only boring,” Charlie adds.
He knows she can’t hear him, which only makes it worse.
“I’d give my left nut to see her slip on her ass,” he says as she disappears up the block. “No such luck. Bye-bye, baby.”
I shoot Charlie a look. “Why do you always have to make fun of her like that?”
“I’m sorry—she just makes it so easy.”
I spin around and storm for the door.
“What?” he asks.
I yell without facing him. Just like dad. “You can be a real jerk-off, y’know that?”
He thinks about it for a second. “I guess I can.”
Once again, I refuse to face him. He knows he’s pushed too far. “C’mon, Ollie—I’m only teasing,” he says, chasing me down the wobbly-brick stairway. “I only say it because I’m secretly in love with her.”
I stuff my key in the door and pretend he’s not there. That lasts about two seconds. “Why do you hate her so much?”
“I don’t hate her, I just… I hate everything she stands for. Everything she represents. The boots, the quiet smile, the inability to express anything approaching an opinion… that’s not what I—It’s not what you should want for yourself.”
“Really?”
“I’m serious,” he says as I work on the third deadbolt. “It’s the same thing as this teeny basement apartment. I mean, no offense, but it’s like taking the blue pill and waking up in a young urban twentysomething sitcom nightmare.”
“You just don’t like Brooklyn Heights.”
“You don’t live in Brooklyn Heights,” he insists. “You live in Red Hook. Understand? Red. Hook.”
As I shove open the door, Charlie follows me into the apartment.
“Well, bust out the Magic Markers and color me impressed,” he says, wandering inside. “Look who’s decorated.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play modest with me, Versace. When you first moved in, you had a used, stained mattress from Goodwill, a dresser you stole from our old bedroom, and the table and chairs mom and I bought from Kmart as a housewarming gift. Today, what’s that I see on the bed? A knockoff Calvin Klein comforter? Plus the Martha Stewart faux-antique crackle-paint on the dresser, and the table that’s now sporting the imitation Ralph Lauren tablecloth, perfectly set for two. Don’t think I missed that sweetheart touch. And while I appreciate what you’re trying to do, it’s like the existence of show towels, bro—the whole thing’s a symptom of a deeper problem.”
He repeats the last few words to himself. “Symptom of a deeper problem.” Stopping in the kitchen, he pulls out his notepad and jots them down. “For some, life is an audition,” he adds. His head bobs in place as he puts together a quick melody. When he gets like this, it takes a few minutes, so I leave him be. On his notepad, his hand suddenly stops, then starts scribbling. The pen scratches furiously against the page. As he flips to the next sheet, I spot a tiny, perfect sketch of a man bowing in front of a curtain. He’s done writing—now he’s drawing.
It’s the first thing that came naturally to him, and when he wants to, Charlie can be an incredible artist. So incredible, in fact, that the New York School of Visual Arts was willing to overlook his spotty high school record and give him a full college scholarship. Two years into it, they tried to steer him into commercial work, like advertising and illustration. “It’s a nice living,” they told him. But the instant Charlie saw career and art converge, he dropped out and finished his last two years at Brooklyn College studying music. I yelled at him for two days straight. He told me there’s more