by Kilby Blades
"It's really, really hard, Dad. You know that kid, Xandra Morris, the valedictorian from last year, who was, like the smartest kid in the class and a National Merit Scholar and all that business? She didn't even get in to Brown and she got into all the other Ivies.”
"I don't care what Xandra Morris did, Rox. I'm talking about you. And you’ve got a shot at Brown. So take this…and read it. Okay?”
The faintest welling of tears sprung to my eyes. I didn't want to have to say what was on my mind. Luke Vega was a proud man. He'd worked hard to pay my mother alimony. He did very well now, but my mother getting so much for all those years still meant that we weren’t rich. He’d never be able to afford any of the big mansions in the hills where Jag and Zoe lived. He’d lived in the same old very middle-class house I remembered all my life.
"Dad, I'm just gonna go to one of the UC schools. It's the best state university system in the country, and it's a lot cheaper than any Ivy. I'm gonna look at UCLA, UCSB and Irvine. LA is where I want to be. That's where the music scene is. And you know I want to write about music."
My father narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “This had better not be about Jagger.”
It took a little acting on my part to seem outraged. My dad didn't need to know that Jag and I had been talking about UCLA for months. He liked Jag well enough, but he didn't like the idea of high school sweethearts. I mean, look at how things turned out for him and my mom.
"What, Dad??! No!"
"Is he applying to UCLA?”
“Dad…it’s California. Everyone's applying to the UC schools," I hedged with an eye roll.
"I thought his parents would’ve wanted him to go to Harvard or Yale or something," my dad said with less judgment than I expected.
Try Juilliard, I said to myself, and ignored the sadness I felt at the idea.
"Jag wants to be in the music business, too. There's no music business in Cambridge or New Haven," I hedged. I would do it subtly, but I had to leave room for the possibility that we would end up at the same school.
“Quit throwing away college brochures, Rox. I've done my research. A lot of the schools use the common application. It won't take you much effort to apply to a few more.”
“But –" I vainly protested.
"And, don't worry about the money. You go to any school that you want."
Whatever protest had nearly flown out of my mouth stopped the second I heard my father's words.
"What do you mean, don't worry about money? Dad…you have no idea how much some of the schools cost."
He shook his head a little, chuckled, and smiled for the first time since he’d walked into the room. "Baby, I've known how much college costs for more than ten years. Brown costs $50,000 for tuition and just over $15,000 for room and board. Add inn that you'd need an allowance of $500 a month and that you’ll be there for four years, we’re looking at about $285,000."
My heart beat out of my chest and I felt short of breath. It winded me to speak. "How do you even know that?"
It was then that I saw the pride in his eyes.
"Because I've been saving up for your college since you were eight.”
I think my heart stopped then. I turned the words over in my head.
I've been saving up for your college since you were eight.
Tears blurred my vision. And then I was in my father's arms and sobbing into his shoulder. And I didn't know why I was crying, because I hadn't even hoped for this.
Later, it hit me, after my dad and I went to the diner to eat, after I finished studying, did some laundry, and avoided texting with Jag. I wasn’t ready to share news I could barely fathom myself. I couldn’t tell him yet that everything had changed.
5 Another Brick in the Wall
We don't need no education.
We don't need no thought control.
No dark sarcasm in the classroom.
Teachers, leave them kids alone.
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone…
-Pink Floyd, Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2)
* * *
Jagger (Late October)
Principal Wyatt took to the stage to weak applause, and not just because the crowd was small with only the seniors at assembly. The woman was notorious for long, preachy lectures full of old-school ideas. Principal Wyatt herself was over seventy and every bit as ornery as any other septuagenarian. She was thin, wore skirt suits and drank coffee all day at her desk. No one had ever seen her eat.
But she was an icon in the town and a fixture in the school—she'd even taught Roxy’s parents. By all accounts, she’d been gray-haired and stern-faced even then. According to Mrs. Convery’s intro, Wyatt was going to give us some sort of pep talk about college. So far, senior year had found us spending an inordinate amount of time on such things: logistical primers and motivational speeches; sports games and homecoming rallies….
