“Darla, it would be good for the boy to broaden his horizons. He can’t always be following around the boys. He’s never going to come out of their shadows.”
“I know, honey, but he needs them. He’s always needed them. They will look out for him. They always have.”
I scoffed, “You guys do realize I’m sitting right here, right?” They always did this, talking about me like I wasn’t in the damn room. “Can’t you wait until I at least leave the room to point out more things I can’t do?”
“Austin,” Mom coaxed. “We don’t mean it like that. You’re the baby of the group. The boys have always been… well you know, honey. More mature and stuff. It’s normal for us to worry.”
I scoffed, “Mature? Are you for real?”
“Austin, watch your tone,” Dad ordered.
I would never rat out my boys, but fuck… if my parents only knew.
“I’m sorry.”
Mom smiled and Dad shook his head. Now was as good a time as any.
“About college,” I said, wiping my mouth with my napkin, bringing their attention back to me. “I got accepted into another school. One that I really want to attend.”
They beamed. I’d never said I wanted to go to any college before.
“It’s in New York—”
“We didn’t know you applied to NYU. That’s an amazing university. I’m so proud of you, Austin!” she rambled on.
“Brooklyn, New York,” I clarified. “It’s Pratt Institute, School of Art and Design.”
They both jerked back, confused.
“It’s actually the number one art school in all of the country, and I honestly don’t know how I got accepted but,” I set the letter in front of them and finished, “I did.”
My dad picked up the letter off the table and read it over, with Mom hovering over his shoulder to read too. Both of their faces void of any emotion.
I waited.
“Art school, Austin? Where is this coming from? You’ve never showed any interest in arts,” she stated, smiling, holding back a laugh.
“Actually, I have.” I sat up in my seat, grabbing my portfolio that was sitting beside me.
My heart was pounding and my palms were getting sweaty. I swallowed the lump in my throat and pulled back the cover, showing them the first few sketches. Their faces were the blank canvas I was used to drawing on. They took in the sketches that had bled out through my hands.
But I still couldn’t read them at all. My mom grabbed the notebook from my trembling hands and continued turning pages, one after the other. Running her fingers over the illustrations. Realizing what I had kept from them.
“I’ve been drawing since I could hold a pencil, Mom,” I added, trying to gain a response. “My art teachers wrote my letters of recommendation. I actually think they were the reasons I got in. They’ve been telling me I have a God given talent since elementary school—”
“They never told us,” Mom interrupted, taken aback.
I shrugged. I wanted to say it was because they never bothered to go into their rooms during parent night. That they always said electives didn’t matter, but I bit my tongue. It wouldn’t help my case. Mom flipped page, after page, after page until she was almost to the end.
Nothing.
“I have some more sketches up in my room. I’ll go—”
“No,” Dad snapped, locking eyes with me.
“I’ll just be a minute—”
“I don’t need to see anymore of this garbage, Austin. Is this why you’re an average student?”
He pulled my portfolio out of my mom’s hands, throwing it in the middle of the table. It rattled the dishes.
“Dad, it’s not—”
He put his finger up in the air, silencing me. I swallowed hard.
“Money on tutors, money on afterschool help, afterschool SAT practice courses, do you want me to go on? We have spent thousands of dollars to get you the best education, and this is why you’re always struggling? Because you spend more time on a hobby? You wasted all this time with your head up in the goddamn clouds, when it should have been focused on your homework?”
“Joseph…”
He put his hand out in front of my mother, silencing her as well.
“This is an out-of-state private school, Austin. You think we’re going to pay for that?”
“I don’t know, Dad. You were going to pay for the other ten out-of-state private schools you made me apply to.”
He leaned back into his chair, shaking his head. “Yes. For an education. For a profession. For your future.”
“This is my future. This is what I want to do with my life,” I argued through gritted teeth, anger began to take over me.
“To become what, Austin? A starving artist? Who will always depend on us to pay his bills? What will you do in your long-term future, Austin? Do you think an arts degree will help you raise a family one day?”
“Dad, that’s—”
“Hunter, go to your room,” he ordered, not letting my brother finish. “The last thing I want is your brother rubbing off on you.”
“Dad—”
“Hunter, just go!” I broke in, giving him a sympathetic stare.
He left.
“Austin.”