The Lane to My Success

My father firmly believed that people never appreciate what comes too easily, and nowhere was that truer than with money.

I heard that lesson constantly through the first six years of my life. However, it wasn't until my sixth birthday that I learned what he actually meant.

I was standing in front of a birthday cake so tall I had to tip my head back to see the top, wearing a princess dress that had cost well over a thousand dollars, when my father made his announcement.

"Starting today, you're responsible for your own expenses. I won't be paying for anything anymore.

"Don't blame me. Unless you understand how hard money is to earn, you'll never have a chance to make something of yourself."

At six, I only half understood. I blinked at him and swallowed the mouthful of frosting I'd been eating.

Looking back, I think that was the last piece of cake I ever had.

It had been so sweet.

Now, every time I remembered it, the memory left a sour taste in my mouth.

From that day on, my life changed completely.

There were no more pretty new clothes or shoes. When I outgrew what I had, I forced my feet into shoes that were already too small.

There was no longer a car waiting outside school to take me home. Instead, I walked three miles back every day with the nanny.

Eventually, even new pencils and erasers disappeared from my life. I wanted to borrow them from my classmates, but I could never bring myself to ask.

I cried. I threw tantrums. I threatened him.

None of it mattered.

Eventually, I was forced to accept the truth: the celebrated entrepreneur whose face appeared on magazine covers, my own father, no longer had any money for me.

...

I still didn't know how I survived six years of elementary school.

Lunch wasn't provided at home because my father considered feeding myself part of my "self-reliance."

My first teacher couldn't stand watching me sit through every lunch period starving, so she began giving me her own meal.

She even contacted my father behind my back.

"She's still growing. The school serves lunch, and it really isn't expensive. She can't keep going hungry like this."

My father gave her a few noncommittal answers and said nothing more.

That afternoon, he asked me, "What have you been doing for lunch lately?"

I had no idea I needed to be careful.

Beaming, I told him, "My teacher gives me her lunch. She's the best teacher in the whole world!"

His expression darkened instantly.

He was furious.

According to him, my teacher was interfering with the way he was raising me. He had grown up hungry, he said, and that hardship was exactly what had made him successful.

He refused to let anyone become an obstacle to my "development."

Not long afterward, my father donated an entire building to the school in his own name, then made it clear that he expected them to get rid of my kindhearted teacher.

The administration didn't understand his reasoning, but they did what he wanted.

Under mounting pressure, she didn't last much longer. Eventually, she resigned.

That day, I cried so hard I could barely breathe, spiraling deeper and deeper into guilt as I tortured myself over the careless words that had slipped out.

For a long time, I blamed myself. If I hadn't said anything, maybe none of it would have happened.

The worst part was knowing there was nothing I could do.

I was still too young to protect anyone, including myself. All I could do was let other people decide what happened to me.

The new teacher had clearly learned from her predecessor. She barely even looked at me.

If I wanted to eat, I had to find another way.

I started secretly saving part of my breakfast and taking it to school.

And then, the nanny caught me.

She immediately called my father and, with all the righteous indignation in the world, reported my terrible "crime."

He rushed back from a business trip and made me stand all night as punishment.

"That's cheating!

"Are you really going to sink this low? You want to grow up into some spoiled rich brat who expects everything handed to her?"

"I'm not!" I cried. "I'm just so hungry I feel like I'm going to die!"

I grabbed the sleeve of his suit and begged him.

"I don't want to be hungry anymore. Just give me two dollars a day. Even one. One dollar is enough!"

He knocked my hand away and looked down at me coldly.

"Only people who learn to thrive through adversity deserve success. Stop expecting something for nothing. Instead of begging me, use your own two hands and earn it."

"I tried! Nobody will hire a six-year-old!"

He gave a derisive laugh, as though my inability to solve the problem only proved how hopeless I was.

"If no one will hire you, collect trash. Sell recyclables. You have two perfectly good arms and legs. Do I really have to teach you how to make money too?"

...

In the end, I was left with no choice but to do exactly what he'd told me.

Over time, my life began to feel almost unreal, as though I were somehow living two completely different existences at once.

I lived in an enormous luxury townhouse, yet couldn't afford the textbooks I needed for school.

I listened to my father talk confidently about deals worth hundreds of millions while I sat there calculating which recycling center, the one across town or the one near school, would pay a few cents more for what I'd collected.