Trinity High and its frigging pep, I thought, wistful once again for my far-simpler underclassmen days.
Wyatt’s heels clickety-clacked across the stage and she took her place behind the podium, glaring out at the crowd from behind thick glasses. She was also famous for dramatic silences and her ability to stare down a crowd. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen her blink.
“One million dollars,” she finally began in a booming voice and staccato rhythm. “Can any of you tell me what that number should mean to you right now?”
No one ever answered her rhetorical questions, but that never stopped her from these sorts of quizzes.
“Anyone?” she probed, sweeping her gaze over the crowd.
“The money I’d pay someone to get out of this assembly,” a kid behind me muttered. Wyatt’s gaze snapped sharply toward the small eruption of snickers.
“Oh, this is funny, is it?” She asked in a lighter voice, with a put-on smile. “Go ahead and crack wise. Treat college like a joke. Let’s see how hard you’re laughing when your gar gets repossessed, you’re behind on your rent, and you can’t do anything to help your situation.”
The room quieted again, and she went back to her sweeping glare. “Oh. Have I got your attention? Well, listen up, and listen good. One million dollars is the average incremental salary you’ll earn over your lifetime if you attend college versus if you don’t. That’s more than $30,000 annually if you work for twenty-five years.”
And, so began her diatribe. It was a push for us all to leave Rye and consider applying to college, never mind that Wyatt herself still lived in the house that she grew up in, having spent all except her own college years within the confines of the town. I rolled my eyes for how much of a joke all of this was.
Rye was the kind of Northern California town where people like my parents came to escape the rat race. By all other accounts, it was declining. It had been populated during the Gold Rush, and had mainly survived on camping tourism and logging over the past century. Wyatt was preaching to the choir. Even the kids who might return to Rye wanted at least to sow their wild oats at one of the UCs.
"It wasn't so long ago that I was your age, “ Wyatt droned on, minutes later. "You think I've never heard of senioritis?" she challenged.
I caught Gunther's face out of the corner of my eye. "Not so long ago?" he mouthed and gave an incredulous look. Unintentionally, I laughed out loud. It earned me a sharp look from Mr. Taylor, which careened me back into irritation. They'd pushed our lunch period back for this? This assembly was boring as hell, and I was starting to get hangry. I slid my hand in my pocket and pulled out a piece of Big Red, folding it into my mouth as I tuned out the speech and looked around.
Gunther's head was now bowed toward his lap, his eyes alight with attention, which convinced me he was sexting with Zoë. My eyes scanned the auditorium until they settled on spiky blue hair. The blush on her face told me I was exactly right. A couple rows back from Zoë were Declan and Annika. She was feigning attention, but he wasn't even trying. His baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes and he was fast asleep.
<
br /> "A mind is a terrible thing to waste," Wyatt's voice boomed, interrupting my thoughts.
Really? The UNCF tagline?
Gunther stopped texting long enough to look over at me, eyebrow raised. I shook my head in silent solidarity. I glanced over at Roxy then, sure she'd be cracking up at Wyatt's theatrics.
But she wasn't. My girl was rapt with attention, as serious a look as I'd ever seen on her face. It wiped the smile off of mine. Ever since her dad had done the big reveal on the pile of money he’d squirreled away, the way she acted any time someone talked about college had changed. I knew I should be happy for her. I was happy for her. But I was disappointed in myself. Because it had never occurred to me that our UCLA plan pivoted on anything having to do with money.
My discomfort about the matter followed me to lunch. Roxy and I had changed our plan—kind of. I would apply to a few other music programs and she, too, would branch out from only applying to UCs. It was a logical resolution—what kid in this day and age didn’t hedge his bets?—and probably naïve of me to ever have thought either of us would get away with applying to only two schools.
