“Not everything is supposed to be easy. In real life, things aren’t just handed to you. And even if you do get lucky and someone gives you a break, it can be taken away from you like that.” Mom snaps her fingers like she thinks she’s proving a point. “That’s why it’s important to have a backup plan.” She looks at me seriously. “It’s hard enough to get a job these days, let alone get one without a college degree. You need an education. You need a safety net.”
I press my lips together tightly. It’s so hard not to shout when my chest feels like it’s about to burst. Not because I want to yell, but because volume control just doesn’t work when my emotions are running high.
I am losing this battle, and I don’t know what to say to change course. What can I do to change their minds? What can I say to make them understand that my dreams are worth something?
Dad shakes his head. “You always have these big ideas. When you were seven, you wanted to own a farm. When you were ten, you wanted to be a magician. When you were twelve, you wanted to move to France and run a vineyard. And it’s great to have an imagination, but you can’t make big decisions off an idea you just thought up in the night.”
“This is different. I’ve wanted to perform in Teatro della Notte since the first time I watched the show. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted to do. I didn’t just dream this up overnight—I’ve dreamed this up over a lifetime,” I say. And it’s mostly true, because I’m leaving out the part where performing with Maison du Mystère was also part of the dream.
Even though my parents are ignoring everything I’m saying, I’m pretty sure talking about my childhood obsession for a rival circus would make things exponentially worse.
Mom clasps her hands together. “Then you’ll still have the same dream after you finish school. But at least you’ll have a backup, too.”
It’s pointless to fight the tears falling down my cheeks. I’m not usually a crier, but confrontation with my parents always makes me feel so out of control. It’s like my face is malfunctioning.
I try to be the perfect daughter, but their idea of perfect isn’t the same as mine. And shouldn’t it be more important to be my perfect self?
Even if that means being imperfect to everyone else?
Mom reaches out her hand and pats my arm. “Not everyone has parents who can afford to send them to school. I think you need to appreciate what we’re trying to do for you.”
I spin around, part of me already prepared to bolt out of the room. “Neither of you are listening to me. I don’t want to go to school. That doesn’t make me ungrateful or unappreciative. But this is my life, and I should have a say in what direction I want it to go in. I’m eighteen—you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”
Dad stands up suddenly, and I know it means the conversation is at an end. “You’re right—you’re an adult now. And do you know what else adults do? They get jobs, and pay rent and bills, and cook their own food. If you want to stay in this house, you follow our rules—you go to school. But you don’t get to have the best of two very different worlds. You don’t get to pick and choose which privileges you want in life. That’s being an adult too.” Dad looks at me with so much sternness, but so much heart, too. And that’s the worst part—that he thinks he’s somehow doing the right thing.
Mom gives me a tired smile. “Come on, Harley. Let’s not fight about this, okay? We’ve still got presents, and birthday cake, and—”
I don’t wait around to let her finish, even though I can hear Dad shouting at me for being rude. But I can’t listen to them anymore.
Not when they won’t listen to me.
* * *
There’s a knock at my door long after the streetlamps turn on and the diluted stars appear in the sky—stars that can’t compete with the city lights, no matter how hard they try.
The first time I realized how truly beautiful the night sky was, I was at Mount Charleston on a camping weekend with some kids from school. I’d never seen the sky like that before—like it was filled with shattered bits of crystal. Like I was staring up at a billion tiny windows all leading to a billion new worlds nobody on Earth even had the imagination for.
That’s when I realized how small our own world is, and how minuscule I am in comparison.
But I don’t want to be small. I don’t want to be a blip in time.
I don’t want to just get through life doing the “right” thing, or the “responsible” thing.
I want to experience excitement, and beauty, and love, and every other bit of magic in the world.
Why should I have to settle for ordinary?
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I say toward the door. I don’t know who’s there, but if I had to put money on it, I’d say it’s Mom. She’s the fixer—she mends feelings the same way she mends faulty costumes.
The door opens anyway, and Mom walks in with a piece of cake and a candle in the center. She keeps one hand curved around the flame to keep it from going out.
“Happy birthday to you,” she starts to sing.
I sit up against the cushiony purple headboard of my bed. “You can’t fix this with processed sugar and artificial food coloring.”
Mom pushes out her bottom lip but makes her way toward me anyway, setting the plate of cake on my nightstand. “Won’t you at least blow out your candle before the wax melts everywhere?” That’s Mom—always trying to keep the world neat and tidy, like she thinks she can wrap everything in a bow and call it “perfection.”
I blink back at her, shake my head, and blow out the flame halfheartedly.
She waves at the smoke. “Did you remember to make a wish?”
“Is this a joke?” I cross my arms over my chest and look up at the ceiling. There are still glow-in-the-dark stars up there from when I was ten. Another change I need to make. “I don’t need a wish to make my dreams come true. I need you and Dad to stop standing in my way like you’re the Iron Fist guarding K’un-Lun.”
“Okay, well I don’t know what that is, but I’m sure it’s very important,” Mom says softly.
“It is important. Not the Iron Fist part, obviously, but the part about my dreams. Why can’t it be important to you, too?” I ask.
“Look, honey, I know you’re excited about this… this idea you have. And that’s great. But it’s not realistic,” Mom says, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “Your dad is right—you get these wild notions in your head all the time, but you never think about the work that goes behind them. And we care about you and your future, and we just think you need to grow up a little. Learn what it means to stick to something even when it gets hard.”
“I can do that—just let me pick something I’m actually interested in,” I point out.
“You picked computer science,” Mom offers.
“No, you picked it,” I say. “I just went along with it because I hate disappointing you.”
“How about this—how about you go to school for a year, and if you really hate it after that, we can revisit this conversation?” Mom says.