trapeze twenty feet in the air. “I’m not good at school. Information just doesn’t sink into my brain the way it does for most people. I have to reread things a hundred times, and even then, I rarely comprehend any of it, unless there’s a movie to go along with it or some kind of visual chart. It takes me longer to learn stuff, and it’s frustrating. It makes me feel bad about myself, okay? Like I’m not good enough. And I’m a good aerialist—I can remember routines and positions and terms and everything else. It just makes sense to me, the way music makes sense to Dad or math makes sense to you.”
“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,