“Whatever.” Kat shakes her head, but the grin creeps back across her face. “So. How are we gonna celebrate your shiny scholarship letter? Dinner? Hot tubs? Trevor Collins?”
“Oh my God, stop already. We can’t celebrate yet. Not until I actually win it.” I take the last sip of my chai and slide my chair back. “I should probably stop by the store and tell my mom. Maybe she’ll be so happy she’ll let me go out or something crazy like that.”
Kat lays a dramatic hand on her chest. “On a school night?”
“There’s a first for everything,” I say. “You wanna give me a ride?”
She waits a beat before answering, eyeing me carefully. “Only if you promise me one thing.”
“What?” I’m sure it’s going to be something about not forgetting her or keeping in touch when I leave, and of course that goes without saying.
She leans in and grabs both of my hands again. “Now that you’re going, and it’s all official, promise me that for the rest of the year you’ll ease up and actually enjoy the little bit of high school that’s left.”
“What are you talking about?” I try to pass it off lightly, like I don’t know, but I do. Kat’s whole philosophy on life can be summed up in two words: carpe diem (which it is, in loopy script, tattooed on her wrist). Seize the day, live in the moment, soak it all up—good or bad. Which is fine for her. I just happen to think more long term, I guess.
“You know what I mean. High school’s almost over, Parker, and what do you have to show for it?”
“Seriously?”
“I mean besides your GPA, and Stanford, and valedictorian and all that crap—which I’m totally proud of you for. I’m not knocking those things. But when’s the last time you took a chance? Or didn’t do what someone else expected of you? Or did something you really wanted to, even though you probably shouldn’t have?”
I run my finger around the rim of my empty mug, think about Julianna Farnetti’s journal tucked in my bag with the rest of my books, and I lie. “I don’t know . . .”
She smacks a hand on the table, sending a splash of mocha from her cup. “Well, it’s time. It’s time to do something worth remembering.”
“Like what?” I ask, humoring her. “What wild and crazy things should I be out doing?”
Kat shakes her head. “You’re missing the point. You don’t need to go out and do anything wild or crazy. Just do something unexpected for once.” She sits back in her chair and looks at me like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Just one thing.”
Again, I picture the manila envelope with Julianna Farnetti’s writing on it, stuffed between the books in my bag. I open my mouth, and I almost tell her I might have already done a thing like that, and that I don’t even know why. Instead, I match the friendly challenge of her tone. “Okay. One thing.”
“Good.” She drains the remaining mocha from her cup and grabs her purse. “You better make it a worthwhile thing, though. Something big.”
“Unexpected, worthwhile, and big,” I say. “I’ll get right on that.”
We both stand, and she loops her arm through mine, face all business. “Okay. Let’s go then. Who knows what’s out there waiting for you.”
4.
“I never dared be radical when young
For fear it would make me conservative when old.”
—“PRECAUTION,” FROM “TEN MILLS,” 1936
“You were meant for this, Parker.” My mom beams. “This. Right here.” She holds the creased letter in front of her like it’s something holy. Then she frowns. “I just wish you would’ve kept it nice so we could frame it.”
I make a conscious effort not to roll my eyes. “It’s just a piece of paper, Mom. And it’s not a sure thing. I still have to write the speech—and, you know, win, so don’t get all excited yet.” I sound like a brat, even to myself, but I can’t help it. Now that it’s in her hands, I wish I’d kept it to myself just a little longer, because all of a sudden it seems more her accomplishment than mine. And because I know our world will now revolve around me writing and practicing my speech. I snap my chopsticks apart and rub them together hard without saying anything else.
“I’m just so proud of you, honey. I know how hard you’ve worked, and that I haven’t always been easy on you, but . . . it’s all come down to this. They’ll choose you, I just know it.” She purses her lips together and her eyes flood behind her glasses. “I always knew you had the potential.”
I cringe inwardly, but force a smile. “I know, Mom.” Then I raise my steaming bowl of miso so she can continue if she wants to. In the last few years I’ve learned it’s easiest this way. She talks, I mostly listen, sometimes nod, and let her say what she needs to. Especially when it’s about “potential,” which, in her eyes, is the worst possible thing I could waste. I’m positive it’s all tied to my dad and the fact that after publishing his first collection of poetry years ago, he’s yet to finish anything else—if you exclude their marriage. I have a feeling that was over before it really began though. My parents are far too different for me to believe they were ever meant to be.
“Have you told your father yet?” she asks in the false casual tone reserved for talking about him.