Chapter 2.6 The Celibate Life

Two days before my eighteenth birthday, I graduated from high school.  It had been a rough four years, with only Isabelle as an ally.  Savannah had finally given up on me sometime after the Junior Prom, which I did not attend, or the Senior one either for that matter.  Dating was out of the question.  I never had Penelope to begin with, but still felt like I had lost something that night at P.U.R.E.  And when you're a teenager, the only thing you want to lose, is your virginity.  Mom and Dad had dismissed my pissy attitude as nothing but teen angst but I knew that what I was going through was much more than adolescent hormones.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

"Congratulations, Son," my father grinned at me.  I had already suffered through about a hundred photographs, it was hot, and I wanted to go home.

"Thanks," I said, embarrassed like I was any time the attention was on me.

"Go, can I speak to you for a moment?" my mother asked.  We had never been particularly close but I knew that she loved me, although I could see the disappointment in her eyes every time I looked at her.  I had always wondered if she secretly resented me for grinding her successful career to a screeching halt.  Especially because I wasn't exactly Asher Horowitz or Siddhartha Jones.  She surely regretted that decision now.

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm proud of you."  She enveloped me in a hug, holding me close, for everyone to see.  "I love you darling," she whispered into my ear, squeezing me hard.  

"Love you too, Mom," I replied, rigid in her arms.

"Go?" 

It was Isabelle.  However Mom felt about Isabelle's mother, Veronica, she had never held it against my one and only friend.  I believe it was her secret hope that one day we would make a match.  My feelings for Penelope aside, it wasn't an option.

"Listen, I gotta do the fam thing  for a bit but let's hang out later," she said.

I nodded.  We made plans to meet at the Watering Hole Saloon.  

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

We grabbed a couple of drinks and stood around making small talk.  Although she was smiling, I could tell that something was on her mind.  Did I mention that she was my only friend?  Having one friend made it easy to decipher their moods.  It took awhile but a couple of drinks later, she turned to face me.

"Go, do you remember when we started hanging out?" she asked hesitantly.

"Of course," I answered quickly.  Whatever she had to tell me, I had a feeling I wasn't going to like it.  "It was your mother's idea."

"You never wondered why?" Isabelle exclaimed.

"Honestly, Izzy, I was just happy to have the company."  There were a couple of times that it had crossed my mind, sure, but I had someone to hang out with who wasn't Savannah Chandler.  That was the only thing that mattered to me.

"Old Mr. Pomeroy owned the Theatre in Hidden Springs until he died a couple of years ago.  Then his son, Carter took over.  Carter is Penelope's father."

"Okay..." How did the Pomeroy family have anything to do with me?

"My mother tried to buy it from Carter after the old man passed but Carter refused to sell.  His family has had that theatre for generations.  Everyone knows how my mom has to have a finger in every pie and that is the one property in Hidden Springs that is completely independent of the Rhodes name.  Mother was desperate to try her hand at the music business."

My brain struggled to keep up but I still had no idea where I came in.  Sensing my confusion, Isabelle tried to spell it out.  "Your grandparents bought one in Bridgeport several years ago.  Your father was supposed to run it, but he declined.  I was to spend time with you and become your friend so you would convince your parents to sell.  Mother went as far as to withhold my trust from me if I refused her.  She reasoned that if Carter would not cooperate, she could buy your family's theatre and make it big enough that people would travel all the way to Bridgeport and completely shut out the Pomeroys."

The pieces were slowly coming together but I failed to make the final connection.  My grandfather had died ages ago.  My parents had gone to the funeral without Lilly and I.  I vaguely recalled the last and only time my grandmother ever visited.  It was my birthday and I had just gotten my easel.  She was old and smelled like Vick's Vapo-Rub but that was the only impression she had left me with.  I didn't know she owned a theatre.  However, I knew the Pomeroys, who also owned a theatre, all attended Smugglesworth Prep, drove sports cars and wore designer clothes.  

I bit down on my lip hard.  "So that makes me..."

"Yes, Go.  That makes you rich."

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

"So when were you planning on telling me that I was worth $200,000,000?" I demanded.

My parents, who moments before were snuggling on the couch, sat in shock as I continued to rage.

"I went to public school, we've never had a maid, you drive a Prius for chrissakes and all this time, the fact that we're fucking loaded completely slipped your mind?"  My face was white with anger.  "But it all makes sense now," I continued.  "Neither of you have worked since Lilly was born even though you claim that we've been living off of Dad's album sales and royalty checks from Mom's musical scores."  