At night, I dreamed about the life I'd once had, the life other children used to envy.

Then I woke up crying.

The cruelest thing wasn't never having something.

It was having it once, then having it taken away without mercy.

I remembered being the center of attention in kindergarten. I remembered the brief period when I had believed my father loved me.

Other children used to crowd around me, admiring the glittering skirt of my dress and my brand-new backpack, always eager to talk to me.

I remembered my father lifting me high over his head and promising that he would give me all the love he had.

Then I would open my eyes and find myself back in reality.

I had become Yvonne Lane, the quiet, withdrawn girl who never seemed to belong anywhere.

In third grade, a boy from another class found out that I collected trash after school and sold it for money.

After that, from my ill-fitting clothes to the backpack I'd once been so proud of, everything became fair game.

One day, he took my backpack from me in front of everyone and threw it down the hallway.

"No wonder you stink. You look like nobody even bothers taking care of you. You're disgusting."

My face burned.

"Someone takes care of me! I also have a dad!"

Jason Carter clicked his tongue and wiped his hands as though touching my backpack had dirtied them.

"Then your dad must be a loser too."

Anger flared through me.

"He's not a loser! He owns a company. He's way more successful than your dad!"

Jason burst out laughing. Then he planted a hand on my shoulder, looking down at me as he demanded my father's name.

I shrank back.

"Zachary Lane," I said, suddenly much less confident.

Jason stared at me.

"You mean Zachary Lane from TV?"

I nodded.

"Yeah."

His grin turned even nastier.

"Okay, then. Parent-teacher night is next week. Have him show up, and I'll believe you."

I clenched my teeth.

"Deal."

...

I knew there was almost no chance my father would actually come to the parent-teacher conference.

I just couldn't stomach letting Jason have the last word.

To my surprise, though, Dad brought it up himself.

"I have neglected you in some ways. I'll be at the conference on time. I also want to see whether you've managed to keep up with your schoolwork while supporting yourself."

All the arguments I'd spent the afternoon rehearsing suddenly became unnecessary.

And it wasn't just because of some stupid bet. For the past three years, every parent-teacher conference had come and gone with the seat meant for my parent sitting empty.

I nodded hard, almost giddy with anticipation.

That afternoon, I polished my desk until it gleamed, wanting everything to look perfect when Dad arrived.

I waited by the classroom door for what felt like forever.

Then a stranger walked up.

His clothes were ragged, his hair was a mess, and I had never seen him before in my life.

He shoved past me, planted himself in the doorway, and called loudly into the room, "I'm Yvonne Lane's father. Where am I supposed to sit?"

Several classmates who had stayed behind to help immediately whipped around to look at me.

They had all heard about my bet with Jason. One look at the man was apparently enough for them to decide I'd lied.

A few shook their heads at me in pity.

I stared at the stranger, completely bewildered.

"Who are you? You're not my dad."

My teacher heard me and immediately looked over warily.

Then his expression changed.

He must have remembered what had happened to my old teacher, and that invisible hand behind me that punished anyone who interfered where my father was concerned.

After hesitating for a moment, he stepped down from the front of the room and pointed out a seat.

"Mr. Lane, you're in the third row."

The man quietly walked over and sat down, deliberately tugging the torn part of his filthy coat around to the front where everyone could see it.

I was about to demand an explanation when some classmates, eager to watch the drama unfold, pulled me aside.

For the entire next hour, they kept me trapped in conversation, bombarding me with questions and refusing to let me get away.

I was so frantic that I started crying, but they only laughed.

"Now you're worried? You should've thought of that before.

"Jason's family has money and connections. You picked a fight with him, and now you're going to pay for it."

By the time I finally pushed my way free and made it back to the classroom, the conference was already over.

I stood there, crushed, searching for my father.

For a long time, I kept looking, still hoping I might spot him somewhere.

Eventually, I had no choice but to face the truth.

Dad had lied to me.

The classroom lights went out, and I dragged myself toward the school gates.

I had barely stepped outside when the man who had claimed to be my father stopped me.

Looking awkward, he rubbed at the tear in his coat.

"All done. Time to settle up."

I stared at him.

"Settle what?"

"My fee. Fifty bucks. The guy who hired me said I'd get paid by my 'daughter.'"

My mind went blank.

He was an actor?

So when Dad said he would attend my parent-teacher conference, he'd actually hired a complete stranger to take his place?

