Hard Sell| ETHMA

19

ETHAN
Saturday Evening, September 30

You know how snobby people talk about the distinction between old money and new money, as though it's a thing?

It's definitely a thing.

I know, because I grew up surrounded by the latter.
Neither of my parents grew up rich. My mom's solidly middle class from Boise. My dad's the son of two schoolteachers in Oklahoma.

They met in New York when my mom was a flight attendant on a stopover and my dad was staying at the same hotel, celebrating getting his first job offer from an investment firm. (My knack for numbers comes straight from the old man.)

A one-night stand turned into a long-distance relationship, which turned into an engagement, which turned into the fanciest wedding Boise had ever seen, courtesy of my dad moving quickly up the Wall Street food chain.

They'd moved to New York, done the requisite big-city couple thing for a few years as my dad got more firmly established in the financial scene. My dad doesn't talk much about those days, but my mom claims they were wildly in love, the kind of all-consuming love that makes you blind to reality.

Eventually, Mom's biological clock started ticking (her words not mine, because I'd prefer never to think of it), and they'd moved to a Connecticut McMansion, i.e. a cookie-cutter, pristine new-construction house that looked almost identical to all their neighbors'.

I'd been born shortly after. Shortly after that, they moved to another McMansion, this one slightly larger. I'd spent most of my youth there, and when I left for college, they moved to yet another house, this one in a gated community and bigger than the other two combined, never mind that it was just the two of them.

And here's where the "new money" cliché comes into play: my parents spend money just to spend it. Or maybe to let other people know they have it? I've never really been able to figure it out. They've never kept a car longer than a year. It always has to be the newest model. My mom gets a new Dior purse every season, plus a matching wallet. My dad doesn't just have a Rolex, he collects them. And talks about them.

You think I'm being hard on them? Perhaps.

After all, I never wanted for anything. My first car was a brand-new red BMW convertible. For my eighteenth birthday party, my parents flew twelve of my friends and me to Aspen for a ski trip.
The money doesn't bother me. Neither does the way they spend it, not really. It's the fact that somewhere along the line, they let money replace morals. And integrity.

Don't believe me? Just wait and see.

"You might have mentioned that you weren't going to say a single word on the drive up," Emma says, breaking the silence in the car.

I glance over at the passenger side, not at all sure how I feel about her presence. On the one hand, I'm relieved for the company. On the other hand, I don't know that I'm ready for anyone to see this part of my life. I've kept it private for so long.

"Sorry," I say, drumming my thumbs on the steering wheel. "Spending time with both my parents together always makes me tense."

"You don't mention them much."

"Probably for the same reason you don't mention yours."

She snorts and turns her head to look out the window. "I doubt it."

I don't push her. Someday, she'll tell me all about Sophia and the shadows in her eyes whenever someone mentions her childhood, but now is not the time.

"You look nice," I say, turning down the radio as I take the exit ramp off the freeway.

"He says, an hour and a half after picking me up," she teases.