My mother gasped.  "Go, where did you hear that from?" She absolutely hated profanity and never let us speak that way when we were growing up.  My father, on the other hand, was less shocked.  

"We always meant to tell you," he said quietly.  He wasn't mad or hurt.  He even looked like he might understand.

We sat down on the couch and I let both of them tell the story.  How my mother's father was a shithead and how she was forced to declare bankruptcy.  How my father had left Bridgeport for a simpler life.  How they had met and fallen in love despite her poverty and his lies.  How they had both been successful at their jobs but wanted a family.  And finally, how they loved Lilly and I more than anything.

"Go, please forgive us," my mother sniffled helplessly, the way she always did when she was upset.  

"Fine, but you get to tell Lilly," I said, awkwardly patting her back.  I had always suspected that my father wasn't that good of a musician to make enough money to support us for all of these years.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

My grandparents had set aside trusts for Lilly and I when we were born and they were now ours to claim.  Although Mom and Dad were concerned that we didn't know what we were getting into, two weeks later, my sister and I made the six hour drive to Bridgeport.

The city was very grand and beautiful but it had a coldness to it that made me shiver, despite the warm summer air.  We stood outside of my grandmother's penthouse in nervous anticipation.

I called the number my father had given me and Grandmother answered on the first ring.  "Yes, Gabriel?" she trilled.

"We're here."

"I'll be right down."

After getting re-acquainted, she invited us inside to get freshened up.  We had brought our formal clothes but had left them in the car, which was now in the parking garage.

"Oh no," she waved her hand.  "Don't you worry about that.  I'll have Charles get them for you."  Charles was her butler.

We had been in Bridgeport for less than an hour and I already wanted to go home.  Butlers?  Valets?  Doormen?  Lilly, on the other hand, was loving it.  She had pointed and oohed and aahed the entire limo ride to the bar we were going to.  Yes, I said 'limo'.

"The Marquee?" she squealed.  "It sounds so fancy!"  Indeed it was.  

It wasn't five minutes at the place that my grandmother started asking us about our plans for the future.  My father had warned me that she would get like this but my temper got the best of me and I stomped off in a huff.

"Excuse me, Lilly, while I go talk to your brother," Grandmother murmured to my sister.

She stood there, studying me, her eyes asking unspoken questions.  Grandmother was very old but still quite fierce.  I could tell she hadn't gotten that far in life without stepping on a few throats.  

"Grandmother, I don't want to own a Theatre.    Father ran away from this life and I understand why.  I want to be a painter, like who I was named for.  Vincent van Gogh.  Not Gabriel Bergdorf.  I don't want to be a mogul or have a butler or ride in a limo.  I'm sorry."

Several emotions flashed across her face, but not one of them was anger, as I had expected.  

"Oh," she faltered.  Then, giving me a long, measured look, she said, "you sound exactly like your father did when he was your age."  There was a hint of regret in her voice.  

"As much as I would like you to carry on the family name, I want nothing less than happiness for you.  You're my only grandson!  I can see that at just eighteen, you are already deeply troubled.  Forcing you into the family business would only compound that misery.  Am I right?" 

I nodded numbly.  

"I want you to go home and find it," she instructed.  "Find whatever makes you happy and go after it!  Money doesn't solve everything but now you have more than enough to fund anything that you would like."

Grandmother pulled me into a hug, suddenly looking older than her eighty years.  "Take it from someone who knows, kid.  All the money in the world isn't enough of a reason to get out of bed in the morning.  There's more to life than that.  It might be too late for me, but you're young yet.  It's not too late for you."

Before getting into the waiting limo, I stood on the hillside, taking in the Bridgeport skyline.  Here, in this city, my family was royalty.  I had finally achieved what I had envied of Asher Horowitz, the Pomeroys, and even Isabelle.  

I was a Bergdorf.  I was a somebody.  So why, on a beautiful August evening, in a city where I had the opportunity to rule as king, did I still feel as lost as ever?

Chapter 2.5 Dress Me Like a Clown

Every night, I had the same dream.  I was in Hidden Gardens and I was with...her.

I was suave, smooth and funny.  All of the things I couldn't be in real life.  I made her laugh, made her eyes light up like a million diamonds.  She was practically butter in my hands.  The girl of my dreams and I, falling in love in the place where my parents were married...I knew that if we were ever to meet, our souls would recognize each other because we both belonged to the race of Joseph.

