Page 11 of Summers at the Saint
KJ’s mother turned sorrowful eyes on him from the armchair opposite the desk. It was a textbook Betsy Parkhurst move. The passive- aggressive “we’re not mad, just disappointed” expression she’d used to great effect his whole life.
It was Tuesday, so she was still dressed for tennis, in her cute little pleated skirt and Piedmont Driving Club logo top. Her Tretorns were spotless, her peppy silvery hair and understated makeup unmussed. KJ had never seen his mother looking less than perfect.
Spencer was seated behind the desk, the sleeves of his starched blue dress shirt rolled up, waiting to pounce, so KJ sized up the situation and made a pre-emptive strike.
“Look,” he said, with a long exhalation of penitence. “Mom, Dad. I’m sorry. I should have come clean with you guys right away. I know I screwed up. Big time. I just… didn’t know how to tell you what was going on with me this past year.”
The old man rolled his eyes and snorted.
“KJ, what happened?” his mother asked softly. “All of this? It’s so unlike you. If you’d come to us, and told us you were struggling in school, we would have tried to help. I thought you understood that. Your dad and I are always one hundred percent behind you.”
“I know,” KJ said, pushing back a shock of blond hair that was brushing his eyebrow.
“This is all just bullshit,” Spencer barked. “Enough. Bad enough you flunked out of school. But the rest is just as bad. Honor code probation for cheating?”
How the hell?KJ thought.
“I talked to your coach as soon as your mother came home to tell me what Christine Foyle told her this morning at their tennis match.”
“The most humiliating moment of my life,” Betsy put in. “I wanted to die. Christine sat down beside me between sets andpatted my hand, like I’d just lost a kitten or something. ‘Jenny told me about KJ’s having to leave school, and that must be so upsetting for you.’”
“That bitch,” KJ muttered.
“Never mind her,” Spencer said. “You couldn’t have told your parents you got kicked off the team?”
“What?” Betsy yelped. “When did this happen?”
“My knee,” KJ said, clutching it for effect.
“Which it turns out you also lied about,” Spencer said. “According to your coach, you didn’t actually hurt it playing lacrosse. He tells me it was a car wreck? Off-campus? Jesus Christ, son! When did you turn into a pathological liar?”
KJ was waiting for the meds to kick in, but these days, it seemed the more he took, the less they worked. His bad knee was throbbing, his eyeballs itched, and he kept shifting from one foot to the other, unable to stand still.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He clasped and unclasped his hands behind his back.
“Do I want to know what actually happened?” Spencer asked.
“Definitely not,” KJ mumbled as a wave of shame pinked his cheeks.
“What’s the plan, then?” the old man demanded. But before KJ could get in a word edgewise, his father plowed ahead.
“I’ll tell youmyplan. You’re not gonna lie around feeling sorry for yourself all summer. I put in a call a little while ago, to Ric Eddings. He says he can put you to work at the Saint.”
“The Saint?” KJ leaned down and rubbed his knee, wishing again he’d listened to the surgeon who’d tried to set him up with a physical therapy regimen. “Like, down on the coast?”
His family had spent just about every summer of his life at the Saint. Every May, as soon as school let out, they’d pack up his mother’s van and drive the five hours south, staying in Betsy’s family’s cottage—if you could call a five-bedroom house with its own pool a cottage—with his grandparents and a rotating cast of aunts and uncles and cousins. His dad would come down for long weekends,and in between, his mom played tennis and golf and bridge with her friends, who were mostly the same friends she palled around with back in Buckhead.
“Yes, that Saint,” his father said. “Do you know any other place called that?”
“Ohhhh-kayyy,” KJ said. “So, what? I’d work at the Saint, and stay at the cottage?”
“You’ll stay with the other summer help in a dorm they’re building.”
“A dorm?” KJ blinked. “Like, sharing a room with strangers?”
“Exactly. You’ll stay in a room with strangers, and you’ll suck it up and work hard and let all your rich, entitled friends treat you like the minimum-wage jerk you’re gonna be.”
“Spencer!” Betsy piped up. “That hardly seems reasonable…”
