Right. My birthday was a few days ago, but due to the stress midterms bring, I didn’t care enough to celebrate.
Dad, regardless of my relationship with my mother, remembers to call for every birthday, even if he’s only a few days late. That's the one time he doesn't get an excuse because, in his eyes, it's unacceptable to miss his only child's birthday.
I feel a smile creep up on my face. "Hi, Dad. Thanks."
"So, how's twenty-two treating you?" He asks, chuckling. "I was getting through med school at your age."
Dad's a big neurosurgeon in the greater Los Angeles area, while Mother made a big name in Hollywood, starring in action films and dramas that won an Academy Award or two, all while dragging me along with them. I grew up with everyone knowing that last name, Shentu, and associating it with something great.
Even if it's one of the most common surnames amongst Chinese Americans.
"Well, it's beating me," I joke.
He continues to ask more questions, such as about my grades (which are great), how Vinny's doing (which is well), and how the aquarium is handling. I tell him about the manta rays that arrived last week and how one of them is really sick.
"That's rough, son." He clears his throat on the other line. "So, I was doing some research on grad school scholarships, and I found one that I think you should apply for."
Scholarships? Don't get me wrong, I'm touched that my father would look into something for me during his few hours off, but my gut is telling me something's off. From the jump, I've been able to pay for my college education with everything that was put into my Coogan account—a savings account for child actors and their salaries from projects—without any extra help from either of my parents. Add the paid internship, and I'm pretty much set.
Even he knows that.
"Dad, you know I'm doing fine, financially," I remind him.
"Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to have more, right?"
Alarms start ringing in my head because I know he's up to something. My father—bless him—is the exact opposite of nonchalant when it comes to the future. The guy had his future planned out when he was a freshman. In high school.
He also married my mother. Need I say more? Nonchalance is not in his vocabulary.
"Dad," I begin to say slowly, a little scared of what will leave his mouth, depending on the question he asks. "What is the scholarship?"
I can hear his hesitation, and I'm done asking questions because my well-being isn't the only reason he called. He never hesitates unless he's hiding something. My father is one of the worst liars I've ever known.
"You know what?" I shake my head at myself. "I take that back."
"Crew, I—"
"Was duped by Mother?" To be honest, I should have expected this. If there's anything or anyone he loves more than me and his job, it's his wife.
"I just want the best for you," he tells me, and I almost believe him. I don't know what's stronger: the feeling of hurt, knowing that he gave into Mother's persuasion—then again, she's known for getting exactly what she wants, no matter what—or the betrayal, because I would rather have him stay neutral, like he always has where my mother and I are concerned, than making a decision. Even if he sided with me.
Sure, I hate her, but I don't want my father living with that kind of guilt.
I scoff at how dumb I could have possibly been. "If you wanted what's best for me, then you wouldn't have told me about the scholarship in the first place."
"Crew—"
Before he can get another word in edgewise, I press the red button, ending the call in a huff. My fingers begin digging into the palm of my hand, and I let them, allowing the pain to center me, but it doesn't work.
Why didn't I second-guess myself? I should have known from the beginning that something was off. More questions anddoubts swarm my head, and I find myself transported back to that film set four years ago.
No, I won't let that happen. I can't relive that day now!
The only thing stopping me from reliving that memory entirely is a small hand grasping my arm. I take a deep breath and turn around, about to ask them to leave me alone, when I spot Carly's face studying mine with a concerned expression. Her hand, which is barely exposed by the really big, navy blue bomber jacket, holds a very light grasp on my arm.
"Are you okay?" She asks, letting go of my arm. My fingers loosen from the grasp almost immediately, and I can feel the tiny crescents on my palm.
How did she find me? This area of the school is pretty barren, and there's no possible way she could have just been passing by. I'm about to check my pockets for a possible tracking device before reminding myself that she's not crazy.
