the general area from my
phone, so long as I had a decent Wi-Fi connection, and then beep loudly when I
request local discovery. It was a handy little white box, very small and easily
forgotten. Attaching it to his Suzuki while he took a mid-afternoon nap on the
couch was no trouble at all.
I tested it on the phone, and sure enough, I got a fairly accurate
reading from the app. This gave me everything I needed to finally see what my
darling stepbrother was up to. Maybe I’d even figure out why I was being forced
to spend the summer holed up with him.
Even then, I knew that it was a tremendous breach of trust, but I was so
furious with him that I gleefully ignored the consequences. When he left at
night, I would occasionally check up on him, forcing my eagerness deep down so
that I could concentrate on other, more important things, such as reading,
shopping, or occasionally going out to see a movie by myself.
To my surprise, it seemed like he just drove around like a maniac. He’d
hop on the interstate going one way, drive that direction for thirty minutes,
and then whip around and do the same thing the other way. There didn’t seem to
be any rhyme or reason to it. Once, he drove over the state line and kept
going, then just stopped somewhere. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what he was
doing, because the cell reception out there was pretty weak, but it stopped
tracking him near an interstate exit with a pair of motels. I assumed he was
just stopping for the night, although I was afraid that he’d never come back.
The next day, I checked the app a few times. He hadn’t gone anywhere
since then, and after lunchtime he was on his way back. Sure enough, he turned
up an hour or two later, acting as if nothing had happened.
I wanted to mischievously jab at him. Out all night with a woman? I would have asked. But I was too
afraid of him to say anything of the sort, and I stayed out of his way. When he
came back through the door, he made no effort to find me or check up on me, so
I continued going about my business.
But watching my stepbrother leave the city and maintain an average speed
of 80 miles per hour at all times grew weary, so I dedicated my efforts
elsewhere. Mostly, this went back to shopping and reading, although there’s
only so much shopping you can do when you’re miserable, and the endless reading
was finally growing tiresome.
One night, I decided to mix things up a little…and I finally visited one
of the nearby clubs.
Club Selene looked like your regular beachside hotspot. With a darkened
view of the ocean through staggered floor-to-ceiling windows, plenty of mood
lighting, and a stunning bar area with a veritable fleet of liquors, it was my
immediate choice for a night out by myself. The dance floor wasn’t too bad
either – the local DJ was blaring the usual EDM fare, although scoping
the place out showed me that this disc
jockey seemed to actually know how to work with a crowd. Plenty of
mid-twenties-somethings were grinding and dancing on the floor when I fought my
way to the bar, taking a seat at an open spot and patiently waiting on the
bartenders.
I must have looked like I had
money, because some tanned, sunglasses-at-night asshole was at my side in
record time.
“Ayy bae, how you doin’ tonight?” He flashed the kind of white teeth I
expect that you get from swishing bleach 24/7.
“Don’t call me bae , you don’t
even know me.”
I sighed, glancing over at one of the staff. The three bartenders were
accounted for, taking drink orders from small pools of guests. The vapid flock
of self-entitlement clung to the wooden surface like packs of piranha,
slathered in not scales but designer clothes – instead of biting and
pecking, they shouted and squealed.
It was disgusting. I briefly locked eyes with one of them, standing away
from the crowd, and she shrugged knowingly with me.
“Yo, you gonna let me buy you a
phone, so long as I had a decent Wi-Fi connection, and then beep loudly when I
request local discovery. It was a handy little white box, very small and easily
forgotten. Attaching it to his Suzuki while he took a mid-afternoon nap on the
couch was no trouble at all.
I tested it on the phone, and sure enough, I got a fairly accurate
reading from the app. This gave me everything I needed to finally see what my
darling stepbrother was up to. Maybe I’d even figure out why I was being forced
to spend the summer holed up with him.
Even then, I knew that it was a tremendous breach of trust, but I was so
furious with him that I gleefully ignored the consequences. When he left at
night, I would occasionally check up on him, forcing my eagerness deep down so
that I could concentrate on other, more important things, such as reading,
shopping, or occasionally going out to see a movie by myself.
To my surprise, it seemed like he just drove around like a maniac. He’d
hop on the interstate going one way, drive that direction for thirty minutes,
and then whip around and do the same thing the other way. There didn’t seem to
be any rhyme or reason to it. Once, he drove over the state line and kept
going, then just stopped somewhere. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what he was
doing, because the cell reception out there was pretty weak, but it stopped
tracking him near an interstate exit with a pair of motels. I assumed he was
just stopping for the night, although I was afraid that he’d never come back.
The next day, I checked the app a few times. He hadn’t gone anywhere
since then, and after lunchtime he was on his way back. Sure enough, he turned
up an hour or two later, acting as if nothing had happened.
I wanted to mischievously jab at him. Out all night with a woman? I would have asked. But I was too
afraid of him to say anything of the sort, and I stayed out of his way. When he
came back through the door, he made no effort to find me or check up on me, so
I continued going about my business.
But watching my stepbrother leave the city and maintain an average speed
of 80 miles per hour at all times grew weary, so I dedicated my efforts
elsewhere. Mostly, this went back to shopping and reading, although there’s
only so much shopping you can do when you’re miserable, and the endless reading
was finally growing tiresome.
One night, I decided to mix things up a little…and I finally visited one
of the nearby clubs.
Club Selene looked like your regular beachside hotspot. With a darkened
view of the ocean through staggered floor-to-ceiling windows, plenty of mood
lighting, and a stunning bar area with a veritable fleet of liquors, it was my
immediate choice for a night out by myself. The dance floor wasn’t too bad
either – the local DJ was blaring the usual EDM fare, although scoping
the place out showed me that this disc
jockey seemed to actually know how to work with a crowd. Plenty of
mid-twenties-somethings were grinding and dancing on the floor when I fought my
way to the bar, taking a seat at an open spot and patiently waiting on the
bartenders.
I must have looked like I had
money, because some tanned, sunglasses-at-night asshole was at my side in
record time.
“Ayy bae, how you doin’ tonight?” He flashed the kind of white teeth I
expect that you get from swishing bleach 24/7.
“Don’t call me bae , you don’t
even know me.”
I sighed, glancing over at one of the staff. The three bartenders were
accounted for, taking drink orders from small pools of guests. The vapid flock
of self-entitlement clung to the wooden surface like packs of piranha,
slathered in not scales but designer clothes – instead of biting and
pecking, they shouted and squealed.
It was disgusting. I briefly locked eyes with one of them, standing away
from the crowd, and she shrugged knowingly with me.
“Yo, you gonna let me buy you a
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