4.
“I never dared be radical when young
For fear it would make me conservative when old.”
—“PRECAUTION,” FROM “TEN MILLS,” 1936
“You were meant for this, Parker.” My mom beams. “This. Right here.” She holds the creased letter in front of her like it’s something holy. Then she frowns. “I just wish you would’ve kept it nice so we could frame it.”
I make a conscious effort not to roll my eyes. “It’s just a piece of paper, Mom. And it’s not a sure thing. I still have to write the speech—and, you know, win, so don’t get all excited yet.” I sound like a brat, even to myself, but I can’t help it. Now that it’s in her hands, I wish I’d kept it to myself just a little longer, because all of a sudden it seems more her accomplishment than mine. And because I know our world will now revolve around me writing and practicing my speech. I snap my chopsticks apart and rub them together hard without saying anything else.
“I’m just so proud of you, honey. I know how hard you’ve worked, and that I haven’t always been easy on you, but . . . it’s all come down to this. They’ll choose you, I just know it.” She purses her lips together and her eyes flood behind her glasses. “I always knew you had the potential.”
I cringe inwardly, but force a smile. “I know, Mom.” Then I raise my steaming bowl of miso so she can continue if she wants to. In the last few years I’ve learned it’s easiest this way. She talks, I mostly listen, sometimes nod, and let her say what she needs to. Especially when it’s about “potential,” which, in her eyes, is the worst possible thing I could waste. I’m positive it’s all tied to my dad and the fact that after publishing his first collection of poetry years ago, he’s yet to finish anything else—if you exclude their marriage. I have a feeling that was over before it really began though. My parents are far too different for me to believe they were ever meant to be.
“Have you told your father yet?” she asks in the false casual tone reserved for talking about him.
“Not yet.” Her face lights up a bit, and I know it makes her happy that she’s the first of them to know, which just seems petty to me, but that’s what it’s come to.
“Well. You should call him tonight with your good news. Maybe it’ll inspire him somehow to know that you’ve accomplished what you set out to do.”
She speaks the words lightly, but they’re laced together with sarcasm. It doesn’t seem to matter to her that he’s now teaching writing at a school in New York, which most people would consider a successful endeavor. But not her. At any mention of it, she’s more than happy to discuss her opinion that he’s hiding behind helping other people with their writing because he can’t do it himself anymore. I change the subject. “Can I go out with Kat for a little while tonight, to celebrate?”
She shakes her head—a reflex she can’t help when Kat is involved. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You still have a speech to write. Besides, isn’t that what we’re doing right now? Celebrating?” She gestures at the spread of sushi in front of us.
“Yeah . . . but she wants to take me out for coffee or dessert or something. Just for a little while?” I watch her perfectly made-up face for a sign of compromise, but get only the inflexibility I expect.
“It’s a school night, Parker. And you already had coffee.”
“What?”
“Debbie Monroe said you and Kat were at Kismet today, and that she wasn’t exactly being polite.” She stabs a piece of salmon with her chopsticks. “You know, that girl really needs to be more aware of how she acts in public.”
I literally have to bite my tongue to keep from answering back the way I really want to. Kat has been “that girl” to my mother for as long as we’ve been friends, and the way she says it never fails to remind me just what she thinks of her.
“Mom, Debbie Monroe thinks everyone under the age of twenty is either on drugs or involved in some other ‘illicit teenage activities.’ She actually said that. In line at the grocery store, and she wasn’t joking.” I stir up the cloud of miso that’s settled in the bottom of my bowl. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Kat wasn’t doing anything wrong; she was just excited for me.”
My mother doesn’t say anything. Just pinches another slice of salmon roll between her chopsticks and adjusts her glasses, and there’s my answer.
“Fine,” I say into my soup. It’s useless to argue. Even more useless to think that she could bend, just a little, or trust me for once. I’ve never given her reason not to—but then again, I’ve never had the opportunity either.
My mother lets out a heavy sigh. “Parker, soon. Soon enough you’ll be making your own choices. Humor me in the meantime, okay?”
I look at her, hair pulled back sleek and tight, smile to match, and decide to see if I can finish my celebratory dinner without saying anything else. It’s surprisingly easy. While she goes on about the rigors (and cost) of Stanford, all of which I’m well aware of, thank you, I think about what Kat said and try to decide what worthwhile, unexpected thing I could do. I would love, more than anything, to have the guts to stand up right here and tell my mom to just lay off it all—the expectations, the pressure, the constant judging—all of it. A tiny part of me would love to just tell her to forget it. To say never mind, I don’t want any of it. But that’s not what Kat meant.
She meant I should do something unexpected that would leave me with something I could keep and remember. An experience instead of a goal. And I get what she means. She’s right about me not having very many of those to show for four years of high school. But it seems to me that the experiences that stay with you, the things you’ll always remember, aren’t the ones you can force, or go looking for. I’ve always thought of those things as the ones that somehow find you.