Ms. Collier’s brows shot to her hairline, but there was no doubt my father meant what he said. His tone conveyed it all with a single word, but she still asked, “Pardon me?”
“NO!” Dad boomed. He was no longer speaking as a concerned, bedraggled father but a man of power and not to be trifled with. It was his CEO voice, even if I didn’t totally recognize it at the time. “There is more to school than what you learn in a book. My son will one day run Masters Corp. If he’s—as you put it—gifted, he will excel in academics without much assistance. He needs to learn how to work with people and lead. Navigate the world around him. He won’t learn that in books, but by interacting with people. Thrusting him into an adult environment would be counterintuitive to that goal.”
The woman seemed taken aback at his tone. One would think working at the pretentious school, that she would be well accustomed to the rantings of the wealthy and powerful. Still,she didn’t seem to understand my dad.
My dad, who would be considered uneducated by most, was not CEO of Masters Corp because of his last name, but because of his cunning business savvy and sharp mind. He didn’t go to Harvard or some other ivy league institution. He’d learned to be a shrewd businessman long before he graduated high school. Then attended a state college while working side-by-side with his uncle until he took over the company just after Chris was born.
“But without the proper challenges, he will become more restless and disruptive. Just as before,” she argued weakly, but there was no point. Once my dad said something, it was final. The only exclusion to that rule was my mom.
“I never said do not challenge him. As much as I’m paying you, I’m sure you can figure something out.”
The woman had gone from smiling to frowning to nearly coweringsince the conversation started. Wiliam Masters III only had to speak, and his will would be done. All she could do was nod her head in agreement.
I didn’t care what they agreed on. I didn’t want to be there. I’d already lost Momma. Being sent away felt an awful lot like losing everyone else too. But there was nothing I could do.
I thought he was sending me away because my mom’s death was my fault. He could barely look at me before she died. Of course, he couldn’t bear to be in the same house with me after she was gone.
Adjusting proved to be problematic. I was a sad, lonely kid whose mother had recently died, ripped away from his family. I withdrew from everything and everyone, yet still struggled to stay still and focus. My mind buzzed all the time with noise I couldn’t explain, and what had been my only time for escape was unceremoniously taken when dad refused to let me bring my guitar and the school would only allow me an hour in the music room a week.
The worst part was that I was hyperaware of all of it but couldn’t seem to shake it. I just knew I couldn’t talk to anyone. It would’ve been another burden.
I made it through the first year mostly unscathed and excited for summer. Ready to see my family. I’d missed them so much. I didn’t even care that I would get lectured and reprimanded for my grades and conduct.
I was looking forward to not having a panic attack every day. Every fucking day. Panic because I missed my family. Over not getting my work done. The constant social stimulus that proved to be overbearing most days. Knowledge of what that stupid label they’d placed on me meant. And sometimes, panic over nothing at all.
I was eleven years old and losing my shit. I needed something familiar.
Didn’t happen. Dad had Callie and me at every two-week camp available. I saw my brother and sister for a total of four days that summer.
The day I had to return to school, I had another damn panic attack. Of all times and people to have one, it had to be on the way to the airport with my dad. One more thing to disappoint him.
“Get ahold of yourself, Maddox,” he demanded.
“I—I’m sorry,” I wheezed out.
He grunted and growled a lecture I couldn’t hear over the roaring in my ears. Eventually, he pushed my head between my knees, waiting until my breathing returned to normal.
Twenty minutes later, we stood at the gate. He placed a hand on my shoulder with stern eyes and a firm tone; he said, “No fucking off, Maddox. I expect you to represent this family and show them the man that will run the company one day.”
I was a damn kid with a mountain of expectations and an ocean of pressure added to my very small shoulders. And I knew I was going to disappoint everyone.
Early into the semester, the school had me at the doctor after days in bed with headaches and stomach aches. The doctor decided my issue was not physical but psychological. He said I was suffering from separation anxiety and panic disorder and ADHD. I was given prescriptions and ordered to see a psychologist, which the school had available three days a week.
A few weeks later, I felt like a new kid. I was getting my work done, made a few friends, and no longer felt like a weight was crushing me. Everything was still too fast some days. Sometimes there was still a lot of noise in my head. But the panic attacks were less frequent, and I almost felt happy.
Although, I wasn’t allowed to spend hours upon hours in the music room, they did allow me time every day. The music teacher also allowed me to take different instruments to my room to learn.
The school psychologist was helping me too. For the first time, I felt like I could talk about things—some things. I could talk about missing my family, my mom’s death, and how everything was just too much sometimes. I knew better than to tell him about the noise.
For the first time since my mom died, I felt like I could breathe.
Until that, too, ripped me apart, taking a piece of my soul with it.
I walked into Murphey’s office for our appointment just like every week. It started as a monthly ritual, but he increased them to bi-weekly after the first few visits. I was nervous that day because what I wanted to talk about was embarrassing for a twelve-year-old boy, but I didn’t have anyone else.
I suppose I could’ve talked to my dad, but I thought it would be one more thing he’d be disappointed about. And Chris never had time for more than a quick hello when I called.
I sat in the chair across from Murphey, my eyes darting across the room, looking anywhere but at him. My knees bounced uncontrollably as I shifted in my chair.