Every night I would have this dream.  Then I would lean in to kiss her...

...and wake up.

Welcome to my life.  At night, I was a devilishly handsome prince but the rest of my life, the awake part, I was nothing but a pauper.  And my princess was still without a name.

Sometimes I felt like Clark Kent, like Par Excellence students only looked at me with disgust because they were unaware that I was really Superman.  If they only knew.  Girls would swoon and guys would know not to mess with me.  I could be a hero, finally, and not just the weird kid who doodled and painted pictures of a mystery girl with auburn tresses.

There were two girls who paid me any mind, but sadly, neither were my dream girl.  One, who was beautiful in her own right, only associated with me because her mother had coerced her into doing so.

And the other?  It was a well known fact that Savannah Chandler was a tad unhinged.  She wanted to save me from my isolated existence.  Little did she know, Superman never required mere women to rescue him.  Luckily, she wasn't speaking to me since I "ditched" her the other day to meet with Isabelle.

Me being friends with Isabelle got more than just Savannah riled up.  Apparently, Carrie's brother Siddhartha was none too happy that his-girlfriend-in-his-own-mind was hanging out with a bottom feeder such as myself.

But, being the stereo-typically dumb jock that he was, he failed to come up with the words to express his feelings.  Instead, he tried to intimidate me with his physique.

I wasn't threatened in the least.  Pretty boys like Siddhartha were future male models who only had muscles for show, not strength.  All I had to say about that fool was worst.Zoolander.impression.EVER.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

"What are we doing here?" I asked Isabelle.

"Go, the name of your dream girl is Penelope Pomeroy.  Does that name sound familiar to you?  It should.  Vince, Penelope's brother is having a party tonight at P.U.R.E. and you are going as my date.  But first, we need to get you a new look."

I was stunned.  The Pomeroys were one of the richest families in town.  My parents had never had anything good to say about them but even so, I knew I was way out of my league.  And Isabelle obviously knew it.  Hence, the makeover.

I sat in the waiting room.  Tammy, the head stylist was busy with a customer and I was in no hurry for this "makeover".  I knew that girls weren't exactly beating down my door, but I didn't mind the way I looked.  Unfortunately, I made the mistake of falling for a girl who would never give me a second glance unless I changed everything about myself.

*     *     *      *      *     *      * 

"How do I look?" I nervously asked Isabelle.  We were standing in front of P.U.R.E. post-makeover.  The clothes were new, crisp and uncomfortable.  I felt like a complete douche.

"You look terrific," she reassured me. 

"Really?  Because I feel ridiculous," I laughed.

"Look, Go, I hope she likes you.  And if she doesn't, then she's not worth it.  I know that I made you get a haircut and buy new clothes.  But honestly?" she hesitated.

"What?"

She frowned and then said softly, "I think you were great the way you were before."

Inside, the party was in full swing.  They were all there.  Carrie Jones.  Vince and Jared Pomeroy.  Asher and Tinsley Horowitz.  Lukas Satterfield.  And somewhere in that bar, was my dream girl.

Isabelle grabbed my hand and led me to the bar.  "You're probably going to need a drink first."

"Please", I said gratefully.

I had never drank before.  When the bartender asked for my order, I had no idea.

"Something green?"  Real smooth, Go, real smooth.

"Yes, I'll have a Spline Reticulator," said Isabelle breezily.  Cool as a cucumber, that one.  Then, turning to me, she said, "she's over there.  Why don't you go talk to her?"

And two martinis later, I finally found the liquid courage to make my way over to my dream girl.

I sat down next to Penelope in my expensive, stiff sports coat and chinos and tried to concentrate on not spilling my drink.

This was the moment I had been waiting for since I was seven years old and I had absolutely nothing to say to her.  She was exquisite, for sure, but somehow the scene had played out a lot differently in my head.

After I had finished my drink, I felt a little less nervous.  I had come here for one purpose only and that was to win the heart of this girl.  But I had always thought that she would have recognized me, she would have felt our connection as soon as I walked into the room.  She was apparently not of the race of Joseph after all.

We made small talk but there was no chemistry, no spark, nothing like my dreams.  Sometimes you make a connection with someone, sometimes you don't.  And she wouldn't even try.  Upon the sight of me, she had already dismissed me as a potential suitor.  She kept glancing over to the dance floor, perhaps looking for a gorilla juicehead more her type.  Her interests seemed to lie solely in shopping, her nails, parties and other people.  It must have been the alcohol talking because I only vaguely remember saying, "I can't believe I obsessed over you for eight years."

