Get Out If You Can

Diego | A Suit And A Car Won't Get You Too Far

I think I'm amazing.

Nah, I'm not. The only reason why Mom allowed me to drive alone to Calleja was because I agreed to attend whatever bullshit dinner those people are planning.

And I agreed to take the Porsche.

I'd made it very clear that I wasn't going to cooperate if she came along. She'd be too much if she did.

I mean, okay, first of all this is really very fishy. I wonder why Mom can't see through it. I know she's very executive-programmed and that sort of thing, but this was pretty easy to see through. Now, I'm not making assumptions — maybe it really is a fancy dinner — but something just doesn't click with me. I'd told Mom to call them and ask them if this was for real. She did, but she got no response. No one picked up the damn phone.

Still, she thought it'd be cool to send her puppet here to seal her deal.

The sleek black car crunches noiselessly against the neat gravel pathway. I slide it at a perfect angle in the manor's prim parking lot, and turn off the engine.

I step out of the car and straighten my suit, taking in the majesty of the manor.

Mom wasn't lying about this place being straight out from a Harry Potter movie. It's just the thing. I wouldn't ever guess that a building in Callenfield had that many turrets, spires and ivy creepers. Even our house didn't, and our house was by far the most embellished thing to stand on Callenfield soil.

Now it has competition. Take that, Mom. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, just to show her. I snap a picture and hit send.

It doesn't go. I get that 'message not delivered' warning under my text. Well, I'll try again later.

I walk up the pathway to the entrance of the manor. For such a fancy house, I was expecting some driveway service or fancy butler escort, but it's all self-service so far. If these people agreed with me and thought most jobs were self-achievable, then we'd probably become great friends.

I reach the door and pull the collar of my button-down further up my neck. The sky is dimming, and so is the temperature. My feet scream in agony — they're clamped inside unnecessarily flashy leather formal shoes, and I'm positive the last time I wore them I was thirteen or something. God, it's killing me. Before I reach out to rap the lion-headed doorknocker, I walk back to the car and search for the pair of extra trainers I always carry with me. I get my shoes off, slip my feet in the black trainers and straighten up.

I hear the shuffling of feet behind me.

I turn around.

Well. Looks like the Descartes and I might not hit it off after all. There's a black-clothed butler, the kind that still wears neck-ruffles, standing behind me with a very whitened smile.

"Mr. Torrez?" he says, looking me straight in the eye. That gets me a bit uneasy.

"Yes," I mutter. I scrutinize the guy's expressions. He's faking it, of course. All hired people fake everything. And there are tons of unemployed people who'll say anything if you pay them enough for it.

"Lovely to have you here," he says, and gestures for me to follow him as he walks towards the manor. I walk behind him, a perceptible distance between us. You know, just to play it safe.

"The Descartes shall receive you in a while," he says, stopping at the door. "Till then, you have been allotted Madison tower for your rest and recreation."

I nod, thinking how stupid all of this really is. Rest and effing recreation? Couldn't we just sit for dinner and be done with it?

The guy's about to leave when I realize something important.