“Thanks!” Maxine takes a long drink from Millie’s nearby water glass. “I think I’m finally ready to challenge Gloria and win this pageant.”
James and Millie slowly drift out of the room, still marveling at Maxine’s triumphant performance. I realize Millie’s left us the tray of cookies big enough to feed an army. Or two of us.
“You didn’t give me any feedback on my routine.” Maxine returns to her roost on the donut. “If you need some sentence starters, how about ‘It was phenomenal. Awesome doesn’t begin to describe it.’ Or ‘I could weep at the sheer artistry.’”
“It was great.”
“Great?” She spits the word out like it’s a curse. “Two-for-one discounts at the plastic surgeon are great. What you just witnessed was a work of art akin to Picasso or Rembrandt.”
I laugh as I sit beside her on the couch. “It was insanely good.”
“That’s sounding more like it.” She rolls a hand. “Feel free to continue.”
“But your heart wasn’t in it.”
She blanches. “What are you talking about? My heart was beating overtime and nearly reached cardiac arrest levels of activity. Would you like to place your hand against my bosom and feel it beating?”
“No.” Lord, no. “But you weren’t feeling that, Maxine. You might have just turned in the performance of a lifetime, but that’s all it was—a performance. You weren’t having fun, and you couldn’t wait for it to be over.”
She stills, falling so quiet, I can hear Mr. Patton’s bulldog barking a street away. “How did you know?”
“It was on your face.”
“I was grinning like Miss America. If I get any smilier, I’m gonna dislodge my cheekbones.”
“It was the eyes. You just weren’t…you. You looked bored and partially angry.”
She throws her hands over her face. “Oh, no. If you see it, then everyone else will too.”
“James and Millie didn’t.”
“James and Millie do crossword puzzles for fun on Friday nights. What do they know? Katie, what can I do? Help me!”
“Go back to your original routine? Tell your coach you want him to think of something else?”
“No, I mean, what can I do to liven up the dance moves you just saw? Maybe some pistol fingers?” She points, shoots, and holsters. “More hip? Less spinning? Additional cleavage? Pyrotechnics? Pyrotechnics from my cleavage?”
“You don’t have to change anything about the routine.” Though it looked more like a dance befitting a twenty-one-year-old than someone of Maxine’s, er, experience. “Just find a way to love what you’re doing. Or make sure you’re doing it for the right reason.”
“I’m doing this for me.”
“Are you?”
“Okay, so maybe I’m doing it to show everyone I’m not some old, dried-up thing.”
“Pretty sure, no one believes that.”
“Francisco says I need a young, hip routine. And he’s right. It’s not about what I want here, it’s what’s best for the competition.”
“Even if you’re not enjoying it?”
“No pain, no gain, right?”
“That was an old ’80s slogan for people who did aerobics until they caused bodily harm.”
She shrugs. “Eh, we inhaled a lot of hairspray back in those days.”
Now I feel bad. I’ve hurt her feelings and said too much. “The routine was amazing. Don’t listen to me. I’m just moody and out of sorts. My own life’s a mess, so I want to butt into yours. Maybe I’m projecting my own unhappiness.”
“Surely that’s it…because that was a humdinger of a dance sequence.” She takes another drink of water, then fans herself with a hand. “Sweet pea, I’m sorry we didn’t find what you were looking for today.”
“We tried. I’ll just have to keep thinking.” I rise and walk to the fireplace, staring at the urn, this heavy vase that weighs me down in more ways than one. I trace the brass nameplate, my fingers dragging over each letter of my mom’s name. My touch skims past the date of birth and pauses on the year of death. “She had such a short life.”
Maxine grabs a cookie, then props her feet on the coffee table. “She lived a lot in those thirty-seven years.”
I don’t agree, but I guess it doesn’t matter. “It’s weird to think that all that’s left of my mom is in this ugly vase. So strange to think of her reduced to ashes.” I get why Jemma is so bothered by the urn in the dorm room. “That’s all that’s left of her. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”
“That’s not true.” Maxine gingerly rises and stands beside me. “You’re what’s left of Bobbie Ann, and you’re the best thing she could’ve possibly left behind.”
My hand caresses the curve of the container. “This is all so morbid and disturbing. Jolting, really.”
“Death often comes packaged that way.”
I turn to my grandmother. “I don’t want to live like my mom. I want my life to matter. When I get to the end of my days, I want it to be a loss, to leave people behind who loved me, and I loved them. I want to be more than ashes left behind.”
“Me, too.” Maxine lifts a lock of hair from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. “If people aren’t snot crying in their hankies, what’s the point?”
“My mom didn’t have real friends, no family besides the daughter she lost. It’s just so sad.”
“Toots, you’ve already got a legion of people who’d wail and cry if you left us.” She taps the space near my busted nose with a manicured finger. “You get that charisma from me.”
“Now more than ever, everything seems too fragile,” I whisper. “Like I could lose it all any moment, and any second I’m gonna wake up and be back to poor, angry Katie with no family and no one who cares.”
“That’s never going to happen.”
