When I get the keys,it doesn’t matter that it’s almost Christmas.
Like a little kid with a new toy, I want to set things up right away. So I have a painting party. And that’s the thing about a party. Everyone wants to join.
At first, I just ask my parents and Sadie to help. I figure that everyone will be too busy getting ready for Christmas to have time for this.
But my parents called a few people, who called a few people, and suddenly I’m not just throwing a party. It’s a full-blown rager, with half the town popping in to congratulate me or help out. It’s possible they also heard who bought the building for me and are looking for gossip, but I don’t want to attribute such neighborly behavior to questionable motives, so I push that out of my mind.
“Thanks for coming, Mom and Dad,” I say for the dozenth time today. I look around at my friends and family, who came to help paint. I’ve done favors for all of them in the past, and it’s nice to know they are willing to reciprocate as well. I’m still uncomfortable with people doing things for me, but that’s something I’m trying to change.
My mom smiles. “Of course, honey. I wouldn’t miss it. I brought my chocolate chip cookies. They’re on the table over there, so everyone can dig in when they get hungry.”
“Good brush technique,” I tell her, watching her paint. I decided that Simply White was the perfect shade for the gallery room. As opposed to Super White or White Heron or Chantilly Lace or a gazillion other options. I’m a painter, and even I had no idea there could be so many versions of white.
“I’ve painted my share of walls in my day, darling. Your dad, however, is another story.”
My dad is supposed to be taping off the crown molding, but instead is fighting with the tape, mangling it. I take the roll from him so he doesn’t do more damage.
He shakes his head. “I’ll be quality control. Inspire the troops.”
“Sounds good, Dad.” I kiss him. “I appreciate your help. I know this wasn’t what you wanted me to do and that you’re worried about me leaving a stable profession for something riskier.”
He sighs. “I only want you happy. It’s just that I know what it’s like to be a starving artist, and I didn’t want that for you. When I was younger, I wanted to be a musician.”
“What?” I say, shocked.
He laughs. “I played guitar, but I wasn’t very good. My parents talked me into staying in school and getting a practical degree. So I got my degree in education, and I’ve always been glad. The truth is, I’d be a terrible rock star.”
“He really would,” my mom says. “He’d be terrible at drinking and whoring and trashing hotel rooms. It must be exhausting. And he’s not exaggerating about his guitar skills either. They weren’t great.”
I try to picture my dad onstage with a guitar. Try and fail.
“I wasn’t that bad. I did go on the road for a while with a band.”
“Oh my God. Is there photographic evidence? Do you have an album? A single? A mixtape? How did I not know this?” I ask.
“I hope any evidence has been burned,” he says.
“There’s a video somewhere. I’ll find it for you.” My mom grins.
“You have to.Please.”
“Being a musician or an artist sounds more romantic than in reality. I was thankful that I had something to fall back on. And I wanted the same thing for you. You’re so good at being a teacher. I thought it made you happy.”
“It did, Dad. It does. I’m still going to teach, just in my own studio.”
He nods. “I was wrong to discourage you. Just because I wasn’t comfortable taking a risk, doesn’t mean you aren’t.”
“Well, I’m not exactly trying to be a rock star. Just open a painting studio,” I say. “It’s pretty tame as far as risks go.”
“You’ll be brilliant at it. You always put your whole heart into everything. It makes me worry that you’ll break it sometimes. But it’s also your superpower.”
I give my dad a hug, careful not to get paint on him.
“Speaking of superpowers, how’s that movie star of yours?” My mom winks at me.
“He’s not mine.”
“He bought you this place,” she points out. “That’s kind of a big thing.”
