“Well, although I’m not so sure about the running,” I take a sip of water, my throat suddenly dry, “You can make a decent living off of writing, you know? There are journalists and bloggers,” I pause to take another sip. “Authors.”
I’ve approached this topic before, casually dropping bait to see if he’d bite.“Oh, you remember so and so? They write for a food blog now”or“Blah blah who went to high school with me, she was published in a magazine.”Every time it’s the same response as the one he gives now.
“Sure, those jobs exist but they’re for people who didn’t get a real degree like you!” Of course, this is wildly untrue, which is the one thing Dad choosesnotto be factual about. In this case, I think his opinion on the topic clouds his otherwise factual mentality. His opinion being thatI was born to be a teacher and so a teacher is what I'll be. So, despite that millions of successful authors do exist and make a living through this “hobby,” there’s no convincing him thatIcould possibly want to be one of them.
He reaches for the box of dessert, but Mom pulls it away. “I’m just saying Claire, you’re in a respectable profession.”
“Amen!” Mom chimes cheerfully. Always the cheerleader.
“Those kids are lucky to have you!” he says.
“And so are we!” Mom ends the conversation, collecting our plates, taking with her two very important things — the blondies and my dream.
11
Jamison
“In your dreams, man.”
I snap the newspaper shut, but Sean is still leaning over my shoulder. The ad for the Maverick was posted this morning, and despite it being way out of my price range, I was curious what the listing said.
“Okay, first of all, get your hot ass breath off of my neck.” I shrug making contact with Sean’s chin. He staggers back dramatically like he caught an uppercut with a closed fist rather than a tap of my shoulder.
“And second, I was just looking.” I fold the newspaper and tuck it under my arm, pulling a new pack of cigarettes from my back pocket. I brush one side to side and settle it on my lips.
“You know you should really quit that,” Sean says, rubbing his jaw.
“So I’ve been told.”
“For real though, why torture yourself like that looking in the paper? An ignorant rich guy’s gonna pay an arm and a leg to store that thing in his six-car garage so he can show it to people at dinner parties and shit.” He stands straight adjusting an imaginary tie, then raises his eyebrows and purses his lips, holding his hand in a C shape.
I pull my hand away from my mouth. “Are you having a stroke?”
“No, I’m the rich guy! See! I’m drinking my cocktail.” He repeats the painful expression, only somehow more dramatically this time, before dropping the act altogether.
“Never mind. All I am saying is you’re just setting yourself up to be let down.”
I exhale. “Whatever,man.” Brushing him off, I head into the office to check today’s schedule. He’s right though. I’m investing way too much time in something that’s never going to happen. Setting myself up just to be let down, which is something I told myself I was going to stop doing over a decade ago.
I spent three years in foster care before I decided I was done hoping to be adopted.
It's my twelfth birthday, and I'm packing my bag to head to my fourth home this year. The one I'm leaving has so many kids that they didn’t even realize I wasn’t going to school. When the principal couldn’t get a hold of my foster mom, she called my case manager Mel, and when Mel found out I was skipping more classes than I was attending, that was the end of that.
Everything I own fits into one worn backpack. I toss it into Mel's car and she hands me a cupcake and a lighter.
“Happy birthday, kid.”
I have to light my own candle, but it's more than I expected. Mel is good people, but even she has more kids on her caseload than she can handle.
Blowing out the candle, my wish is that this next house will stick and I’ll finally have a home.
“This next one will be better,” she say as if reading my mind.
It wasn’t.
And neither were the next three.
I went to seven schools in seventh grade and never bothered making a birthday wish again.