“What if I flunk out of college? What if I can’t handle adulthood like my mom? Then what?”
“That’s not going to happen. Because you, my girl, are not a quitter. It’s simply not in you.”
“But I am someone who screws up from time to time.” And lately, quite a bit.
“Then you keep trying until you get it right. That’s the important part—to continue to be a fighter. Your worth isn’t dependent on your grades or how different you can create a life from your mom’s.”
“I don’t want to be alone in this world. Like her.”
“Oh, sweet pea.” Maxine crushes me to her. “You’re not. You’re mine. You’re ours. We’ll never let you go. You got that, Katie? Never. You could flunk out of every stupid class at that university, get knocked up with octuplets like Vivica on Days of Our Worlds, start talking to imaginary friends, and dress in poly-cotton blends that make you look lumpy. We’d still call you ours.” She rests the palm of her hand against my cheek. “No matter where you go, we’re here. And if you ever get lost, we’ll come and find you.” She sniffs. “Though, unlike today, I’d come prepared with better road snacks.”
“I love you too, Maxine.” I think of the first time I met this crazy woman. She was an absolute fright, and I knew we’d be enemies. Who’d have thought young adult novels and ice cream would bring us together, and she’d become my best friend? “I can’t help but feel orphaned all over again.”
“I know what it’s like to lose a parent,” she says. “I lost my momma when I was thirty. I swan dived into a deep depression for about six months. If I hadn’t had kids to take care of, I’m not sure I would’ve gotten out of bed most days. Parents are one way you’re tethered to this earth, whether they’re in your life or not.”
“I don’t even have so much as a baby picture. No one to tell me about my early years. No photos of my mom before two summers ago.” James and Millie had gotten me my first phone, and I’d snapped a ton of pics when I’d moved back with Bobbie Ann during that terrible summer. “There’s nothing that proves I had a life before coming here. What kind of mom doesn’t keep that kind of stuff?”
Maxine chews on her glossy pink lip. “I�
�m so sorry, sweet pea. If I could fix it for you, I would.”
“I know.” I shrug it off, weary of hearing the sound of my own whining. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” she says. “But if it makes you feel better, I have 15,298 photos of you on my phone. And at least half of those don’t have puppy ear filters added.”
I hug Maxine again. “Thank you for being my grandma. Please never leave me.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Maxine squeezes me tight and blubbers into my shoulder. “You’re stuck with me forever.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Parent Day is a complicated thing. In a way, you’d rather your parents didn’t show up because you’re now a big, bad college student. I mean, I’m basically an adult now. I can vote, stay out as late as I want, and I can eat pizza every night. What if I’m only a small segment of the freshman population whose parents are here on this warm Wednesday?
But, then again, if the other freshmen are inviting their parents, you don’t want to be left out. Plus, rumor has it, the luncheon is catered and better food than usual.
So, do we college kids need our mommies and our daddies to visit? I guess the answer is yes, if they bring cookies and shove a few twenties in your pocket.
Normally, I’d be pretty keen on a visit from Millie and James. My mom never showed up for any school event that requested her presence— conferences, fifth grade recorder concerts, meeting with the principal to explain why I was expelled for the third time. I don’t take parent appearances for granted. The first time James and Millie attended a parent-teacher conference, I nearly burst out of my skin with happiness, overcome with this blatant act of concern and love. It didn’t matter that they were there to discuss terrible grades.
But today it does.
When we finally chatted about Parent Day last weekend, I gave them my own itinerary to follow, directing them to skip office visits with my professors and any other activity that didn’t include hanging out with me and eating lunch.
One look at James’ and Millie’s expressions as they meet me in the dorm lobby, and I can tell they trashed my agenda and went with the one sent by Hendrix. They’ve talked to my professors. They know the ugly truth of my epic college failure.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna show.” I rise from the worn-out couch and glance at my watch, a not-so-subtle hint they’re fifteen minutes late.
James kisses my cheek. “We’ll always show up when we say we will.”
I force a smile. “Do you get tired of reminding me?”
“Never, kid.” His face loses its comforting veneer and reverts back to serious mode. “We actually got to campus two hours ago.”
Two hours? That’s a long time to do parent-type things. “Did you get lost? Maybe got lulled in by the fro-yo place in the student center?”
“We’ve been at the administration building and meeting with your teachers.” Millie shares a look with James. “It was quite enlightening.”
“We did finally get our login problem fixed,” James says.
If this were a cartoon, you’d hear an audible gulp. “I told you I’d help with that.”
Millie does a slow blink. “It seems that you were giving us the wrong login.”
“I can explain.”
“While you’re at it, you might want to explain these grades.” James holds up a stack of pages. “A kind lady printed out your grades, as well as a breakdown of assignments and what you’re missing.” His voice softens. “Would you like to tell us why you haven’t turned in any work for the last two weeks?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?”
Napping mostly. “Memorizing lines for the understudy part. Homework I’ve yet to turn in. When my mom’s stuff happened, I got behind.”
