Chapter 3: Suits

Silence echoed through the house louder than any sound that could occupy those walls. “Dad?” the boy said.

“Yes, son?” A figure looked up from a square that lit up his face.

“I got this new baseball, I was wondering i-if we could,” the boy fumbled over his words, staring at the ground, unable to even finish his sentence.

“No Blair, you know I've been very busy lately, perhaps another time,” the words were quick and blunt.

“Y-yes sir,” Blair stammered. As he walked away, he felt frustration and disappointment wash over his shoulders like a tub of molasses. Why do I bother? Blair’s eyes began to water as he looked down a lengthy hallway, the start of which was beside a large spiral staircase. He often felt as though walking through his own home was like walking into a museum full of priceless artefacts. He wondered why his parents hadn’t just stuck him in a plastic bubble, considering all the things they lectured him not to break. The front hall was covered in paintings, some of grand landscapes overlooking cliffs and crashing waterfalls, others abstract pieces that looked to Blair as if the painter had tripped and spilt all his paint onto the canvas. He felt that the status of his family was hung over his head; literally. Dark red walls stretched along the front hallway. Walking down it made Blair feel intimidated and uneasy. The paint which adorned the walls matched a long and thick carpet, decorated with designs of flowers. Blair stood there for a few moments, his glossy eyes meeting with the only family portrait in the house. The wooden frame had ornate designs that ran from the top of it down to a golden plate at the bottom that read ‘The Castleman’s’. The smiles on the portrait felt just as accurate as the ones Blair regularly saw his family have; painted on. His father, or Mr. Castleman to those who preferred to remain employed by him, was a long and lanky man whose stoic tone often matched his demeanor. He, like many other CEOs, had more suits than reasons to spend time with his son. Considering his predisposition towards leadership, and a family business running centuries back, this fact came as no surprise to most of those who knew him. To Blair, however, it felt like a surprise every time. Blair held hope that eventually the working haze which surrounded his father would dissipate, and that they would play a multitude of sports and games, ranging from golf and baseball, to pretend wrestling and Monopoly. There was a time when Blair was younger, a time when his father always played with him, a time when he could ask almost anything of him and never be rejected, a time when he felt like he had a father at all. He always heard so many good things about those who had money, especially when conversations included his father. What he began to realize, however, was that he wanted no part in having a similar destiny; he didn’t want to end up trapped in a suit. To him, they were woven coffins. Blair slumped out the front door to his house and down six large slabs of marble which served as the staircase to the front walkway. As his right palm slid down the railings, he looked back at the front of his home. The house looked like a monument; grand in both stature and presentation. It was laid with large stones along the bottom of each side, which transitioned into an immaculate cedar that climbed up to the peak of the roof. Blair felt an indescribable frustration swell inside of him, causing him to hesitate and look towards the front window. He pictured variations of throwing his new baseball through it, and the catharsis which could follow such an action. Maybe he would feel like him and his father were even? Maybe his father would apologize for being so distracted? Maybe cleaning up the glass could be something they would do together? Maybes are for those who are foolish enough to beckon uncertainty, the voice of his father blasted through his thoughts like a shotgun shell, We are Castlemen! We are the kings of certainty. Blair always hated when his father used their name like it was a title or achievement; it was just a name. His hand gripped onto the baseball tightly, clammy fingers slightly slipping around it as he walked onto the lawn. It looked and smelt freshly cut. The lawn was a vibrant green, which was rare amongst the lawns of Small Pine. He turned again to the window. The boy was in a standoff with the pane of glass, scowling and breathing fiercely. Planting his right foot and rotating his body sideways, he cocked his arm back and curled his nails into the leather. As he began twisting back around to throw, the sound of rubber against asphalt grinded behind him; a car was turning in the driveway. Blair swiftly cranked his wrist downwards mid-throw, attempting to maintain his fingers around the ball, but a fresh coat of sweat made him lose his grip, catapulting it forwards. The ball flung through the air, hitting the top of one step, ricocheting up against the front of the stair above it before soaring back into his hands. The car door swung open, her foot stomped down from the passenger seat. An angled white hat with a rose gold orchid lifted over-top the car door. Quick steps clicked along the interlocked stones of the driveway. Blair was frozen in place, unable to move; he knew only one person who made those sounds at that quick of a pace.

“M-mom?” He remained staring forward.

“Blair Castleman!” Mrs. Castleman shrieked so loud dogs blocks away began barking.

“I-I’m sorry mom, I was just throwing the ball around and then it slipped out of my hands and-”

“Oh save your groveling young man. You could have cracked the steps. Do you know how much those are worth?”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“A lot?” Blair was still facing towards the staircase, looking down at the ball and praying his head wouldn’t end up thrown like it was.

“A lot is an understatement,” her voice was elegant and sharp, like a samurai sword that cut into her son’s ears.