I had her attention now.  "What did you say?"  Penelope glared at me.

"Eight years ago, I saw you on the playground."  I swallowed.  "And I've liked you ever since."

"Oh...that's nice."

Here's the moment I'm not proud of.  I had waited for half of my life to meet this girl.  She was everything to me.  And here I was, pouring out my drunk heart to her and it still wasn't enough to budge her?  I was a hotheaded loser who let the alcohol speak for him.

"What, am I not buff enough for you?  Does my family not have enough money for you?  What is your malfunction?" I demanded, standing up.  Penelope got up lightning fast.  Apparently she was not used to being screamed at.

"Shut up," she ordered, putting her hand in my face.

Penelope glowered at me.  She was furious.  I had struck a nerve.  "Yes, I'll admit it.  You're not my type.  I might be shallow but I will not apologize for not being attracted to you."

"Just as I suspected," I muttered.

She shot me a withering look.  "And why were you so obsessed with me for eight years again?  You can't like a person's personality when you've never spoken a single word to them.  You're just as superficial as I am but at least I admit it.  You should really think about losing that chip on your shoulder.  It doesn't do anything for your looks."

 And with one last glare, the girl of my dreams walked out of my life.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

When I was younger, I wanted a bicycle.  I begged and pleaded my parents for one.  My parents said they would give me five dollars a week for washing dishes, making my bed and setting the table.  Every Sunday, I would finish my chores and watch my mom stick a crisp bill in my jar and I would feel a sense of pride for all of my hard work.  I would be excited for what I was about to earn.

When I got the bike, I rode it a couple of the hours the first day, a little bit the next and eventually left it to collect dust.  I went on to pursue other interests, such as painting.  I know that after all that work, it might seem strange to have abandoned my bicycle so easily.  But after the Penelope incident, it all made just a little more sense.

The wanting, the longing, the fantasy was better than the actual thing.  Lying awake in bed, imagining the adventures I would go on with my bike, the places I would visit, were better than the learning how to ride and the pedaling uphill on a hot day.  Such was the case with Penelope.  Thinking about the kind of person she was and how perfect our relationship would be, imagining the moment where our eyes met in a crowded room and our souls conjoined, was better than Penelope herself.  Discovering that she was a vapid bitch and that I was a bitter loser wasn't worth it.  

I think a lot of people are like that.  They love the possibilities.  And when their fantasies become realities, they decide that maybe their dreams were better after all.  Because in your fantasies, Clark Kent always swoops Lois Lane off of her feet and saves the day.  But reality?  The reality is, you might just be some scrawny dork like me who paints pictures of a girl he is terrified to meet.

*I saw P.U.R.E. in the Jemston Legacy and the Real World: Sunset Valley and really liked it.  This is where I got it: P.U.R.E. Bridgeport.

Chapter 2.4 Don't Know Why

Savannah had been crazy about Go Bergdorf since she was a little kid.  Her parents had dragged her to some stupid party at the Hughes' that night.  She just wanted to stay home and play dress-up.  Mr. and Mrs. Bergdorf had arrived late.  They were coming from their son's birthday party.  No one had showed up.  Savannah knew him as the kid who sat in class doodling all day.  He ate lunch alone.  He had no friends.  He was weird.  And yet, she had been intrigued by him.  Her stupid brother, Ty would never play with her.  She knew what it was like to be lonely.  She had wondered if maybe Go would be her friend.  They could be best friends.  Savannah envisioned slumber parties, with spotlight tag and pillow fights.  Someone to whisper secrets to and push on the swings...  

Then Mrs. Clark had gone ruined everything by making that stupid play date.  And Mrs. Bergdorf had asked Macey Hughes if she might like to come over some time.  Savannah hated the Clark and Hughes children.  She felt her chance at having one true friend slipping away from her.  Go's popular parents could find kids for him to hang out with.  But who would hang out with her?

That was then.  Now they were in high school and both of them had yet to find their niche.  Go spent his free period in the art room, painting.  He didn't have any friends.  And truthfully, neither did she.  She had always been odd, a little "off".  The high school caste system had lumped them into the same status quo.  Savannah had hoped that Go would gravitate toward her, united in their social nonconformity.  But he was content to keep to his art while she looked on with admiration and longing.  She was the Lucy to his Schroeder.  They sat next to each other in home room and he had started talking to her, but she wanted more.

