Chapter 1
Maggie
At the end of the school day, most of my friends got on a bus to go home. Some even walked or rode their bikes.
Me? I took a limo.
When I was younger, you know, like a second grader, I was silly enough to be embarrassed by the limo. I knew my friends noticed it, and I didn’t want to stick out. But my mother sat me down and told me, “Maggie, you should never be ashamed of who you are, as long as it’s not hurting anyone.” She went on to explain that while it might seem unnecessary, using a limo actually gave Gregory, our chauffeur, a job, and that we should never be ashamed of using our money to help good people get jobs.
“Just like your father and all his hotels,” she continued. “Sure, they’re extravagant, but he’s got thousands of people working for him, who love and depend on him. So the limo is a mark of pride, not something to be ashamed of.”
She looked so pretty and wise and confident that I couldn’t help but agree, and happily rode home in the limousine every day after that. Even after she died. I was – and still am – really sad about it, of course, but I try to focus on remembering all the good things she’d said and we’d done together. She just wanted me to be happy. To be able to be Maggie Clifton, heiress of the Clifton Hotels, without being ashamed.
So I was doing the best I could.
My school had no bells, being fancy and whatever, but everybody seemed to know exactly what time we could leave anyway, and, once that time hit, everybody dashed for the door and poured into the parking lot. Usually, I would wait for the bulk of the big, annoying crowd to clear out before making my way towards Gregory and the limousine, but today was a special day, so I ran out too, jostling and squeaking with excitement just like the rest of them. In my hand, I clutched a piece of paper, holding it firmly but careful not to crumble it. It was a short story I’d written for my English class. The teacher had given it an A+, and had even pulled me aside to whisper that it was the best in the whole class. I usually did well in school, but I was so proud of this story and her praise that I wanted to rush home and tell my father immediately. I wanted to see the look in his eyes.
Maybe, just maybe it would make him happy.
“Something on fire?” Gregory asked playfully as I shoved past several other kids and burst into the car, slamming the door behind me. “You seem in an awful hurry.”
“I just want to get home!” I gasped. I knew my cheeks were pink with excitement, and I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. “Is Dad there? He’s not working today, right? How is he?”
“Whoa, slow down there, kid,” Gregory said, as he lowered himself into the driver’s seat and started the car. The divider between him and the back of the limo was of course down. It was always down. I always wanted to chat. He put the car into drive and we began to slide out of the school’s parking lot when he answered, “Yes, I believe he’s home. No, I don’t think he’s working today, but you know the crazy hours Mr. Clifton keeps. As for how he is…well, you know this time of the year always hits him hard.”
As he spoke, I felt a little puncture in my bubble of excitement. I did know how this time of year affected him, and felt guilty about how I’d forgotten all about it when Mrs. Clayton had given me my paper.
“Well, maybe this will cheer him up,” I said, waving my prized story in the air.
Gregory sighed. “I hope so, sweetie,” he said. By his tone, I would guess that he was smiling. But I could also see his eyes in the rearview mirror.
They looked sad.
* * *
My father worked very hard, spending almost all of his time running his hotels, so it made sense that we would live there. Not by getting a room, of course. That’s silly. But we stay on the top floor, something everyone calls a “penthouse suite”. We used to have an actual house, but after my mother died we moved up here. My father said he did it to save money, but I think he did it because our old place reminded him too much of her. I knew that because it had also reminded me of her, but in a good way. Having those memories around made me feel better.
Not with my dad.
The Clifton Hotel was so tall that the elevator ride to the penthouse always seemed to take forever. Usually, I didn’t mind. I spent the time pretending I was on a rocket ship, lifting off into space. But now, with the excitement of my story ready to burst from my lips, I danced with impatience and slammed the button about a hundred extra times. Finally, we got to the top floor, and the elevator opened up on an elaborate, gilded wooden door with a large brass lock. Our hotel’s security constantly bugged my father to switch to a more modern security system, like a number pad and an access code, but he insisted on the fancy old lock. I guess he liked it or something. Instead, the access code got put outside the elevator. It was a private elevator, so we were the only ones who needed it anyway.