“I apologize mother, it will never happen again. I-it was a mistake, I swear,” Blair turned around to lock eyes with his mother and straightened his back into a position that a military soldier would in front of their general. She raised a pale white finger and pointed it at Blair. The hand she held upwards bore no marks other than imprints of jewelry, the nails of which were painted a dark cherry red that gleamed in the sunlight. “I hope for your sake you are not lying to your own mother,” she lowered her finger, sticking her pointed chin upwards and slightly off to the side, closing her eyes in a smug discontent, “your father would have been furious had you broken one of them. You’re grounded for a week, hopefully you learn from your recklessness.”

“But I-“ Blair saw his mother’s head snap back towards him, her raised eyebrows served as a warning not to challenge her words. “I understand,” Blair said, as frustration twisted and turned inside of him before being pooled into tears that began filling his eyes.

His mother knelt down, quickly wiping away the tears forming on his son’s face before laying her hand on his shoulder. “Very well. Shall we go inside?”

Blair nodded.

As they walked to the front door, loud noises rang out behind them, forcing Blair to turn his head. Jack and Phil were half-skipping down the street, tossing a football back and forth. They gave no notice to the houses, the cars, and Blair, which stood still around them. Blair’s head sagged downwards, before snapping it back up into a glare towards the two boys. His insides felt like they were beginning to boil, as if steam were about to shoot from his nostrils. He clenched his teeth, jealousy and frustration enveloping every part of his being. He turned to his front door and marched in. Blair’s mother witnessed this shift in demeanor, but her mouth remained hollow; the right words just never came at the right times. She truly did love Blair, and he loved her, despite the complications their relationship presented. She tried her hardest to maintain her affection towards Blair but had to keep her husband from being taken out of his work. It was, after all, the reason she never had to work, and why she was always in the passenger seat with a driver rather than taking herself places. Deep down, however, she feared she was fighting a battle that could be easily won with the effort of two people, and was forced to fight it alone. As a result, Mrs. Castleman believed she could not be everything Blair needed in a mother, and her son sensed this belief to be true.

As Blair walked into his home, the carpet began to look like a large tongue, the color surrounding it like blood, as if the house were about to swallow him whole. He walked up the spiral staircase and towards the door to his room at the top of the steps. He heard his parents arguing about the sound that came from his throw as he opened it, and his gut began to twist and turn. That night, like many others, was best spent in the sanctuary of his room.

***

A bright green bike zipped along the sidewalk. Air blew through his hair as Blair attempted to ride faster than the cars speeding past him. His father didn’t understand why anyone would ride a bike over being driven around, but his mother thought it would mean more than that to him, and she was right. He never felt more free than the moments he could peddle away from all the worries, away from his father’s business, away from the fear of breaking something expensive, away from being a Castleman. His legs began burning as his muscles pulsated with every revolution of the wheels. Blair thought his speed was so great that he began to catch fire, which caused him to peddle even faster. The wind began whipping past him, louder than any thoughts occupying his mind. Trees, houses, and cars passed through his vision and left his peripherals too fast for him to even notice their existence. All he felt was his speed, the sweat between his hands and the rubber of the handlebars, and his feet pressing vigorously against the peddles.

As he rode up to the school, a loud hum of young students at play replaced the sound of the wind. He rolled up to the outer fence of the playground, wrapped his bike in a chain and locked it tightly against the rusted metal links. A high-pitched series of pings rang out; it was time for class to begin. Students poured into the doors, Blair trailing behind them at a smug pace. He kept his head lifted upwards as he walked down the hallway. Other children that crowded the halls avoided stepping in his path and avoided locking eyes with him. A confrontation with the son of Mr. Castleman was not a smart endeavour, and all attending Small Pine Middle School learned this fact quickly. Blair entered the doors to the classroom, all but one seat was filled; the front chair of the middle row, where Blair had sat every day of that term. As he walked towards it, he saw Jack and Phil talking and laughing at the back of the classroom. Blair’s smugness began turning into resentment for them, a hatred which filled his body and laid bricks on his shoulders. He stomped the last three steps and plopped down onto his chair, folding his arms. His teeth began grinding against each other harder with each of Jack and Phil’s giggles.

“Alright class, settle up, settle in, settle down!” Mrs. Richards stood up from her desk enthusiastically, almost jumping from her chair. “As I said yesterday, today is the day for me to hear your stories!” I didn’t give you a whole lot of guidance, and that was on purpose,” said Mrs Richards, her hands moving in accordance with every word, “that being said, if anyone has ‘Once upon a time’ in their starting sentence, I suggest you replace it.” Half of the students had their eyes almost leave their sockets. Eraser shavings began flying over desks as each student attempted to scribble anything else that came to mind other than a cliché. “Is there anyone brave enough to volunteer?”

As Blair began raising his arm, a chair from behind him screeched along the floor.

“I’ll go first, Miss! Get it out of the way, y’know?” Jack stood with papers in hand, a layer of lead caked on the right side of his palm.

Blair yanked his hand back down, nearly punching his desk.

“Alright Jack,” said Mrs. Richards as she sat back down and pointed her pen towards him, “you’re up.”