He was standing at his locker that morning, like always.  Brooding, sulking and downright sexy.  Savannah wanted to kiss that pout right off his lips.  Instead she very casually said, "hey Go." 

"Hi Savannah."  He had freckles on his snub nose, big green eyes and messy blond hair.  He looked the picture of a tortured artist.

"That painting you've been working on is great!"  She tried not to sound too enthusiastic but couldn't help herself.  There was something about this boy and it drove her wild.  "That girl looks like she could just step right off the canvas!"

He actually smiled.  "Oh, you saw that?  Thanks.  It'll be awhile before it's actually done."

"Would you want to maybe check out the museum after school today?" she asked, shyly.  "They've added some new pieces."

"Sure, just find me after school and we'll figure something out."

Savannah giggled.  "Okay.  I'll talk to you later."

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Isabelle Rhodes was nothing like her mother.  Veronica had been drilling the same tired speech into her brain since she had been a toddler.  Don't go out of the house without a shower or makeup.  Never wear sweatpants in public.  Have the right kind of friends (rich).  Marry the right kind of guy (rich).  Unfortunately, unlike Veronica, Isabelle wasn't a bitch.

Sure, she hung out with Carrie Jones at school, which made her popular by association.  Carrie was blond, beautiful and a chip right off the gold digger block (Elise).  But she was also vapid, shallow and cruel.  

The Pomeroys and Horowitzes were all at Smugglesworth Prep, but Isabelle, her sister and brothers were condemned to public education.  The Joneses were very "new money" ie. no class.  Carrie's older brother Siddhartha had his sights set on Isabelle since they were nine years old.  Unfortunately for him, she had never returned the interest.

But you can't blame a guy for trying.

Well, Isabelle could.

She tried to renounce the way she had been raised and the family name.  It had resulted in many groundings.  Veronica tried to forbid her from going to her debutante ball, then realizing Isabelle didn't care anyway, forced her to go.  Vincent Pomeroy had been her escort.  Her own sister, Maureen had deemed her hopeless and mocked her for her ideals.  And her father?  Derek Rhodes was a lap dog.  He was a purebred who was kept at the highest level of maintenance but had never been anything more to Veronica than a lackey.  

Isabelle had vowed that when she turned eighteen in four years, she would move out and buy herself a small home in the woods, live the way she wanted and love the only boy she had ever desired.  But first things first.  In order to receive her trust, she had to complete a couple of tasks for dear old mom.

Veronica had agreed that it wasn't going to be easy but Isabelle was the only one who could do it.

And so, dragging her feet as usual, Isabelle left to perform the last duty she would ever do for the Rhodes family name.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

"So, I have to run home and get cleaned up but do you want to meet in the park in an hour?" asked Savannah.

"Sure," Go said.  

Her eyes lit up.  "Great!  Well, see you there."

As she walked away, his phone rang.  It was an unknown number.  

"Hello?" he answered.

"Hi Go.  It's Isabelle Rhodes.  Could you meet me at Han's Tavern in an hour?"

"H-h-h-how did you get my number?" he stammered. 

Isabelle sighed.  "It doesn't matter.  Just meet me?  Please?"

*     *     *     *     *     *     *  

"So, what can I do for you?" he asked politely.  Isabelle was daintily sipping a Vanilla Chai Latte, acting as if they hung out every day but he was too rattled for caffeine at the moment.

"The girl in your painting.  I know who she is."

"What girl?" he tried to sound nonchalant.

"Cut the crap, Bergdorf.  I can get you the girl if you do something for me."  Isabelle stared at him over her latte.  

Go's mouth went dry.  "Ok, well, what is it?"

Isabelle's pretty face reddened.  "I need you to hang out with me a couple of times."

He breathed a sigh of relief.  "That's it?  Sure, no problem.  I...I can hang out with you."

"Excellent."  

She stood up and he followed, confused.  "But what about the girl?"

Isabelle smiled.  "You just leave that one to me."

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

While Go's dream was finally becoming a reality, Savannah's was fading faster than daylight.

Why hadn't he showed up?  A part of her hated him for getting her hopes up, for making her heart beat fast, for consuming her every thought.  The bigger part loved him in spite of his flaws and mistakes, and maybe even a little more for them.  Go Bergdorf would be hers yet.