The Leavers(9)

He’d seen the letter that had arrived from the dean at the end of last semester, the bold print detailing the terms of his academic dismissal. After his spring semester GPA fell to a 1.9, the school had put him on probation, and in October, he stopped going to classes. Peter had installed blocking software on Daniel’s laptop, though the poker sites had already banned him after he overdrew too many accounts.

His knee knocked against the table, sloshing Kay’s tea out of its cup, and Peter watched as he mopped the liquid with his napkin. “I’m doing good here. I’m making decent money at my job, not using my credit card, and Roland’s roommate is moving out in May so I’m going to take his bedroom. It’s not like Potsdam, where there’s nothing to do. I’m too busy to get distracted by that stuff here.”

“Nothing to do in Potsdam, he says.” Peter huffed. “It’s school. You’re supposed be studying, that’s what you’re supposed to be doing. Not all this—stuff.”

“I don’t know,” Kay said. “These addictions, I’ve been reading about it, they go beyond self-policing, and New York City is so full of temptations.”

“Trust me, Mom.”

“There are bad elements everywhere, yes, but there are more people in New York City, more chances to run into bad elements.”

“Working in a Mexican restaurant like a common laborer,” Peter said.

“Don’t be racist,” Daniel said.

“What, it’s racist now to say Mexican? Well, you serve tacos and refried beans. If that’s not Mexican, I don’t know what is. Call a spade a spade.”

“A spade? Are you serious? The owners are rich and white, so you have nothing to be worried about. All kinds of people work there, all races and ages. Why, I even have an Indian co-worker who’s at FIT, and a Black co-worker who’s going to NYU. And the owners didn’t go to college and they’re fucking millionaires. I haven’t met them because they don’t even live in New York. One guy lives in a tree house in Washington state, his brother’s surfing in Costa Rica, and the other guy’s in Berlin.”

Peter said nothing, scooped up forkfuls of eggs benedict.

“Daniel,” Kay said. “Don’t talk to your father like that.”

“Enough of this,” Peter said. “No more beating around the bush. We didn’t drive five hours to listen to his sarcasm.”

“We have good news,” Kay said. “Great news. Carlough College is willing to take you as a student, starting this summer. You can make up the credits you missed. It’ll be on a provisionary basis, of course.”

Peter and Kay had wanted Daniel to go to Carlough, where they could get him a faculty tuition cut, but had relented to his choice of SUNY Potsdam as long as he promised not to take music classes. His financial aid and work-study income had been enough to cover tuition when his grades were decent, and Potsdam had been far enough upstate that Daniel could hide out, not be solely known as Roland’s friend.

“But I’m here now. I have a place to live.”

“Roland’s sofa is not a place to live,” Peter said.

Daniel took a long sip of water. “I don’t want to go to Carlough.”

“You should have thought of that before you got expelled from Potsdam.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to be here.”

“Your mother and I have put ourselves on the line for you. We succeeded at getting you into Carlough despite the misgivings of the dean, which were, honestly, quite warranted. She saw the dismissal, your transcript. We had to bend over backwards to convince her you deserved another chance. Your ingratitude is simply astounding.”

Kay placed her palm on Daniel’s wrist. “I know it’s been a difficult time. But you cannot quit after two years of college. What are you going to do without a degree?”

“Play music.”

“Play music!” A flush spread across Peter’s forehead. “Don’t be foolish. Is music going to pay your rent, buy your groceries?”

Peter had been saying the same thing since Daniel was twelve years old. “Roland didn’t finish college and he’s doing fine,” Daniel said, neglecting to mention that Roland was taking business classes at night. “His roommate Adrian’s in his third year of college and already has a hundred thousand dollars in student loans.”

“This is madness.” Kay rummaged through her tote bag, removed a bundle of papers, and passed them to Daniel.

“March 15,” Peter said. “Three weeks away. That is the deadline for you to fill out this application in order to matriculate at Carlough for the summer. The website for the online form is printed out here. I would write the statement of purpose for you myself if it wasn’t ethically wrong. Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But do not mistake this for a choice.”

Peter had already filled out the first page with Daniel’s name and their address in Ridgeborough. Daniel folded the forms and put them in his pocket.

“What if I enroll in Carlough in the fall, or transfer to a school in the city? There are more job opportunities here, networking opportunities. I need a few months off. When I do go back to school, I’ll be healthy. Focused.”

“I don’t think so,” Kay said.

“One semester off is already too much,” Peter said. “You’re in danger of falling behind. Now, if it were up to me, we would be taking you home with us after this meal. But your mother seems to believe that you can take care of yourself.”