"Quite a party. That brat next door tried to embarrass me in front of my investors," Dad spat, slamming the table. "Who does she think she is? Those parents raised a menace. The Johnsons will get what's coming to them." He loosened his tie and stalked toward Olivia.
"I'm sorry you had to see that, honey. Kids today have no respect for their elders." He grabbed the bottle by its neck and approached me.
Laughing, he patted my cheek, his eyes dark with hatred. "It's not your fault, son," he said, glancing back at Olivia, who was busy with her makeup by the mirror under the staircase.
Dad then gripped my shirt, his face inches from mine as he whispered, "You will get what's coming to you."
"Honey, what are you doing?" Olivia's voice startled him. Dad jumped, not expecting her to be right behind him.
"Nothing, honey. Nothing," he repeated, patting my shoulder. "I just wish this boy could talk. Back then, I recall he spoke." He took a sip of his alcohol. "So, what happened, honey? Why did James stop talking?"
Olivia glanced at me with sympathy, walking over to give me a gentle hug. "I'm mute, not retarded," I thought to myself.
"Well, with all the bullying at school, he just went silent. That's why I decided to homeschool him," Dad said, pretending to care. The truth was he pulled me out of school right after Mom died, saying it was useless to educate me – I would always be a nobody.
I spent days and nights in that basement, always feeling like Dad was with me even though I hadn't seen him. Olivia asked why I stayed in the basement.
Dad told her it was where I wanted to be, that it was my way of dealing with Mom's death. She believed him, manipulated by his charm and gifts, and now they were getting married.
At least my sister Grace was being treated well. Only eleven, she checked on me often, making sure I had enough water. Sometimes she would sit by the windowsill, pointing at the stars and saying it was Mom. She handled Mom's loss well because she was surrounded by affection. But every story has its manipulations, secrets, and lies, especially with Dad.
"Son, why don't you go to your room and draw something for me? Show Olivia how smart you are," Dad said.
"I hate drawing. I'm not a kid, and I'm not stupid," I thought. But Dad was manipulative, playing the loving father in front of others.
I stood up and went to my room, the basement, with its single bed, thin blanket, brown coffee table, small refrigerator, and a dusty black-and-white television. I am James, and I chose my silence for a reason.
As I entered my room, I noticed Clara's curtains were open. She sat by her window, now wearing a black spaghetti top and brown cargo trousers, her hair loose over her shoulders. The moonlight made her even more beautiful.
I walked to the window and slid it up, letting the night breeze in. Seeing Clara, I felt a sense of relaxation. She smiled at me, stood up, picked up a book and pen, and returned to the windowsill.
She wrote a note and held it up:
"How was your day?"
I retrieved the book and pen she had given me and wrote, "It was okay. Your gifts – I never expected such an amazing gift," and held it up.
Clara replied, "I'm glad you liked it. It's not from me, though."
I frowned. "Not from you? What do you mean?"
Clara: "James, there's so much you don't know. Someone is looking out for you."
Me: "I don't get it. Who would buy me such expensive gifts?"
Clara: "Time will tell. I know everything about your dad."
Me: "How did you know?"
Clara smiled, looking up at the night sky.
"Just know you'll be fine. How do you like your new car?"
I couldn't stop staring at her. That perfect smile, those eyes – she had my heart racing. She made everything bad disappear.
Me: "I love the car, but I can't drive."
Clara giggled.
"I know you can't drive, which is why we booked you for driving lessons next week."
Me: "Who is 'we'? You and your boyfriend?"
Clara frowned, shaking her head. "No, not me and my boyfriend. But given your quick learning, you'll be driving in no time. Always keep that ring on; it's for your safety."
I looked at the ring, a reminder of her gift. Why didn't she just say she doesn't have a boyfriend? Maybe she does, and they all just pity me.
Me: "Goodnight."
Clara looked puzzled.
"It's only seven. Going to sleep already?"
Her words felt like a dagger. Everyone in my life is out to hurt me. I closed my window and lay on my bed.
"James, you're not alone." A mysterious figure in a suit and hat walked toward me, holding a black card – one of ten limited editions. As he got closer, he handed me the card. It had my name embroidered in gold.
"Who are you?" I found my voice. "Who are you?"
His hat shadowed his eyes, but he looked familiar – confident, with light blue eyes and a perfect jawline. "James," he said steadily. "I've waited for your eighteenth birthday to give you this and tell you, you're among the most powerful individuals."
"What do you mean, powerful? I'm a nobody. Didn't you see Clara pitying me?"
The mysterious figure laughed as three men in suits stood behind him. A Rolls Royce was parked behind them. "Your journey is just beginning," he said.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
Thunder roared, and lightning struck, lighting up my room. I woke up in a sweat, surrounded by paintings and a coffee table. No card in my hand, I walked to the refrigerator and took out some ice water.
Clara's room light was on, and her curtains were open. I moved closer to the window. Her back was facing me, revealing a tattoo on her shoulder. Clara turned around as I looked away. She smiled, walked to her window, stared at me, winked, and closed the curtain.
What was that tattoo? I thought. I looked at the ring on my finger. It glowed green. This was no ordinary ring. Why did she want me to always wear it?
I turned the ring on my finger. Clara's room light went off. I stood by the window, watching the rain pour and the thunder roar.
Walking to the bathroom, I heard whispers from Dad's room. As I got closer, I heard Olivia and Dad talking about a trip and leaving me alone.
"He can't take care of himself, George."
"Well, Olivia, Clara got him a car, so he'll become independent. Shh, I hear someone."
I quickly moved away as the door swung open, Olivia peeking out. "We must be careful what we say, honey. He can't ever know," Dad said.