"When do you head to New York, dude?" Declan asked, sliding into the cafeteria chair with an alarmingly-full tray.
"It's supposed to be next week," I mumbled, stuffing a fry into my mouth.
"Supposed to be?" Zoë piped up. "You mean your Juilliard audition isn't totally confirmed?"
"No, it is…" I admitted, "I'm just still not sure I want to go."
Declan, Annika, and Zoë all stopped eating and looked up at me in shock. Roxy was still getting her lunch, thank God—this was a contentious, and, unfortunately, a recurring conversation. Berklee School of Music was another formidable east coast choice and they offered a Bachelors in Composition. Boston was only an hour away from Providence, which would work out well if Roxy ended up at Brown.
"Why wouldn't you want to audition at Juilliard?" Annika demanded.
"Yes, Jagger—why wouldn't you?" came Roxy's voice from behind me.
Guess she wasn't as far away as I thought.
"I just want to keep my options open," I lobbied, now channeling my parents and silently hoping for the other girls' support. “My mom’s taking me to see other schools while we're on the east coast. It's not like Juilliard has the only composition program in the nation."
"It has the best," Roxy scoffed unhelpfully.
"Actually, Yale's been ranked higher for the past few years," Gunther stated, throwing me a supportive glance. Yale’s program was graduate only but I wouldn’t mention that. I appreciated that at least one person had switched to my corner.
"Speaking of college…" I changed the subject and rummaged in my bag to pull out printouts for Annika and Declan. "My mom and dad got confirmation their references were received.”
My dad was Chief of Medicine at the hospital and had written a professional reference for Annika based on her volunteer work in the nursery as a cuddler. My mom had written a personal reference for Declan, attesting to his passion for architecture. They were both hoping that these references would tip the scales in their favor for their first choice and my parents’ alma mater. Declan wanted an engineering program with a strong design focus and Annika would focus on political and social justice—she wanted to go pre-law.
Zoë, as it turned out, was originally from Louisiana, and shared Gunther's obsession with the south. He was interested in Civil War studies, and she was undecided. Together, they'd apply to Tulane, Duke, and a few other schools in Texas that I hadn't really heard of.
Then there was Roxy. Brown had opened the floodgates for her to look at more east coast writing programs. So far, she liked Williams, Middlebury and Brown. That "little" op/ed she’d written near the end of her internship had finally been published. It had even gotten picked up for syndication by the Huffington Post. Between that, and the stellar recommendation from the magazine’s Editor-in-Chief, her application to any writing program would be oozing with cred.
“This is gonna be so sweet if it works out.” Declan looked excited as he plucked the confirmation printout from my hand, pausing his enthusiastic devouring of the contents of his lunch tray long enough to inspect the paper. “Send your mom my thanks.”
Annika threw him a look and he started in a way that implied she’d just kicked him under the table.
“Thank her yourself, you idiot,” she scolded. “As in, send a note.”
“Seriously, babe…” Declan ignored her chastisement and put his arm around her shoulder. “We’re taking them out to dinner when we both get in.”
“And the six of us should throw a party to celebrate!” Zoë clapped excitedly as she beamed around the table. “You know…on March 10th.”
Decision day was a day I was already dreading. My attention darted to Roxy, who also didn’t look nearly as excited as Annika, Declan or Zoë. The ever-perceptive Gunther surveyed the table, looking as nervous as I felt.
“Alright, change of subject,” he said with lightness in his voice, though he was looking at me when he said it. “We got plenty of it from Wyatt. Enough of this college talk.”
6 Battlefield
I never meant to start a war
You know, I never wanna hurt you
Don't even know what we are fighting for
Why does love always feel like
a battlefield, a battlefield, a battlefield?
-Jordyn Sparks, Battlefield
* * *
Jagger (Early November)
“Mr. Vega!”
