Chapter Text
When he’s four years old, Emmett Forrest answers to his name without protest for the first time in his life. Prior to that, he’s ignored anyone trying to get his attention, or he’s insisted they’re wrong.
In retrospect, this is his mom’s fault; referring to him as Harry Houdini nonstop from infancy on was bound to cause some confusion. She loves to tell the story about how she left her two-month-old swaddled and asleep in the middle of her bed while she ran downstairs to take the laundry out of the dryer – and when she came back not five minutes later, he had not only busted out of the baby straitjacket in which she’d tightly wrapped him, but had managed to roll almost to the edge of the queen-sized mattress.
(She only ever left him in his crib from then on, but it was only a matter of months before he was climbing out of that too.)
The older he gets, the more elaborate his escape attempts become. One of the teaching assistants in his Head Start classroom has to spend most of the day within arm’s reach of him because of how quickly (and frequently) he breaks for the door. The first week of kindergarten, he actually makes it outside, and is half a block away before anyone even realizes he’s gone. That afternoon, Emmett is given crayons and construction paper, as well as a seat in the corner of the principal’s office thirty feet and at least five adults away from the exit. He can’t really understand why his mom shows up (in her nurse’s aide uniform, no less), or why she and the principal seem so upset – and he doesn’t know what a LoJack is or why they keep talking about one.
Finally, everyone manages to figure out that he’s not just fleeing for the fun of it. By and large, it’s because he’s bored. School moves too slowly to keep him occupied, much less challenged. The principal recommends a gifted program at a public elementary across the city – but they don’t have an early-morning drop-off option, and his mom’s shift starts at 8. So his teacher has to get a little creative.
Emmett spends the rest of that year learning that mental escapes are good too, and they don’t bother the grownups around him nearly as much. Once his classwork is complete - typically in less than half the time it takes the other kids – he reads quietly in his seat. As soon as he finishes a book, he has another one waiting. He’s on to chapter books by Christmas and kicks off first grade by ripping through Roald Dahl’s entire bibliography in less than a month.
(He’s particularly fond of Matilda, despite the profound disappointment of not being able to move objects telepathically himself.)
The advantages of escaping into books – becoming thicker and more complex by the day – multiply the older he gets. In addition to fulfilling his brain’s desperate need for intellectual stimulation, focusing on the pages before him seems to help block out kids’ taunts about his perpetually high-water jeans and used Jansport backpack that’s more safety pin than canvas at this point.
(The nicknames they come up for him with are as creative as they are cruel.)
It also serves as a distraction from the rather upsetting sounds he often hears at home. He doesn’t remember his father at all, and his mom always just says there’s nothing worth knowing. But she starts actively dating when he’s around seven or eight, and Emmett can’t imagine the man was worse than his generally vile successors. For all of Dana Forrest’s strengths – and there are a ton – she has exceptionally crappy taste in men, and things usually get worse the longer a relationship straggles on.
Emmett tries to stay out of the house as much as he can, and when he’s ten he starts to water plants, carry groceries, whatever odd jobs he can dig up around the neighborhood – every little bit helps when you’re living hand-to-mouth, so he figures it’s killing two birds with one stone. Whenever he is home, though, and Dana’s not pulling yet another overtime shift… well. It’s pretty easy to tune out the arguments and even the slamming doors, but his mother crying is somewhat harder to unhear. The real standouts are the few who introduce themselves as Emmett’s ‘new daddy.’ That phrase seems to correlate with more of the really bad stuff: panicked shrieks, sickening thuds, whispered pleadings that are somehow louder than anything else.
(The jerks ignore him more often than not, but his bedroom door has two locks. Just in case.)
In middle school, some of his teachers reprimand him for not following along with the lessons, and he respectfully tells them that he’ll be happy to follow along if he still has work left to complete. (Which, of course, he never does.) The ones who are burned out – and he doesn’t blame them, thirty kids in a class with next to no resources has to be pretty terrible – label him a discipline problem and send him to the office. A lot. He doesn’t totally mind detention, though, since he can read uninterrupted and it gives him another couple hours away from Jerry, the asshole du jour who spends all his time going through one case of Bud Light after another in front of their TV.
