“What do you mean?” he asked, incredulous. “You’ve wanted this for ten years.”
For a long time, I thought, I did. But when I’d started wanting it, I was a little kid, and then I kept wanting it because I’d wanted it for so long already, and soon it became part of my story. I believed it completely, and maybe that meant it was true. What was the difference between wanting something and wanting to want it? Of course I’d hoped they would want me. If they had, I’d have gone happily. But they didn’t, and it felt okay. I felt happy where I was, and where I was going. It was exciting, and scary, to realize I wanted something I hadn’t expected to want.
But I didn’t say any of this. That was a conversation I could have with my mom, but not my dad.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
I paused, waiting for him to tell me there was no need to apologize. He didn’t.
“UCLA is making me an offer, and I’m going to take it,” I continued.
“What about Baylor?”
Anger radiated through me. “I was never going to go to Baylor,” I said evenly. “Ever.”
“I understand,” said my dad, softer now. “I just want you to be happy.”
This was half wish, half warning, the implication—I don’t know if you can be happy if you stay in California, if you aren’t on the very best team, if you don’t become the person I hoped you would—just barely below the surface. I ignored this half. I wanted to get on with my day.
“I am happy, Dad,” I said. “But I’ve gotta go, okay?”
“Okay,” he said. “Come visit me sometime?”
This was his line, meant only as much as he’d be pleased to see me if somehow I showed up without any work or disruption involved. For once, I was okay with that, and I recited my line, meaning it just as much.
“I will,” I said. “I promise.”
* * *
—
Every year on Black Friday, my mom insisted we go shopping at “the nice mall,” which was fancy, and outdoors, and had rich-people stores like Prada and Rolex. It was a tradition that arose when I was a kid: my mom dragged me along on her search for deep, deep discounts, and as a form of repayment for my boredom, finished the trip in See’s Candies, where I was allowed to fill a four-piece box however I wanted.
As soon as I saw the first billboard for the mall I started salivating, craving raspberry truffle and Scotchmallows. Still, I decided then and there that I wouldn’t ask my mom to buy me See’s, or bring it up unless she did, and I felt proud of myself for my maturity.
“So when do you think UCLA’s gonna send their offer?” my mom asked. I watched as she changed the radio channel once, and then again, and then a few more times, before finally turning it off with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“I can set up music streaming for you,” I said for the eighty-seventh time. “It’s not hard.”
“I like being surprised,” she said.
“They have radio, too,” I reminded her. “Like, based on music you actually like.”
My mom shrugged. She didn’t say what I knew she was thinking, which was Yeah, but I like to complain. “I asked you a question,” she said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Hopefully soon.”
She glanced over at me. “How are you feeling about it?”
I knew she meant not just UCLA, but all of it—UNC, the dashing of my childhood dreams, having been wait-listed, et cetera.
“Good, surprisingly,” I said. “Better than I thought I would.”
“Have you thought more about what you might want to study?” My mom asked this question so gently I immediately stopped feeling annoyed and instead wanted to hug her. I’d been such a brat about school for so long, as if it were rude for a mother to suggest her kid might want to learn something in college. I’d