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.
My shoulders stiffen. “Why can’t I train for a year with Tatya, and if it doesn’t work out, then I’ll start school next year? I mean, I graduated early—this one year is basically a free pass, if you think about it.”
“Absolutely not,” Mom says. “You’re already signed up for classes—you need to give college a chance first. You’re so young—your dreams might not look the same twelve months from now, and that’s part of being a teenager.”
“I’m not going to change my mind.” I bunch my sleeves in my fists and wrap my arms around my knees. “I feel like I’m just moving through life in spaces where I don’t ever feel like I really