“I’m not going back.”
I ate my egg white omelet faster. The sooner I got out of there, the better.
But my mother waved our server over and ordered us a second round of mimosas.
And Dad got another Bloody.
Dammit.
Mom put a hand on my arm, her light pink manicure a ladylike contrast to my own chipped, black one. “Oh honey, you’re just burned out. A nice spring break will refresh you. A little sunshine and some swimming and you’ll be excited about finishing the semester.”
Is that what she really thought we did on spring break? Splashed around on the beach like Bay Watch or something? Was she completely unaware of the copious amounts of alcohol consumed and hooking-up that went on?
Dad sat back in his chair, rubbing his stomach.
Yeah, brunch at the club—my parents’ club, where I was a regular parasite when I was home from school—really was that good. I came most Sundays, when my dad would send a car to my college to transport me back to the city for the day, to sponge and try to get rid of my Saturday night hangover.
But it was time for brunch to come to a close. I had things to do with my day, not least of which was catching up with my other friends who were home for the weekend, as well as my BFF Sandra, who was permanently home for the weekend.
She’d dropped out of college like I was about to do. She’d be so happy to have some company.
My parents, not so much. So I was breaking it to them gently, that I wasn’t home just for the weekend. I was here to stay!
I’d been packing up my dorm room all week. I’d handled the administrative tasks of withdrawing, canceled my room and board contract, told my roommate I was bailing on her, and loaded up the car my dad sent to pick me up. The driver raised an eyebrow, having expected this to be a quick day trip for me, but said nothing, and just packed the trunk.
It was pretty clear to anyone who saw I’d gathered all my belongings that I wasn’t going back. He brought all my stuff to our apartment via the service entrance so the housekeeper could dump it in my room. No reason to alert Mom and Dad any sooner than I had to.
“Hey, how’d you make out in that economics class we got you the tutor for? He came very highly recommended,” Dad said, munching on the celery from his Bloody.
Had he heard what I’d just said?
Besides that, I didn’t know where my dad got his recommendations, but the ‘awesome tutor’ he’d gotten me was a huge pothead, who I also might have slept with once. Or twice.
Not sure we’d ever even discussed econ.
“Um, he was good, Dad. But it really doesn’t matter now.”
My father leaned onto the table once his plate was cleared and folded his hands like he was entering into an important negotiation.
I guess he was.
“Why? What do you mean the tutor doesn’t matter?”
Okay. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. But really?
“Because, Dad,” I repeated patiently, “I’m not going back. Like I just said.”
He frowned at me like I’d claimed the world was flat. As though my dropping out of college was just not consistent with everything he knew and believed about me.
I could see that.
“I gave it a lot of thought. It’s not for me. Just too… institutional. I want to experience life.”
Mom gulped what was left of her mimosa and waved the waiter away when he indicated she might want another.
Her lipstick was still perfectly intact.
Yeah, no. I wasn’t like them. I loved them, of course. But I was a free spirit. I had to find my own path.
Dad sighed deeply. “I understand, honey, that school is not always fun. It can be challenging and a lot of work. But that doesn’t mean you can just up and quit.”
He said the up and quit part between gritted teeth. That’s when I realized he was actually pissed and was trying to keep it together.
“I know you’re disappointed, Dad. I’m sorry. But I have to be true to myself.”
And if I had to sit through another boring-ass lecture on economics—or sociology, history, or biology—I was going to totally lose my mind.
I shrugged. “Not sure what else to say. College just isn’t working for me.”
“Does this have something to do with the guy you were dating?” Mom asked, patting my hand. “Did he break your heart or something?”
I waved away her concern. “Who? Oh, the one I brought to brunch last month? Oh god no. That was really just about sex.”
Great sex, actually. But I’d spare my parents that detail.
Mom looked at Dad. She was letting him take the lead on this one.
“You know, Naya, there are lots of things that don’t work for me. Like getting up at five thirty every morning to go to work. Like paying property taxes. Like getting a colonoscopy. But I fucking do them.”
Mom’s eyes widened. It wasn’t every day that Dad dropped the F-bomb.
“Honey, you don’t have to—” she started to say.
But he held his hand up to stop her. “Yola, I’ve got this.”
