Again, But Better(110)

“What do you mean, you lied?” Mom says with confusion.

“I mean, there is no premed program out here.”

They both speak at the same time.

“What do you mean? You signed up for it! I read the damn brochure!” my dad insists.

“How can there be no premed program? You’re premed … yeah, the brochure!” Mom sounds disoriented.

I look over at Dad. “So, I made the brochure myself.” I swallow. “There is no premed track out here.”

There’s a moment of silence as my father’s face flushes neon, and then he explodes.

“You conned us? You little shit,” he growls.

I push my chair away from the table, back straightening against the seat.

“Sal,” my mother scolds.

“I’m sorry, it was wrong! I want to be a writer, and I saw an opportunity, and I did something stupid,” I explain.

“A writer? Where the hell is this coming from!”

“I told you I wanted to write when I was applying to schools!” I screech. “You said I couldn’t apply for any creative majors!”

Dad roars on like I haven’t spoken. “Are you telling me you’ve lost an entire semester of required courses? You’re supposed to take the MCATs when you get back!”

“You won’t be ready for the MCATs,” Mom echoes softly like she’s drifting away.

“I don’t want to take the MCATs,” I breathe. I feel twenty pounds lighter as the words leave my mouth. I really, really don’t. Why did I push myself through taking them?

“Shane!” gasps my mother. For Mom. That’s why. But she’ll understand. She has to understand.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” booms my father. “I’m over here shelling out thousands of dollars for your education, and you’re out here completely disrespecting me? Lyin’ to me!”

“I’m sorry! It’s just not what I’m passionate about! I want to—”

“Stop. You’re on the next fucking flight to New York!”

“I’m not going back yet. I’m seeing this through. I have a great internship.” I struggle to keep my words coherent. “And I’m really doing well there.”

Dad jerks up from the table. “What did you just say to me?”

“I said”—I heave a rattling breath—“I’m not going back yet.”

“Give me your phone,” he demands.

“I’m sorry, no,” I answer.

His teeth grind. “You know, I do everything for you. You ungrateful little brat. I do what’s best for you—”

“Forcing me into a life I don’t want isn’t what’s best for me!” I scream.

I whip up my hand and cover my mouth.

The anger in his eyes sears a hole right through my chest. My voice drops. “Dad, I’m sorry I yelled. I’m sorry! But you’re wasting your money pushing me into medical school. That’s not what I want to do!”

“You throw this education away, and you’re going to be living in a fucking box on the street! And don’t think for a second you’re going to be able to call me for help!” His words thunder around the dining room.

“Dad, why won’t you believe in me? Why would you say that? What have I ever failed at to make you think that would happen? I’m working so hard! I always work so hard!”

I throw a desperate glance at my mother, who is staring into her plate. “Mom!” I yell.

She gives the tiniest shake of her head.

“Don’t look at her, you look at me! I built this life for you. I work day in, day out for you to have this life! These opportunities. You know my dad had nothing, chasing cartoon dreams of being a fuckin’ poet. I had nothin’. I handed you the tools for everything!” he bellows.

His eyes bore straight into mine as he growls, “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear from you. Don’t call me for money. Don’t call me for anything.” He charges away from the table.

“I’m sorry,” I blubber after him. “I’m grateful, Dad. It’s”—sob—“just not the right path for”—I inhale sharply as the restaurant door falls shut behind him—“me.”

I look to my mother. “Mom, I’m sorry!” gurgles from my throat. She won’t meet my eyes.

“Shane, how could you do this?” With another shake of the head, she follows him out. I try to quell the maelstrom of hurt raging in my chest.

You knew it wouldn’t go over well.

I swallow, gulp down the rest of my water, head out onto the street, and walk. I walk and walk until I can think again. Until I can breathe normally. Until I can turn the light back on.


hey

________________________________________________

Leo Primaveri <[email protected]> 3/6/11

to Shane




Heard you fucked up. Are you coming home? My mom won’t go into detail.

I blow out a breath, staring at the email in the dank school library. Why did Leo send this? I remember getting it the first time I was here—I just dismissed it. But when I got back, Leo had dropped out of school. I gnaw at my lip for a few minutes before typing out a response.