James steps out of the way of a bustling R.A. who refills a tray of cheap, store-bought cookies on the welcoming table. “You told us you’d talked to the professors about extensions. You said you wanted to handle it yourself.”
“I did talk to some of them.” At least two, I think.
“Katie, we’re paying a lot of money for you to go to this school.” Millie might as well be throwing sharpened daggers of guilt. “Our wish was for you to start at the community college, but you insisted on Hendrix.”
James rests a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe it’s time to call that grief counselor. You’ve endured a lot of stress.”
“This isn’t about my mom!” My voice rises above the raucous in the room, bounces off the linoleum tile floors, and earns me stares from other families. I lower my volume and try to turn down my crazy. “This is about me and this stupid school and the fact that I can’t handle it. You were right. I’m not cut out for college.”
Millie’s eyes go wide as cafeteria trays. “We never said you couldn’t handle college.”
“It was definitely implied. Why else would you want me to go to a junior college?”
“So you could live at home,” she says. “I thought you could get the basics under your belt before transitioning to a bigger campus.”
James wraps his arm around me. “College is hard for everyone. It’s also a shock to the system for most people. You come from a small school, and you’re new to homework and school discipline. That’s why we suggested you wait on a university and living away from home.” He lifts those stupid print outs. “Whether we were right or wrong, something’s not working.”
“You’re right.” I push the words out with all I’ve got. “I want to quit.”
My parents stare at each other.
Millie steps closer, her lavender essential oil not the least bit calming. “We’ll discuss this when the semester’s over.”
“No, I mean, I want to quit now.” I glare at a gaggle of girls wandering by. They look so confident and at ease. They probably have straight As, lots of friends, no bathroom schedules, and routinely show up for class on time. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s hard.”
“That’s college.”
I mean all of it’s hard—life, school, separating lights from darks. “I’m terrible at this. I can’t even handle my one-line part. I’m not meant for higher education.”
James’s frown sinks a line between his brows. “So, you quit...then what?”
“Then I get a job.”
Now Millie’s really scowling. “But you want to be an actress.”
“Maybe that dream is dead.”
“Since when?” she asks.
“It’s not working out.”
“Because you didn’t get the lead in the play?”
Millie’s accusation makes me sound petty and immature. Which apparently I am. “Because I barely say eight syllables, and I mess it up almost every time. Because the professor still doesn’t know my name, and the lead actress likes to entertain me with horror stories of theater majors. I fail tests and don’t understand college algebra.”
“All you had to do was tell us,” James says.
“Then you’d be disappointed in me. And mad.”
“We wouldn’t have been mad.” James sighs as he folds the papers in half and sticks them in Millie’s open purse. “I am a little upset that you’ve kept all this from us. We could’ve helped you.”
“How? I’m beyond help.”
“You’re never beyond help,” he says. “We could’ve gotten you a tutor. And we still can—and will.”
“Did you schedule appointments with any of your professors to get extra assistance?” Millie asks.
“No.”
She rubs her temple, and I’m pretty sure she has a headache there named Katie. “Did you ask anyone for help?”
“No.”
“So, because you didn’t get a dream part in the play and because you’re not getting good grades, you assume that’s an indication that success isn’t possible?”
“The writing’s on the wall.” Like, literally. There’s a bathroom on the bottom floor of my dorm,
and on the wall of the third stall, it says, “You’re terrible. Go home.”
Millie looks like she’s torn between wanting to strangle me or pull me in for a suffocating hug. “Quitting is not a solution.”
“I don’t like Hendrix.”
“Tate’s here,” she says. “You have friends. What don’t you like?”
“I have two-and-a-half friends.” Jemma does not get full credit. “And I never see Tate.”
“Katie, you have to finish the semester.” James takes off his glasses and cleans them on his shirt, a sure sign he’s bothered. “Otherwise, you lose all your credits, and you’d be walking out on your responsibility to the play.”
“The play will do just fine without me, trust me. And I’m failing all my classes anyway.”
“There’s still time to turn those grades around to at least passing,” Millie says. “This morning, your teachers seemed very sympathetic to your situation, and all of them wanted to help. Don’t you at least want to try?”
“No. I’m tired of trying and failing. I’m tired of studying for hours and not retaining any of the information. I miss having Frances to help me study, and I miss home.”
“You’ve endured a lot this semester,” James concedes. “How about we start with some counseling?”
No, no, no. “I don’t need to talk to anyone! I’m fine. My mom dying has nothing to do with the fact that this place sucks. And I suck as a student. Face it, I’m not college material. We tried it, and it didn’t work.”
“But there’s still time to—”
“No. I just want to be done. Can we go to this lunch now?” You know, celebrate the joys of my first semester?
“Tell you what, you finish this week, then we’ll talk.” James’s voice allows no room for argument.
“But—”
“We’ll take it week by week,” Millie says. “Deal?”
There’s no point to this plan, but it’s better than nothing. “It’s a deal. But you guys are only putting off the inevitable.”
I think about Dr. Maddox’s offer to replace me in the play. Then I think about the burned-out dregs of my relationship with Tate.
Maybe I’m putting off the inevitable too.
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