Grub

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It had been casual, the remark that changed Jackson Miller’s understanding of what his life would be. The caterer had just rolled out his three-decker birthday cake: a replica of the historic luxury liner docked in Charleston Bay. Peculiar calliope music trickled from the wall-mounted patio speakers as Jackson breathed in the smell of spun sugar.

Some other kid’s mother had whispered rich boy as the cake was presented. “My son’s parents may be rich,” his father drawled in response, “but that says nothing about Jackson. I plan to spend our money before he inherits a penny of it.” His father’s laugh had pierced the tinny music as Jackson waited in line with his guests, squinting against the sun, to see if the frosting tasted like it smelled.

That’s all it had taken to alter his course. That’s all it had taken, because he already loathed the man who never let him take a chess piece without retribution, who lined up his sailing trophies across the breakfast table every time his son failed to touch home plate, who told his son that reading too many books would divide him from useful society.

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