Plopping my backpack down in my room, I do my best to run through my mental list of tasks without thinking about what I doomed myself to this afternoon.
Three hundred dollars a week is a substantial upgrade to what I’m getting now by working my butt off at the twenty-four hour fast food chain in town. If I go through with this and face my fear of being in any sort of spotlight, I can avoid excessive exhaustion, continue helping Mom with the bills, and even put some money aside.
It’ssmart.
Only fear holds me back.
As if a stupid thing like pride would stop me from taking money. No. I’m terrified of showing the world who I am again. This isn’t my first time in theater, after all. I took it in high school, and Agatha was relentless in tearing me down. The teachers didn’t stop their prized pupil related to their boss, either.
So I quickly learned my place. Again.
It’s exactly a repeat of when I was little and bright and wanted to be an artist.
Now, Caly, art is a great hobby, but trying to make a careerout of it is like playing the lottery.
Even as small as I was, I heard the message loud and clear. Even though Mom would turn around and brag about the horrible little crafts I made to her unimpressed friends, I knew better. I knew that in the next private breath she’d tell me it was impossible. She saidbe somethingin the same moment she assured me I couldn’t.
It became too much to handle, so I figured out what I had to do.
Unseen. Unheard. Unhurt.
I’m not interested in standing out like Lex. Some of us don’t have the protection of status, connections, or money to confirm we are brilliant. Sometimes it doesn’t matter what you can do. Sometimes the world chews you up all the same.
So it’s best to hide.
Becausebrilliance? It’s nothing more than a burden I don’t have time for.
~*~
Mom sags into her chair at our small table while I bring out leftover spaghetti spinach bake I made the day before. Eyes closed, she appears to already be half asleep.
Long shifts spent on her feet at Bia’s Kitchen, relying on tips to supplement her pathetic hourly wage, take everything from her. That’s why she insisted all while I was growing up that I was going to do well and get a good job. That’s why she always told me to stop worrying overhobbieslike art.
So far, I’ve managed doing well and I’ve stopped worrying about hobbies, but I’m still working on thatgood jobpart.
“How were classes today?” she asks, sighing as she opens her eyes and reaches for the serving spoon.
“Average,” I state, ignoring everything that has beenless-than-average today. I never told Mom about my writing or music. I learned too young how critical she is, and I don’t needthe added pressure of living up to her expectations along with everyone else’s.
Getting a good job is the sort of low standard I need her to expect from me. It’s something I hope I can manage once I graduate.
As far as she knows, I’m going to Olympus because it’s the shortest commute, and I’m on academic scholarship, focusing on my electives, and debating majoring in interior design because I overheard one of the art students mention how that field has a guaranteed career path after graduation. Good or bad, I don’t know if I can handle the pressure of wanting to major in theater or writing or music. Those are the kinds of careers most people have to fight for, and since I didn’t even manage to apply myself to greatness as a child, I know I don’t have what it takes to take on the world.
You’ve blown my expectations out of the water.
That arrogant creature went so far as to say we were alike, but I have no idea what he sees in me that is good enough to compare to him, especially since he clearly thinks so highly of himself. It doesn’t matter what I can do if I can’t share any of it without an excessive safety blanket.
“Caly.” Concern tints Mom’s voice. “You’re not eating, honey.”
I stare at the food on my plate, mildly wondering when it got there, then I pick up my fork and shake my head. “Sorry. I was distracted. Is the food okay? I was worried I’d crisped the pasta a bit too much on top.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “I’m worried about you. You are getting enough sleep, right? Taking seventeen hours and working part time on top of taking care of household things and cooking… No matter how brilliant you are, that has to be difficult.”
Not so much. Not since I figured things out. Doing everything in order and according to the time schedule provideddoesn’t work for me; trying to keep up like that last year led to far too many quiet breakdowns in my room. “It hasn’t been so bad since I stopped trying to pace myself a little each day on all of my classes like last year. It’s easier to do one class a day until I get bored. I think I’ve completed my Statistics homework through the middle of September, and I’m at least two essays ahead for English 101.” I am five essays ahead for English 101. But that seems a little too “brilliant.” I take a bite of my food, confirming that I did indeed crisp the top layer of pasta a bit. “The syllabus has most of the information I need. From there, it’s just a matter of keeping up with any changes and staying sorted.”
“Be careful that you don’t burn yourself out.”
I chuckle. “The only thing at risk of burning is my leftovers. Really, Mom. I’m fine.”
