roll my eyes. “Though I call them Mom and Dad.”
Megan hasn’t said two words to my parents since everything went down last year in London. Not like she was even there, but she got the full story. And, well, she is not one for nuance.
“You know how I feel about them.” Her voice softens and I soak it up. “But I get that this is hard for you, Mart. Really I do. When do you think you’ll tell them you’re not coming back?”
The planner in me wins out this time, and a confidence rises along with my chest. “The summer program lasts three months, which means I have plenty of time to get a paying gig. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. Once one of these auditions works out, I can announce it. They’ll be so happy their son got a spot in the London Philharmonic, they won’t be mad that I’m—”
Megan butts in. “—never seeing them again?”
“Okay, now who’s being melodramatic?”
Three months. That’s plenty of time—and it’s not like I’m super picky. It doesn’t have to be the London Phil. It could be the Royal Opera House, or a regional theatre like the open-air one in Regent’s Park, or … well, we’ll see.
“It would have been a lot less complicated if I actually got into that summer program.” I’m kind of rambling, but what else do you do when you’re nervous? Make sense? Not a chance. “But I think it’s a good thing. Because otherwise, I’d be wasting so much time in class and not out there booking gigs.”
The program is at the Knightsbridge Academy of Music. According to what I told my parents, I auditioned last year and got accepted. I even have a letter to prove it.
But that’s not the truth. Unbeknownst to my parents, I flopped at the audition after the whole London Pride meltdown. Hell, technically, that program started a couple of weeks ago. Thank god no one researches everything to the extent I do.
After everything happened last year, it didn’t take me long to realize how much I actually needed this London thing to work out. How much I needed to get away from them. Get out of that tiny place. And all it would take was a forged letter, some time to ease my mom into the idea of going back to that sinful place, plus a little help from my cousin Shane.
Long story short, I was able to convince them to let me go this year. Fully on my own dime. I’m going to London, but I’m not attending the academy. I’ve got my own plan, and I’m not coming back.
Megan’s right. I was trying to escape.
And I freaking did it.
Well, it was almost a clean escape.
Megan just drove off, her hair flying out the window (and she calls me melodramatic?), and I’m standing here just inside the Columbus airport, trying to mentally prepare myself for everything to come:
Being lost in this behemoth of a building.
Maneuvering around this building while also being lost.
Going through security.
Waiting in lines.
Emptying my pockets.
Taking out my toiletries and laptop.
Triple-checking that I’ve followed every rule.
Inevitably ending up leaving a full water bottle in my bag somewhere.
Finding my gate and flying off to an entirely new life in a new country.
What I did not account for is that standing between me and security right now are my mom, my dad, and my grandma. For a moment, I’m stricken with the kind of fear that grips your lungs and sends shocks through your whole body, because the downside to lying is that at some point you’ll probably get found out. And I was really hoping to not get found out until sometime after I touched down on UK soil. (Preferably not until I turn eighteen in a few months and there’s even less they can do about it.)
But then I see Mom’s holding one of those shiny Mylar balloons, helium shortage be damned, in the shape of a rectangle with the Union Jack on it—the flag of the United Kingdom.
“Mom?” I ask. She’s scurrying toward me with an emotion that’s half panic, half grief, and hands me the balloon before wrapping her arms around me. I drape an arm around her in response, still kind of dumbstruck.
“Nana wanted to say goodbye,” Dad explains, “and we thought with all your planned milkshake detours we could beat you here.”
Grandma insists on being called Nana, but she’s never really struck me as the nana type. She’s so fit she moves faster than I do