“It’s Bear Lake. What’s not to love,” my dad adds.
“Good point,” I say, but inside my gut is churning. There’s a handful of things I can think of that I don’t love about Bear Lake anymore, and while they don’t need to hear that, they do need to know I’m leaving. I’m not sure I’ll ever bereadyto break the news to them. It’s more of anow or neversituation, and I guessnowit is.
“Since we’re all here, I wanted to tell you guys something,” I say.
My mom pauses mid–pancake scoop, and her attention flits to my dad. They communicate the same questioning glance—Doyou know what she’s going to say?—before trapping me with the same confused stare.
“We’re listening,” my mom says.
“I’m moving away at the end of the summer,” I announce.
The spatula crashes to the wood floor, sending a pancake splatting against a kitchen cupboard.
“What! Where?” my mom gasps.
“Maine,” I say, sounding far less confident than I did a month ago when I made this decision.As far away as possible, I remember thinking, because it was the furthest thing stateside. But it was a verdict I made before I knew there was more to my life here. Before I met the two people who have me questioning every choice I make.
“Maine?” my mom wheezes, ignoring the pancake batter clumped to her feet. “That’s clear across the country! How are youpossiblygoing to get there?”
I wring my hands in front of my lap, trying to calm my racing heart.
“I’ve been saving my wages and tip money from the restaurant to buy something used from an old car lot in Montpelier. I’ll need a lift getting to town of course, but then from there?—”
“I guess I should have seen this coming,” my dad interrupts, scratching his head. He looks sad, but my mom is scowling. I don’t know what I expected from them when I knew they weren’t going to take this well. Just this once I hoped they would trust me enough to believe I was making the right decision for myself, even if it was one that was hard for them to understand. But a scowl? There’s no trust in a scowl.
“What is it?” I push.
Maybe if I know her why, I’ll be able to understandherperspective.
“It’s just… your dad and I always thought you’d put that money toward school… maybe get an art degree…”
“Or, y’know, something in architecture so you could work with your old man,” my dad interjects, winking at me.
My mom shoots him a glare. “To become anartist. Like you always planned.”
Her shoulders square in a fighting stance, and I realize she doesn’t care about understanding at all. She’s still trying to impose her own dreams on me.
“Why, because you got one?” I hiss.
A look of pain radiates from her eyes.
Increased irritation is a common side effect for someone with my kind of TBI history, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating to experience firsthand. I don’twantto feel mad at them. How am I supposed to be who I want to be and who they need me to be at the same time?
“No, because youareone,” she fires back. “That sketch you did the other day… it’s still inside of you, and you’re wasting your talent if you don’t pursue it.”
“Just because I have a book of sketches in my room from my childhood and drew ONE new thing does not mean that’s what I want to do for the rest of my life!” I holler. “It’s not what defines me. I can be whatever I want!”
“You’re right, Teddy. You can. You should go off and be that person. You won’t see me stopping you.” She sighs, and for the first time ever, she leaves the room before me.
“Dad, I’m sorry, I’m just tired of pretending that I’m okay being someone I’m not anymore.”
He reaches his palm out as if he planned to clasp my shoulder, maybe give it a squeeze of support, but then drops it back to his side. “It’s okay to be someone else, Teddy Bear. But what you’re not is someone who hurts your mom like that. I’m saddened to think that you believe you’ve changed so much thatyou’re willing to be that person now.” He pushes away from the counter and trails behind her.
His soft-spoken words sting more than any yell ever could. Ihatethis feeling. I don’t want to feel it anymore. My hands shake, tears on the verge of spilling over, as I pull out my phone from my back pocket and send a text to the one person who promised to help me forget.
TEDDY: Meet me at Maverick’s at six. I’ll be the one with the microphone.
Outfitted like a ’50s western saloon, Maverick’s is the sole spot for family-friendly country line dancing and karaoke in Garden City. With half swinging oak doors in every room but the bathrooms, a mechanical bull in the corner, and a disco ball above the stage, it’s the type of place you wear a pair of cowboy boots and cue up Nitty Gritty Dirt Band on the jukebox. Which is precisely what I’ve done while waiting for Reed to arrive. With a microphone in my hand and at least four dozen people in the audience, I take a deep breath.