He’s sitting there calmly one afternoon in seventh grade when Ms. Chandler, his social studies teacher, walks in to monitor. Emmett never really has an issue in that class, since he always submits assignments (mandatory and extra credit) well ahead of time – and he suspects it’s just a relief that he’s not throwing things or yelling across the room like half his peers. So Ms. Chandler looks pretty shocked to see him.
“What could you possibly have done to end up in here?”
Emmett gestures at the public library’s well-worn copy of Beyond Good and Evil. (He’s at the height of his existentialism phase.) “I was reading in language arts class.”
Ms. Chandler snorts. “I thought reading was the point of language arts.”
“Instead of listening to Mr. Stevens,” he elaborates. “He was talking about themes in The Outsiders because we have to write a paper, but I turned it in last week. And I read it like two years ago anyway, but he’s never really happy when I point stuff like that out to him. So…”
Ms. Chandler looks contemplative. “Emmett, do me a favor. Tomorrow after my class, stick around for a minute.”
“Okay.” Emmett shrugs before retreating back into his book.
Turns out Ms. Chandler coaches Quiz Bowl at a magnet high school several miles away. There’s this loophole where middle school students from the same district can join the team as an alternate – and other than plowing through every book in the greater Boston area, it’s not like Emmett has a lot going on. So he starts taking the bus down there for practice three afternoons a week, and marvels at how clean and spacious everything is at a school that isn’t hopelessly overcrowded. The Quiz Bowl kids – eleven in all – are super smart, unapologetically nerdy, and immediately able to see beyond his ill-fitting clothes and gawky physique.
Getting the hang of the signaling device takes a while. He keeps not pressing hard enough, and then he can’t quite get the timing right. Four sessions in, his frustration with himself must be evident, because Ms. Chandler says they’ll work on it together.
“No, it’s okay,” Emmett responds quickly through clenched teeth. “I can do this; I just need to practice more.”
Ms. Chandler takes the device out of his hand. “Emmett, I don’t know what all is happening for you outside school or why you feel like you have to figure everything out yourself, but from where I’m sitting, it seems like you’re up against a whole lot. If you won’t let anyone help you, getting what you want out of life is only going to be harder.”
He sucks it up and accepts her help, and handling the thing quickly becomes second nature. Once it’s no longer an obstacle, he learns he’s pretty quick on his feet with recalling bits of information he previously thought useless. He subs in at almost every Saturday match, and eventually someone thinks to let him handle the lightning round – which becomes the norm for the rest of that year, as well as the next.
The older students never say anything directly about his financial situation, but they clearly put two and two together. In December of his eighth-grade year, they invite him to participate in the team’s Secret Santa, with a strict ten-dollar gift limit imposed. He gets Allison, who’s obsessed with gel pens – so that’s a slam dunk, and running errands for Ms. McQueen down the block means he has the cash. His gift, on the other hand, is a pristine-looking messenger bag, and no one – Ms. Chandler included – bats an eye. Keith, the only freshman starter, simply says that whoever his Secret Santa was made a good choice; Emmett needs a better way to carry the metric ton of books he’s always reading.
Later, after he gets home, he finds a Target gift card tucked inside one of the bag’s pockets. Even if he could have conceivably made himself believe the bag was within budget, the card blows the total incredibly far past the cutoff. He swallows hard, bristling at the idea of their pity, and briefly considers never going back. But then he stops and thinks about what Ms. Chandler said when he first started. He recalls the genuine joy on his teammates’ faces as he carefully tore off the tissue paper, and recognizes that it’s coming from a place of kindness. And fine – maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world to let someone give him a hand once in a while.
(When winter break ends, he returns to school and the hems of his pant legs actually reach his shoes.)