Fumbling with the giant brass key, I unlocked the door and rushed inside our beautiful, enormous apartment. I’m only ten years old, and yet I’m smart enough to know that it was a nice place. I had been to dozens of my friends’ houses, and none of them were as nice as this. Fancy furniture, carpets, drapes, everything. But the greatest thing was, nothing was so nice that I wasn’t allowed to run around and play on things. Going to the school I do, I know that a lot of rich parents could be overly protective of their stuff, but not my dad. He was always friendly and welcoming.
At least, he used to be. Ever since my mother died, it seemed like he just didn’t care.
Still, I was excited. Once inside, I smoothed out my story as best I could against the kitchen table, making sure the big red “A+” was clearly visible. Then, holding it out with pride, I made my way towards my father’s office.
“Oh-no,” I muttered, peering through the door. He was sitting at his desk chair, staring at his screen, but he wasn’t working. That was a bad sign. He’d get lost in these daydreams and not come out for hours, and I knew he was missing my mom. Hopefully, my good grade would snap him out of it.
“Hey, dad,” I said quietly, stepping into the room. He stiffened, and then slowly turned to face me.
“Hello, Mags,” he said. His voice was hollow and distant, as if he’d replied to me from a across a big, empty garage. “How was school?”
“It was great, actually,” I exclaimed, rushing forward. I was disappointed, however, because he turned back to face his computer even as I talked. He might as well have been staring at a blank wall.
“Yeah?” He said. It was like an echo.
“Yeah! Look at this!”
I brandished the paper through the air.
“We had to write stories for class,” I continued, “and Mrs. Clayton gave me an A plus! She even said it was the best one!”
“That’s great honey.” he said back. He still hadn’t turned to look at the paper. Then, he reached out to a framed photograph of my mother, kept right on his desk, and ran his thumb over the edge. “You know,” he muttered, “your mother liked to write.”
“Yeah, dad, I know,” I said. I was starting to get annoyed. Not that he wasn’t paying attention to me. I was well used to that. What was I, six? No. What made me mad was how sad he was. I know he missed mom, but he was just always sad all the time! And no matter what I did, he just kept on being sad! Not even an A+ paper could shake him out of it!
“Come on dad, please!” I said. “Won’t you read it?”
“Of course.” he said. He reached over, took the paper from my hand, and placed it down on the desk. He still hadn’t even looked at it. I knew that he wanted to want to read it. But I also knew that he wasn’t going to. Not anytime soon, anyway. Not while the picture of my mother kept drawing his gaze.
I felt tears springing into my eyes. I hated to cry. Crying was for little girls. But I just felt so helpless. What was I supposed to do? How could I possible cheer him up?
Then, something quite interesting occurred to me.
I bit my lip, unsure. Both my parents had taught me to be honest. But they’d also taught me to help those in need – and wasn’t my father in need right now?
I sighed, strode forward, and snatched my story from the desk.
“Actually, Dad, I lied.” I declared. “I got an F on the story. Mrs. Clayton was very disappointed, and actually wants to hold me after school to redo it.”
“What?” He asked. For the first time, I heard urgency in his voice. His eyes snapped into focus, and he looked down for the first time at the paper in my hand.
“I told you!” I spat. “I got an F!”
He frowned. His body tensed. It was the most present I had seen him in ages. “But, Mags, you’ve always gotten A’s. I don’t understand – ”
“An F, dad! An F! I got a fucking F!”
I gasped, amazed at my own temerity. I had used the forbidden F word, and for an F!
Mrs. Clayton would have been pleased with the irony.
Anger crossed over my father’s face, and he rose from his chair. I swear, dust fell off him as he stood, that’s how long he’d been sitting there, staring. “Young lady,” he snapped. “I do not expect you to use that language in front of your father – ”
“Aw, fuck it!” I swore again, tearing the paper into shreds before his eyes. It wouldn’t do to have him see the A+. Not now.
“Margaret Victoria Clifton!” My father thundered. He was standing up at full height, full of righteous anger. I quailed beneath him. He was almost never angry.
Grabbing me by the shoulder, he drove me from his office, right into my bedroom. He thrust me inside and yelled, “Your mother would be ashamed! Now, you’re grounded! No phone, TV, anything! Good night!”
And with that, he slammed the door closed.
Now that I was alone, I slid down to sit on my rug, waiting for the trembling to stop. Even though I was freaked out from him shouting at me, I was smiling.
Sure, my dad was angry. But this was the first I had seen him be anything but sad in ages.
And after month after month of sadness, even a bit of anger was welcome.