to me that familiar red flush was creeping up his neck. “But look, can we not talk about my dad’s money?”
I could tell by the expression on his face that I had broken an unspoken agreement between us: I was to pretend that I didn’t know he was rich, and even if I did know, that I didn’t care. And yet, there it was: a million dollars lying around “just in case” and an airstrip where a private jet was waiting to whisk them off to Paris, two signposts marking the gulf that lay between us. I looked over at my mother standing by the creamers in her worn Walmart parka and thought about how she watched men throw away tens of thousands of dollars every night at the gambling tables, as if it were meaningless paper.
And I realized, with sudden clarity, a second intention behind my mother’s life choices, the ulterior motive behind her (formerly!) thieving ways. We lived with our faces pressed up against the glass, looking through it at those who had so much more, watching as they so casually rubbed our faces in their privilege. Especially here, in a resort town, where the working class bumped up against the vacation class with their $130 ski-lift tickets and luxury SUVs and lakefront estates that sat empty 320 days a year. Was it any wonder that people on the wrong side of the glass would eventually decide to take a hammer and break it, reach through and take some of it for themselves? The world can be divided into two kinds of people: those who wait to have things given to them and those who take what they want. My mother certainly wasn’t the kind of person who would passively gaze through that glass, hoping that she would eventually make it to the other side.
Was I?
Of course, I know the answer to that question now.
But on that day: “I’m sorry,” I said to Benny, stricken with guilt, unwilling to open up this whole can of worms lest I drive him away.
“That’s OK, it’s no big deal.” He squeezed my arm, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “Look, we’re flying out tomorrow, but we’ll hang out as soon as I’m back from Paris, right?”
“Bring back a baguette for me,” I said. My cheeks hurt from smiling.
“You bet,” he said.
* * *
—
Benny was back on the bus on the first day of school after spring break, twitchy and wired, as if the spring weather had infected him with some sort of nervous giddiness. He jumped out of his seat when he saw me climb aboard and waved two baguettes over his head as if they were swords.
“Baguettes for mademoiselle,” he said proudly.
I took a baguette and tore off a piece. It was stale, but I ate it anyway, touched by the gesture and yet also acutely conscious of the fact that the millionaire’s son had brought me pennies’ worth of bread (again, in the back of my mind, a flash of green bundles in a dark, hidden safe). Of course, I reminded myself, the real value was that he’d listened, and thought of me, and brought me what I’d asked for. That was what was really important. That was the kind of person I was. Right?
And yet.
“Jesus, I’m glad to see you.” He flung an arm over my shoulder in a way that felt strangely definitive. I could tell that something was going on with him, something I couldn’t quite read. “Sanity at last.”
“How was France?”
He shrugged. “Spent most of my time sitting around eating pastries while I waited for my mom and my sister to finish shopping. And then my dad would lose it when we got back to the hotel and he saw how much they’d bought. Thrilling stuff.”
“Pastries and shopping. Oh yeah, awful. I spent my holiday boning up on biological individuality in the town library. Bet you’re jealous.”
“Actually, I am. I’d rather be anywhere with you than with my family in Paris.” He squeezed my shoulder.
There it was again, that strange new flicker of resentment—Paris sounded awfully thrilling to me, he could