In January, Keith says something about Emmett attending high school there the following year like it’s a foregone conclusion. The possibility hasn’t occurred to Emmett before now – but his guidance counselor has a few applications in her office. He finishes the entrance exam in less than an hour (almost everyone else takes the full three), he’s never gotten less than an A in anything, and Ms. Chandler’s letter of recommendation beautifully explains away all the detentions as mismanagement of a bright kid.
His mom is wary about the long bus rides, versus walking around the corner to the local high school – but she switches shifts to attend the new student tour anyway. Emmett watches her take in the state-of-the-art computer and science labs, the descriptions of small class sizes, the list of colleges attended by graduates. Her face slowly softens into disbelief that this place exists – for free, no less – and pride that Emmett has more than earned his spot there.
***
High school proves to be a significant upgrade. For the first time he can remember, most of Emmett’s classes are challenging enough that he actually needs to pay attention and actively participate. It becomes apparent in many a heated class discussion that he has a bizarre yet impressive gift for arguing – so pretty soon he’s splitting time after school between Quiz Bowl and the debate team. He takes a part-time job as a library page as soon as he’s old enough for working papers, and his income, while modest, means that little extras are no longer out of reach.
(He figures he’ll sleep when he’s dead.)
He grows seven inches in as many months when he’s sixteen, and when he walks into his apartment one evening and sees Ray the unemployed grifter screaming in his mother’s face, something inside him snaps. He’s still pretty lanky despite his newfound height, but by now Emmett can talk his way into or out of just about anything he wants. He gets in between them; stares Ray down in more ways than one; dodges a sloppy drunken punch; reminds Ray pointedly that assaulting a minor would definitely violate his probation.
They leave his stuff on the landing and call a locksmith as soon as he finally stumbles out the door – and his mother takes the dating sabbatical that both of them have long needed.
Shortly thereafter, Dana gets a job at the hospital. Basically the same work, except it pays a lot better than the nursing home did and actually includes decent health insurance. More than anything else, though, she keeps bringing up the tuition assistance program.
“I don’t have to work as much overtime here, so maybe I could. But I’ve been out of school for so long, I just don’t know.” She’s making dinner while he does his homework – a peaceful scene they’ve not often had the luxury to experience.
Emmett looks up from his AP physics book, trying not to think about how this class is likely going to be the death of him. “Mom, it would be like riding a bike.”
“Not right now,” she hedges. “I’ll worry about that later – let’s focus on you getting in to college. Where are you looking again?”
He rattles off a list of schools, all of which offer in-state tuition. “I should be able to get most of it covered from merit scholarships,” he assures her.
Dana looks skeptical. “Your English teacher said something to me at back-to-school night about Harvard.”
“Mom.” Emmett rolls his eyes. “That’s beyond a reach, and it’s almost hilarious how expensive it is.”
“She told me you’d say that too,” his mother replies as she carefully spoons out rice. “And said to remind you that their financial aid is designed to cover everything you need.”
He sighs. He can’t deny the appeal, but he knows if he gets in and they can’t swing it, it’ll be so much worse than if he just hadn’t applied in the first place.
“Plus,” Dana continues, “it’ll give you a leg up on getting in to their law school if you were already there for your bachelor’s.”
“I never said I want to be a lawyer,” Emmett says nervously.
(He absolutely does.)
Dana carries two plates over to the table where Emmett sits. “That debate tournament you won last year - the regional thing,” she begins. “I couldn’t even talk for half an hour, I was so amazed. I have no idea how I got a kid who’s so smart, but Emmett, we’ve had to settle for less, a lot. I don’t want you to do that with college. At least apply and see what happens.”
He closes his physics book (maybe a little harder than he means to) and looks at her meaningfully. “Fine. I will. But if I get in, and if we can make it work, I’m only going if you go back to school too.”
She holds out her hand for him to shake. “Deal.”
He applies early action, and a thick envelope emblazoned with the Harvard logo shows up the second week of December. Sure enough, they’re covering everything – tuition, room and board, there are even funds he can request for a laptop or textbooks or any other living expenses that come up.
“I won’t have to worry about anything,” he mutters nonstop for a week, unable to fully let it sink in.