The man frowned when I didn't answer and reached for my pocket.

"Come on, hurry it up. I've got another job after this."

"I don't have any money! I can't pay you!"

I stepped back, putting distance between us.

"Then why'd you hire somebody if you can't pay? I bought these ratty clothes specifically for this gig too. I'm supposed to get reimbursed for that."

He still refused to give up. After tugging at me for a while, all he managed to find was a single dime.

There were too many people streaming in and out of the school for him to push things any further.

Finally, he clicked his tongue and muttered, "Just my luck. I'll go find the guy who hired me myself. Dude looked loaded, and he tells me to collect from a little kid. What kind of world is this?"

...

Even I wasn't stupid enough to miss what that meant.

My father had deliberately hired an actor, dressed him up to look destitute, and sent him to school to pretend to be my dad.

He had even made sure the actor's fee would be charged to me.

By the time Dad came home, I was burning with anger.

I stormed up to him, my face hot as I demanded, "Do you not want to be my father anymore? Are you trying to hand me off to someone else?"

He barely glanced at me.

"The fifty dollars from today counts as money you've borrowed from me. Yvonne, think carefully about what you did wrong."

He turned toward his study.

I hurried around and blocked his path.

"What did I do wrong? Tell me!"

Dad rubbed between his brows and looked at me with open impatience.

"Three years, and you still haven't learned a thing. You're nine years old now. You're old enough to understand what I mean by independence."

His gaze hardened.

"Why were you going around school telling everyone I'm your father? You wanted your classmates to treat you differently because of me. That's all."

I stared at him, confused.

How did he know so much about what happened at my school?

But there was no time to dwell on it.

"That isn't what I was doing. And you're my father. Why should I have to hide that?"

He didn't answer.

He simply stared at me with that same imposing expression he always wore, as though he were some judge handing down a sentence.

After a long silence, he finally spoke.

"I've gone to enormous lengths to build your character, and you've still managed to disappoint me. You're just like your mother. Vain and unbelievably foolish."

Then he narrowed his eyes in warning.

"I don't want to see you using my name to elevate yourself ever again.

"From now on, outside this house, you will address me as Mr. Lane.

"What I need is a capable heir. Get rid of this shallow obsession with being admired and fawned over."

...

I wanted to argue.

My mouth opened, but no words came out.

I already knew there was no point. Anything I said would be wasted on him.

I might as well save my breath.

Worse than my father's accusations, though, was what waited for me at school.

After the parent-teacher conference, things became even harder.

I got a new nickname.

"Little Miss Liar."

Classmates I'd known for three years laughed openly at me now, their mockery growing crueler by the day.

"Zachary Lane is your dad? Nice try. Guess you figured sharing the same last name was enough."

"If you owned even one change of clothes, maybe we'd believe you."

"Hey, Little Miss Liar, that shirt's been washed so many times it's gone transparent. Aren't you embarrassed?"

I never really understood where all that cruelty came from.

Maybe they were afraid of Jason.

Maybe joining in made them feel like part of the group.

Or maybe, in their minds, they were simply delivering justice to a "liar."

Jason was the worst of them.

He had other students draw humiliating posters of me and hand them out around school.

Then he stationed "guards" outside the bathrooms to keep me from going in, claiming that someone with such poor morals shouldn't be allowed to use public school facilities.

At first, I planned to tell a teacher.

I made it all the way to the staff room, but before I could knock, I heard my teacher talking to someone inside.

"You think you've got problems? I'm the one walking on eggshells."

He sighed.

"I don't even dare look at Yvonne anymore. I'm terrified I'll end up like the last teacher. Her father is unbelievable. I'm constantly worried I'll lose my job because of her. Of all the classes I could've been assigned, why did it have to be this one?"

The other person replied, "The girl is pretty pitiful, though. I've heard she's being picked on constantly. You should probably step in a little."

"Step in?" my teacher shot back. "I'm not touching anything involving her. I'd only get myself burned from both sides.

"And the kid leading all this isn't exactly from an ordinary family either. His parents have influence. I'm not wading into that mess."

I stood outside the staff room in silence for a while.

Then I slowly lowered the hand I'd raised to knock and turned away.

No one was going to shelter me from the storm, so I'd learn to weather it on my own.

...

I grew up surrounded by that kind of exclusion and isolation, and eventually I stopped feeling much of anything.

