Chapter 3: Frustrating Children

Liam

“LIAM, PLEASE COME to the library. Your mother and I wish to speak to you.” I looked apologetically at Meredith but she just shrugged her shoulders and said goodnight. I followed my parents into the library.

“Whatever came over you, Liam? It was unconscionably rude to challenge Mr. Ferguson at a dinner party filled with friends who came to celebrate the achievement of your majority.” Mother accepted a glass of scotch from Father as she scowled at me.

“Were those my friends, Mother?” At my birthday dinner, most of the guests had been my parents’ friends or people they hoped to impress with a dinner at Buxton House. I was merely an excuse for the event.

“This is not a debate,” Father snapped. “Keep your Socratic questions for your conversations with your grandmother. She is the only one amused by them. I happen to be in negotiations with Fergie that could be worth millions.”

“I’m sorry, Father. Do we need money?” Father scowled at me and I conceded defeat. They had long since learned how to handle my attempts to turn the conversation to my own ends. The Socratic method really only works well when you can control the flow of the conversation. It was time to make a straight-forward justification and explanation. “I’m truly sorry, Father. Mr. Ferguson was throwing around unsupported opinions and theories that were disproved decades ago. He was, in fact, directly insulting one of my close friends. Remy Fortier came to this country to get an education and seek the opportunities our nation is reputed to offer all. I could no more sit by and let my friend be insulted than you could help being offended by my treatment of your friend.”

“Remy Fortier does not fit the profile Fergie was describing,” Lydia interrupted. “He’s a good and talented boy and scarcely even has an accent. And he is a virtuoso on the violin.”

“In other words, because he is white?”

“We are not racists! I employ people of all races in my companies and treat them all equally. Their advancement is based on merit and merit alone.”

“Father, it is all too obvious that even assignment to a class has become culturally discriminatory. How can one develop into a Leader if there are no opportunities to lead? How can he become a Commander if all he has ever known is being bossed around and told what to do? We espouse the idea that classes are based on inner character, yet people like Mr. Ferguson continue to promote discriminatory practices under the guise of saying ‘It’s their own fault.’ That simply isn’t acceptable.”

“What is unacceptable is for you to challenge and insult people who came to honor you on your birthday. That is not the sign of a Leader,” Mother said. That stung a bit and I suspected she was probably right.

“I am eighteen years old today. Perhaps the next time there is a party to honor me, it might be with my friends and associates.”

“Go to bed.” Mother tossed down the rest of her drink before continuing. “We’ll discuss this with your grandmother. She egged you on. She can decide the appropriate punishment. If we punish you, you will automatically believe we are being unfair.”

I was relieved. I didn’t like these conversations with my parents. I’d grown to see, over the years, that regardless of class, they honored wealth. And I was a beneficiary of that. I lived in a mansion and never had to worry about anything. I had a feeling that wealth was an obstacle I would need to overcome in order to be a Leader.

Angela Ritter

I’M SURE THERE ARE DAYS in every mother’s life when she wonders what she did to deserve such a troublesome daughter. I’ve spoken to enough mothers to know in my head that it doesn’t last forever, but perhaps we could just skip the teen years. And having a precocious teen is even more problematic. She shouldn’t have grown up so fast!

I looked at the notes I’d made for next week’s articles. Being a daily columnist had its good parts, but I was itching to get started on my next book. A stack of research on “Leaders of Our Age” looked abandoned on the edge of my desk as I fought with the outlines for my series on “Influencing Class.” It was an ageless argument between the influence of heredity and environment on class determination. Our society had long abandoned the notion of a hereditary class system, and just as quickly abandoned classes based on wealth or position. “Inherent Character” was supposed to be the determination and most of our educational system was supposed to identify and enhance a student’s class characteristics.

I wondered, sometimes, how effective it was. Was there a reason that certain schools turned out large numbers of Dexters—people who were ‘happiest’ working with their hands and bodies—while other schools had more Creators or Commanders or Defenders? I had a stack of research on the teachers in those schools and still had little in the way of conclusive results.

I needed to know why. I guess that’s what makes me an Inquirer. I couldn’t identify anything in my own childhood environment that influenced my class. I had simply always wanted to know the Why and the How of things.

Currently, I wanted to know why my fifteen-year-old daughter was only now getting in at a quarter past midnight.

“They were so pretentious,” Susan answered my question about how the party was. I disciplined myself not to mention the rumpled state of her party clothes and smeared lipstick. “We weren’t allowed to take pictures and I had to leave my camera at the door. I only wanted a couple of snaps to show my friends I was really there. No one will believe me otherwise.”

“It’s an honor to be invited to Buxton House at all. I’m sure if you call, they would arrange a photo tour for you. It’s not polite to just point a camera and take photos of other people’s homes without an invitation to do so,” I said. I’d seen a notice that tours of the old mansion were available for groups, though I’m sure they were closely monitored and did not get to see private areas of the old house. It was one of the original estates that went back nearly two hundred years. It was architecturally grotesque as every generation seemed to add its own touch to the house and grounds. At one time, it was said, over a hundred people had lived there, including the staff. There were only four family members now. I wondered how many staff they needed to maintain the old monstrosity.

“Everyone was so formal,” Susan continued. “Mr. This and Mrs. That. There were only four teens there. Some celebration for an eighteenth birthday. We called each other by our first names, except Liam and Meredith. I mean Lonnie and I used their first names and they used ours, but between the two of them, they were Mr. Cyning and Miss Sauvage.”

“Meredith Sauvage?” I said. “So, she’s the one who won.”

“Won what?”

“It’s long been assumed that Liam Cyning would settle into a class as a Leader, Commander, Promoter, or Inquirer. In any of those positions, he would require an assistant. It could even have been your Lonnie who got that job.” I had been reasonably certain the selection would be made soon but was unaware of a choice having been made. One didn’t probe deeply into the affairs of the Cynings, but rumors had surfaced nearly ten years ago that teachers were looking for classmates of Liam to train as assistants.

“Lonnie, an assistant? Hardly,” Susan scoffed. “He’d be Liam’s boss. But I don’t think Liam would make a very good assistant, either. He’s too full of himself. Do you know he started an argument with one of the guests? Rather than pursue the argument at the table, the guest got up and left.”

“Was the guest offended?”

“I don’t think anyone dares to be offended there. How do they rate? I mean, they’re rich, but so are Lonnie’s parents. And Lonnie’s house isn’t as big but it’s much prettier. Buxton House was designed by a dyslexic monkey,” she twittered.

“Oh? When did you see Lonnie’s house?”

“Um ... We stopped by so he could introduce me to his parents. Once. They were quite nice.” My daughter was lying. Of course, unpleasant people can adopt an air of politeness when social niceties called for it. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t consider Susan as anything more than a convenient toy for their son and not worth the time of an introduction. Mr. Porras was a Senator and Mrs. Porras managed his career, his campaigns, and his money. “Oh, Lonnie said to be sure to tell you that Mrs. Cyning would like to meet you.”