The rest of his senior year flies past. His friends start planning for the prom, and flat-out refuse to let him skip it. He makes plans with Sara, his debate teammate, to attend along with the rest of the group, and picks up an extra couple weekend shifts at the library to cover everything. It’s nearly impossible to wrap his head around the surreal idea that he – the lonely, scrawny kid who buried his feelings in books – is about to wear a tuxedo to a formal event with a bunch of friends. As a prelude to attending Harvard, no less.
(A few days before the prom, Sara informs him – with the same confidence she always channeled to rip apart opponents – that she strictly sees them as friends, but also doesn’t want to graduate a virgin.
So.)
***
He moves into his dorm, and swears that if he were any happier, cartoon birds would probably be helping him get dressed every morning. His roommate Luke is on the crew team, but equally geeks out over Lord of the Rings, so they get along fine. His classes are everything he thought they’d be, even with the legacy finance bros in macroeconomics. His financial aid covers an unlimited meal plan, which is good because he grew another half-inch over the summer (his mom thinks he’s finally done now) and he’s perpetually ravenous. His favorite library is whichever one he was in last.
Time has never really flown the way it does for him in undergrad. He declares a double major in econ (which he eventually admits is a bit tedious) and history (which he couldn’t love more). The work-study office lets him take jobs off-campus that relate to his concentrations – first as a clerk at the State House, then later a position as a Freedom Trail tour guide. The dress code requires full immersion, so he’s probably the only guy on campus whose wardrobe includes a tri-corner hat.
(His mom books a tour one day without telling him and runs through two disposable cameras.)
He’s friendly with a bunch of people; Keith is a lit major a year ahead of him, and they do trivia nights with a small group every so often. He also dates once in a while, albeit nothing serious. Junior year, Luke sets him up with a friend of his girlfriend’s. Emmett has a lot in common with Tania, who’s there on scholarship and similarly ambitious, and they try to make a go of it. It’s clear to both of them after about a month, though, that they’re much better suited to being friends – with occasional benefits, on and off.
He applies to a couple other law schools as safety options, but is accepted to Harvard and can’t imagine being anywhere else. The financial aid package isn’t quite as comprehensive this time. Most of his friends leave Boston – Luke gets an electrical engineering job back home in Maryland, and Tania’s first-choice med school is in Chicago. His housing isn’t covered, so he moves in with two BU students – it’s a fifth-floor walkup, 45 minutes from campus on public transportation, and his room is basically the size of a shopping cart, but he can afford it. He keeps the Freedom Trail gig because people tip pretty decently, and signs up with an undergrad tutoring service.
Classes start, and it’s like the legacy finance bros from all over the planet have multiplied and congregated right there. He’s keeping up with the reading as best he can, but it’s hard – really hard. His new roommates stay up until 2am gaming and drinking most nights, rendering it almost impossible to function at home. On top of that, more than a handful of the students he tutors expect he’ll be taking their classes for them, and become indignant when he clarifies what his role actually is.
One night he leaves campus late, thinking he can at least sleep for around five hours between when his roommates finally shut up and when he needs to get up for class. He closes his eyes on the T just for a second, wakes up at the end of the line in Braintree – and finds it was the last train until the morning. His options are all frankly terrible; he can sleep in the station, walk fourteen miles in the middle of the night, or cough up money he doesn’t have for a cab ride. He takes the cab in the end, if only because he knows he’ll pass out the second he sits down, and the power nap it affords him will enable another few hours of studying when he finally gets back.
(After that, he more or less lives in the 24-hour library.)
It’s impossible not to think about how his student loans are growing exponentially by the second. Two weeks into the semester, the laptop he’s had for four years dies; he manages to get it working, but it still freezes sporadically and shuts off if it’s unplugged for more than five minutes. The week after, Callahan kicks him out of class, and Emmett protests without thinking that he hasn’t read the supplementary chapters yet because he was at work. Callahan says that’s not his problem, and for the next few days, classmates make fun of him when he walks past.
