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PROLOGUE
The subdivision is called Autumn Downs, a name I find particularly dumb. The developers probably thought it added an air of aristocracy, but to me it just seems stupid. As I wait at the security gate, I can't help but notice how fake-secure the community looks. The gate is unnecessarily big and imposing, but I know there are plenty of places around the perimeter where I could easily scale the fence in a three-piece suit without breaking a sweat.
"Hang tight, buddy," the security guard tells me. "Don't worry about this crap. You won't have to go through it again, at least not with me. In a few weeks, everyone will know you."
"Thanks, Man," I say gratefully. This "crap" refers to the process of getting approval to start my new job inside the community. Best Pool Service may not have a creative name, but they've given me exclusive rights to work in Autumn Downs. They take care of all the supplies and corporate stuff while I get a percentage off the top every two weeks and a profit share every quarter.
But first, I actually have to get inside Autumn Downs to start the work and earn my percentage off the top.
I enter Autumn Downs. Stupid name, but I push that thought aside. Forget the fact that "Downs" refers to chalk hills in England. It's still a dumb name for a subdivision. Who wants to live in a place called Fall Downs?
The security guard hands me a stack of papers, including my driver's license with a red band notifying that I have two more years before turning twenty-one. The band and the guard calling me "buddy" irritates me for some reason. I don't like how being nineteen allows him to be overly familiar with me. He's not my buddy, and his attempts at camaraderie only make him seem more pathetic.
I put my ID in my wallet and hang the guest placard on my rearview mirror, hoping it will protect me from the golf-cart driving rent-a-cops. In my hand, I hold a stapled sheaf of papers, with LAUREL HEIGHTS VENDOR GUIDELINES written in bold letters on the top page.
The guard rolls his eyes and says, "Nobody reads that. Don't worry about it. But there's a map on the last page that might help you. The streets here are too new to be on all databases, so your navigator app probably won't work."
“Thanks again,” I say, “but I think you gave me a different community.”
"That's the idiots we've got living here, man," he says. "So rich they have to invent problems. The homeowner's association is trying to change the name. I think there's a Laurel Heights in Seattle or something, so some people don't feel as special as they want to. They made the sign before they had the votes, and now there's a big shitstorm over it." He winks conspiratorially. "Welcome to Moneyville, bud."
I whistle and say, “I guess.”
I do that for show. This guy really needs to work on not being too friendly. On the other hand, exaggerated attitude or not, it's nice that at least one other person sees through the BS.
There are whole movies about this concept of suburbia. In those movies, something dark and sinister always lurks beneath the polish. It isn’t just places like this, though, wealthy places. There are suburbs all along the financial spectrum, from the actually secure, double-gated communities where truly important people live to the slums that cling to life around the outskirts of dead cities.
They all have secrets. Families have secrets. And everyone is fighting like hell to keep those secrets from being revealed.
It's foolish most of the time. Most people don't bother trying to figure out the secrets hiding behind blue-grey exteriors with flat black trim. They're too busy wondering what other people think about them to worry about other people. And the ones who are supposed to discover the secrets, the ones who make a career of it? They don't care either. At least, they don't care past their job requirements. They make a token effort, and then apologize that the case is inactive.
I shake my head against the distraction of my thoughts. It's time to get to work.
I locate Vernon Court on the map. There are three client houses right in a row there. It's very close, actually, and it takes me next to no time at all to park and step out of the van. Heat assaults me the moment I step out of the vehicle's air conditioning. I feel it through the open window at the guard gate, but that's nothing compared to now. Today is a scorcher. It feels strange to have a reason to care about a heat wave. The weather has never bothered me before.
But then again, I've never had a job that requires me to work outside before. I've never really had a job before, not one to speak of at least.
I look around for just a moment. I haven't even met any of the clients, and I already feel out of place. As loudly as this place screams, "Look at us! Please notice how much better we are than you!" it also screams, "Look at you! Look at how unworthy you are!"
But I don't have any choice about things. I need the money, and I need a job with flexible scheduling. Especially during the summer when I can earn more money. When fall semester comes around, I won't be able to work as much. Fortunately, people will use their pools less regularly in the fall, so I'm confident I can balance my studies with work.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched by hostile eyes, that the neighborhood itself is rejecting me the way the body would reject a germ. That’s what I am to people like this. A germ.
I can feel myself growing angry, so I shake those thoughts free. It doesn’t matter what I am to these people. They’re paying me their money, and I need that money right now, so it doesn’t matter how I feel about it.
I take a deep breath and walk to my first client’s front door.
CHAPTER ONE
There are times when I think of my home as small but clean. Not much but safe. Nothing special but still something to be grateful for.
I have all those platitudes to help me deal with a far more pressing and, I suppose, more obvious truth. Where I live is nothing like Laurel Heights. Damn, I wish the sign had been right and that the place really was called Autumn Downs. It would be nice to have at least a decent reason to disdain them now that I'm back home.
Laurel Heights is a plastic place filled with plastic people. The lawns are all perfectly manicured and kept that way by unobtrusive landscapers. I imagine they never run mowers or leaf blowers before nine-thirty in the morning. The place is filled with pools, and they're all pristine because they all hire people like me. The driveways are filled with cars kept shiny and new by detailers who come directly to the homes so the fine residents of Laurel heights don’t have to go through the horrific inconvenience of driving for five minutes or—perish the thought—waiting for an hour while someone cleans their car at a shop.
But it's all the same. Every single house on every single lot is the damned same. Every car is the damned same, and everyone who lives in those houses and drives those cars is the same damned person.
I sit on the recliner and sigh as I sip a beer. The beer, perpetually on sale at the gas station down the street, costs me double because I have to pay the next-door neighbor to buy it for me. Even paying double, it's still cheap beer.