Upon seeing Roxy’s dad, my slow pacing faltered for a beat. It was rare to see anyone other than patients in the hospital’s maternity gardens. The secluded, glass-encased solarium was on the same floor as the maternity ward. I’d thought myself alone, though it wasn’t uncommon for me to see new moms walking slowly as their recovering bodies healed, or spending time with their older children. Today I was cuddling Claire, whose own mother had two older kids at home.
But apparently, I wasn’t alone because Luke Vega was ambling toward me.
"You scared the dickens out of me," I remarked with a little laugh that I hoped sounded a lot less nervous then Luke Vega made me. Also, when I said that sentence in my head, I hadn’t used the word "dickens”—I’d used the words, "ever-loving shit."
But Mr. Vega remained quiet until he was much closer to my space, and smiled a half smile before saying, “Wouldn't want to do that….”
Before I could consider some punitive reason for his visit—like if he'd found out about that concert I’d taken Roxy to that night she was supposed to be at Zoë’s, or about that time we’d cut school to go up the coast—a terrifying thought occurred: Luke Vega, who had never sought me out, had somehow found me at work. Why would he be in the hospital if he wasn't visiting someone sick?
"Is Roxy okay, sir? I mean… Is she here for some reason?"
Mr. Vega frowned for a couple of seconds before his face softened in understanding.
"No, no… Roxy’s fine."
I exhaled a sigh of relief and resumed my slow pacing the moment I felt a little wiggle in my arms from baby Claire. I looked down at her then.
Don't worry, I telegraphed with my eyes. Roxy’s okay.
All of the babies I cuddled liked to hear about Roxy. Before I’d met her, I’d sometimes sing the babies I cuddled songs or talked about my favorite bands. I’d always had a way with the little ones, but I’d noticed specifically that we all felt better when I got to talking about my girl.
"I knew you volunteered here…" Mr. Vega looked down at the bundle in my arms, but his expression remained neutral. “…with the babies."
I smiled then, eager, as always, to win points with Roxy’s dad.
"Yes, sir. I'm a cuddler."
Mr. Vega made a sound halfway between a hum and a harrumph before asking, "You like babies, do you?"
"Yes sir. I do." I stood a little prouder. Judging from the reactions I got from most people who found out, serving as a volunteer cudd
ler at the hospital was a shining feather in my cap. You had to pass a criminal background check, undergo extensive training, and be able to handle the most fragile and precious of lives. Do you think most other teenagers could claim this? That was a definite no.
"Well, you'd better not like them too much," he said in a bit of a growl, leaning closer and narrowing his eyes in a way that found me taking a step back. It only took that long for me to understand his meaning.
"Oh, no!” I insisted quickly. “I meant that I like other people's babies. I am far too young to have babies of my own, sir. I wasn't talking about wanting a baby with Roxy. Not that I would judge anybody who had a baby at seventeen, because I know that’s how old you were when Roxy was born, Mr. Vega, and she’s just about perfect.”
Holy hell, I screamed internally. Shut the fuck up, Jagger. I looked down at Claire, hoping for some show of solidarity. She looked sleepy, so not much help. But at least appearing to check on her gave me a chance to stop and catch my breath.
“What I mean is, sir, that I respect the fact that you had Roxy young. But I don't think that's the right path for her and me. It’ll be a long time before we start a family."
But Mr. Vega didn't look relieved—not completely relieved, at least. His already unreadable-expression became more complex.
"That's what I'm here to talk to you about. I knew from Roxy that you volunteer here on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Mr. Vega motioned toward a sticker that was affixed to the hem of his shirt. I hadn’t noticed it before. “I know a nurse.”
Well, that explains that. Roxy had mentioned that her dad was seeing a woman. I had no problem with Luke Vega getting out more, which meant less supervision for me and Roxy.
"I've known Sadie since I was little," I said with a smile, surmising that Luke’s “friend” was neither Carol or Sylvia, the other two maternity nurses on desk duty that day, who were both married. “She's really nice."
"Well, I'm glad you approve.” Roxy got her sarcasm from her father. “But I'm not here to talk about me—I’m here to talk about you."