(Because poor people are hilarious. The bitterness he’s done his best to eliminate is desperate to come raging back.)
Meanwhile, his mom has been true to her word and finished her nursing degree at the end of the summer. Emmett is sitting on a bench outside the campus gates, dreading Callahan’s class the following day, when his phone rings.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Emmett, I passed!” She full-out whoops. “I did it! I’m finally an RN!”
(He’s totally forgotten she was taking her licensure exam this week.)
“Oh! Congratulations!” He stands up, his worries temporarily forgotten. “That’s amazing, I knew you could do it.”
“Thanks, sweetie. Listen,” she continues at lightning speed, “I know you’re busy, but you know how the hospital was going to move me to a nursing job as soon as I passed?”
“Yeah. That’s still happening, right?”
“It is, and it’s in my same department, so that’s great. But right now they’re doing sign-on bonuses, and I just found out I qualify. Seven thousand dollars!”
“Mom.” He smiles. “That’s really, really great.”
“Emmett, I want to give it to you.” He hears the resolve in her voice even through their patchy connection, and sits back down.
“No way,” he protests. “You earned it, it’s yours. Look, don’t worry about me.”
“I mean it.” Nope, she is not giving up. “I know that apartment you’re in is killing you; the commute and the roommates and all the other… Emmett, my thumbnail is bigger than that room. And there’s not even a window, it’s probably illegal.”
“It’s fi-”
“No, it is not fine. Don’t you dare. Listen, I’m good, okay? My pay is about to double, and this is the first time I can actually do something…” Her voice cracks, but she lets out a puff of air and continues. “I want you to find a place near campus – your own place – and use this for a security deposit, and whatever’s left can help pay the rent. You need to be focused on school. All right?”
“All right.” He swallows hard. “Thank you.”
“Least I can do. None of this would be happening if it weren’t for you, you know.”
He gets lucky. He finds a one-bedroom, partially furnished, that’s a short walk from campus; the owner is a straight-shooting guy in his mid-60s who’s willing to accept a lower rent in exchange for someone quiet and nondestructive. Nothing has been updated for at least 30 years, but the appliances all work and the shower has decent water pressure and it is so blissfully quiet. After he puts down the first month and deposit, there’s enough left over that he can scale back on working; still at both jobs, but only three days a week on average, rather than six. His grades skyrocket and he gets a paid summer position at a small firm nearby, and he feels like he’s back on solid ground. Sure, he could live without the idiots in his classes who are destined for mergers and acquisitions – somehow they found out what Emmett does for work and have taken to calling him Paul Revere – but he’s focused on exams and law review and separating himself from the pack. Callahan eventually takes a liking to him, despite their inauspicious start, and asks Emmett to intern for him his third year.
“If I like what I see, you’ll be an associate after you graduate,” Callahan assures him.
Emmett pours everything he has into making that happen. He’s determined to learn from past experience, and once he figures out that Callahan’s office is somehow either a ten-minute drive or an hourlong bus ride away, he reasons that the ancient-yet-functional car he tracks down is worth the expense. Callahan offers positive feedback on multiple occasions – and after his last exam, tells him that the firm is unfortunately still recovering from the recession and can’t take on anyone else full-time just then.
“But I can keep you on as an assistant,” Callahan offers, “and I also need a TA for my classes in the fall. As soon as something opens up, it’ll be yours.”
Emmett knows quite a few of his classmates have gotten full-time offers already, and wonders if he should look elsewhere. But he knows criminal defense pays – hell, he’s pretty sure he could pay his rent for half a year with one of Callahan’s suits – and this is just accepting a helping hand, which people keep telling him he needs to do. He agrees, and Callahan lets him spend most of the summer studying for the bar. Results won’t be back until October or so, and it gives him a few weeks to focus on assisting Callahan in court and get things ready for the fall semester.
He reviews the final course roster for Criminal Law 101 after ensuring the syllabus is correct. He hopes all these people are able to find whatever it is they need here, just like he has.
Hoopes. Huntington. Kensington. Padamadan. Schultz.
Woods.