I got it, too. They wanted to see me as a responsible adult. I could do that.
He looked around the dining room at the other people having eggs benedict with their children who were not the massive disappointment I was. His silence was excruciating, and if I didn’t get out of there in two minutes, I’d be ordering another mimosa. Or a shot of tequila.
“Naya, if you’re not in school, you’re going to have to work,” he said matter-of-factly.
Mom nodded in agreement, which was lame. The last time she’d had a freaking job was when she was a teenager.
I held my hand up. I had my shit figured out. “No worries there, Dad. I have something lined up.”
I’d known to think this through. I needed them to see my decision wasn’t capricious and that I had something that resembled a plan.
My parents loved plans. Unfortunately, that was a life skill where I often fell short. But hell, I was only twenty-one. I had plenty of time to learn.
So, I was pleased that for once, I’d anticipated their concerns and was prepared to address them.
Adulting. It was exhausting.
“Sandra said I could get a part-time job at her mom’s art gallery. I probably wouldn’t get paid, but I’d be getting great experience.”
They just stared at me.
So I continued. With the plan. “I won’t be starting right away, though. I have some things to take care of, first.”
Mom tilted her head. “Things to take care of? What kinds of things?”
“Spring break is in a couple weeks. I figure I’ll go on that and then start working when I get home.”
I looked between the two of them, expecting… I didn’t know what. Some push-back, for sure, but also eventual understanding. And support. And encouragement. Instead, I was facing an unfamiliar, blank, dead-eyed expression on each of their faces.
They looked at me like I’d killed someone.
Dad folded his hands on the table again and leaned closer, like he wanted to make sure I heard him. “Naya. I was talking about a real job,” he said, enunciating each word carefully. “Furthermore, if you’re not in school, what the hell makes you think you’re entitled to a goddamn spring break—”
“Shhh,” my mother interrupted, looking around.
She knew a lot of people at the club. Actually, she knew most everyone, as did my dad. And they liked to put up a united, peaceful front, especially when I, their fuck-up daughter, was in tow. They never had to worry when my older sister Amalia joined them. She was perfect.
I knew they wouldn’t be thrilled I was bailing on college. Hell, on one level, I wasn’t thrilled, either. But I’d come to them with a plan, however flimsy. I wasn’t going to just sit on my ass all day.
My phone buzzed. I knew it was my friends, looking for me. I started scrolling but thought better of it. I wanted my father to listen. Really listen.
“Dad, the art gallery is a real job. Sandra’s mom runs a successful business. Think of all I’ll learn. And you always said it was important to appreciate the arts,” I added hopefully.
He pressed his lips together and looked at my mother, who put her hand on top of his and patted it like she just had with mine.
“No, Naya. If you’re quitting school, you will be getting a Monday through Friday, nine to five gig. No playing around with part-time. Part-time jobs are for college students.”
“Or mothers,” Mom added.
Yeah, like she’d ever worked part-time, full time, or any time.
“And,” he added with a finger in the air, “there will be no spring break. Spring break is for students.”
Wait. What? Had I just screwed myself out of a week in Florida of partying and hooking up?
Hell, Sandra was going, and she wasn’t in school. She was going to be very upset if I couldn’t make it. We’d already bought new bikinis and scheduled our waxing appointments.
I felt a lump building in my throat, not because I was going to miss out on spring break—yeah, that was disappointing but I could suck it up—but because I got the point my dad was making. If you’re not in school, you have to do something else. The problem was, there wasn’t much I was good at, a menacing belief never far from my thoughts thanks to the words of an asshole guidance counselor from long ago.
“I’m… I’m not sure what else to do. The gallery seemed like a good place to start.”
Now it was my turn to get a pat on the hand from Mom. “Okay, honey. Let’s think about this. What do you like to do best?”
I already knew the answer. My parents did, too. “I love to bake.”
A lot of good that would do me.
Mom looked at Dad. “Well, she is a very good baker. There’s no denying that.”
Dad’s face was laced with frustration. “She is,” he said as if I wasn’t sitting right there. “But that’s not the sort of career path I was referring to.”
Mom nodded. “Right. You’re right.”
Jesus, what did they want from me? To run for freaking president?
