I close my fingers together under the table. “Not really, no.”
Vas taps his pen against the table, thinking. “Okay. Well, to me it was kind of a darker version of ‘It’s a Small World.’ ”
I frown. “Like the Disney ride?”
“Yeah. All the songs have this quirky, marionette-puppet vibe to them, but each one feels like it has its own culture. It felt like the composer was showing the differences of the world, and how we’re all strung together, and part of something bigger.” Vas runs his hands through his hair. “At least, that’s the way I interpreted it.”
My mind flashes to Dad in his office, always working. I think about all those times I felt so different and alone, like I was a puzzle piece in the wrong box.
Like I had a family that wanted me to fit in more than I did, but parents who were so used to not fitting in that they forgot how hard it was.
And to know Dad wrote music that represents some of the things I’ve always struggled with?
It feels like a message.
A message I wish he had tried to give me a long time ago, before I started to believe he had nothing to say.
“Do you want to hear some of it?” Vas asks, reaching for his laptop.
“No,” I practically bark, which makes him recoil in alarm. “Sorry. I just… don’t really need to hear it right now, that’s all.” Hearing what I’ve taken from Dad will only make things worse. I’d rather pretend for a little while longer that I won’t have to one day face the consequences of doing something so unforgivable.
Vas straightens himself again, staring at the paper like he’s willing his ideas to be realized right in front of him. “The reason Maggie is so good is because her passion comes through every performance.” He looks up at me, his eyes locking onto mine. “I know you have passion too, but I think whatever we come up with should speak to you the most. More than me. You want the audience to be drawn to you the way you are to the circus. We need to hone in on what that is. Give you a chance to perform from your heart.”
My heart. Do I really know what’s in there anymore?
Things are so messy now. I’ve destroyed relationships and broken trust and I still don’t feel sorry enough to want to make it better.
Because deep down, I’m still angry Mom and Dad didn’t care. About the circus, about my choices, about my hurt. They kept brushing me away, and if you neglect something long enough, eventually it’s not going to come back.
I needed my parents, and they weren’t there for me.
Apologizing now would feel like I’m saying what they did is okay, when it isn’t.
“My heart is conflicted.” I laugh. “I don’t think that’s going to make for a very good act.”
Vas frowns. “Conflicted about the circus?”
“Oh my God, no!” I shake my head fervently. I might be stubborn and have too many regrets, but my love for this life hasn’t changed even a little bit.
If anything, it’s grown.
I try a different approach. “Conflicted about who I am, I guess. Am I good or bad? A part of something or a part of nothing? Ambitious or selfish?”
Vas is watching me so carefully. There’s something about his stoic patience that makes me feel like I’m allowed to talk for hours if I want to.
“I guess I’ve always felt like there are parts of me that don’t really make sense together. Like, I’m either extremely happy or extremely sad. I’m either super motivated, or I feel hopeless.” I pinch the material of my leggings, organizing my words. “And sometimes I feel white or Asian, but never both at the same time. And I know I am both. But my family has always felt so separate. They look at one another like they know one thing is not like the other, which makes me feel like an oddity. Like a person who lost all her culture when her grandparents met. And I hate that, because I see how important culture is to my grandma. But it’s like I don’t have any right to it.”
“Everyone has a right to their family,” Vas says simply.
“I know it should be that way, but I don’t know if it is.” I pause. “Asian people call me ‘too white’ and laugh at me for not knowing enough about Chinese and Japanese culture. And white people only ever see me