By the time I started middle school, scavenging bottles for money had become second nature. I lived on whatever I earned and filled my stomach with cheap bread rolls. Plastic bottles, soda cans, old cardboard boxes, and such. I took anything I could sell.

Life had a way of repeating itself, though. The same misery always seemed to come back around.

Not long after seventh grade started, I was caught in the act.

I was outside a barbecue stand, stamping down hard on an empty can to flatten it, when my father's Maybach appeared in the distance and slowly pulled over to the curb.

Before I could even say hello, Quinn Walker and several classmates came out of nowhere.

She stopped behind me and pointed.

"See? I told you I wasn't making it up.

"I've never had a classmate who digs through trash before. It's so embarrassing."

My hand froze around the woven sack as I turned to look at her.

One of the boys beside her laughed. "It's not my first time."

Then he looked straight at me.

"Little Miss Liar was famous for it back in elementary school. Isn't that right, Yvonne Lane?"

My whole body stiffened at the sound of his voice.

Jason Carter.

How could it be him?

I'd deliberately applied to a middle school farther away just to get away from him.

I clenched my fists and found myself looking toward the car. Dad had to have heard them.

For one foolish second, hope stirred inside me. Maybe this time he would stand up for me.

Before, I could at least tell myself he simply hadn't believed me.

Today was different.

It was happening right in front of him. Surely he couldn't just sit there and do nothing again.

But that was exactly what happened.

His gaze settled on the crushed can beneath my shoe, then on the battered woven sack in my hand.

A smile of approval spread across his face.

It was as though he were saying, Good. You've learned to put your pride aside and toughen yourself up.

I'm being bullied!

Dad, can't you see that?

The rear window slowly slid upward, cutting off my view of him.

A moment later, the Maybach sped away.

I stared after it until someone suddenly shoved me to the ground.

Cruel laughter broke out around me.

"Aw, Little Miss Liar thinks she's Cinderella now?"

"You seriously still fantasize about having some rich dad? Look at you, staring at a Maybach like you belong in it. Sounds like you need to be taught another lesson."

A stone dug into my palm, and blood began to bead across the skin.

Jason smiled down at me.

"So what should I do to punish you this time?"

I looked at the grinning faces surrounding me, and rage surged through my body so fast that for one moment, I wanted to drag every last one of them down with me.

I ripped all the cans out of my sack and hurled them at them.

They scattered, shouting and dodging.

I didn't stop.

Half out of my mind with fury, I swung the entire woven sack at them. Leftover beer sprayed everywhere, splattering their clothes and shoes.

"What gives any of you the right to laugh at me?" I shouted. "Yeah, my life is harder than yours, but at least I'm not rotten inside!"

My teeth clenched so hard my jaw hurt.

"Being poor isn't shameful. Having a filthy heart and no character is. You're the ones who should be ashamed of yourselves. You don't even deserve to call yourselves my classmates!"

Unfortunately, there were too many of them for me to fight off alone.

By the time several of them had surrounded me and started hitting me, our homeroom teacher, Ms. Rachel Zane, came rushing over and pulled them away.

She contacted their parents and explained what had happened.

Quinn's mother, Melissa Walker, slapped her across the face without hesitation.

"Have you had it too easy for too long? Bad grades are one thing, but now your character's rotten too? How did I raise a daughter like you? I'd be satisfied if you had half the sense Yvonne does!"

Quinn said nothing.

She just stared at me with pure hatred.

Jason's parents never showed up. One of them offered a perfunctory apology over the phone, and that was the end of it.

I knew his family had plenty of connections. If I insisted on pushing the matter, there was every chance I would be the one who ended up worse off.

So I swallowed my anger and let it go.

After everyone else had left, Ms. Zane looked at me.

"Is this how you support yourself?"

I nodded.

She didn't press me for details. Instead, she carefully checked my injuries.

"Luckily, nothing looks too serious. Come on. I'll take you to the hospital anyway, just to be safe."

I shook my head immediately.

"No."

A hospital visit cost money, and money was the one thing I never had enough of.

In all these years, I had never once been to a hospital. Whenever I got sick, I simply endured it until I got better.

Seeing that I wouldn't budge, Ms. Zane sighed helplessly.

"Do you know how I can reach your parents? I'll call them and have someone come pick you up."

I didn't know how to answer.

After a moment, I finally said, "Thank you, but... just pretend I don't have any parents."

Her expression turned serious.

"Don't have any parents?"