“I’m sorry,” she says again. “We didn’t do any of this to hurt you. We thought you were going to be at U of I this year and I’m sorry you’re not, I’m sorry you’re stuck here, I’m sorry your plan didn’t work out how you wanted it to. But you’re not the onlyone with plans, Murphy, and your father and I have always built ours around yours. It didn’t work out this time, and I’m sorry, but that’s how life goes. You’ll just have to make a new plan.”
I wish she would stop apologizing and I would start, but before I can come up with anything good to say, she lets out a long, tired sigh, and for the first time, it occurs to me that my parents might be old. The pepper-gray hair spraying up from Mom’s roots, the way her skin creases and droops from the corners of her lips like a marionette. Who knows if she’ll even renew her real estate license in Florida. I haven’t even thought to ask. A day will come when her bad knee catches up to her and the elevator in their new condo building will be a necessity, not a luxury. Dad will retire from his IT job. They’ll live the life they should’ve started already. One where they’re people first, parents second. They deserve that.
“I didn’t realize that was your plan,” I whisper. “The whole moving to Florida thing.”
“And maybe we should’ve told you sooner.” Mom’s voice wavers just a bit more with each word. “But we never wanted you to feel pushed out before you were ready or like you were the last thing tying us here, but…”
“But I was,” I finish for her. “I get it.”
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare down at the carpet, waiting for her to excuse herself, to hide away in her bedroom for the cry she’s dancing on the brink of. But she doesn’t. When I look up, her throat bobs, then she forces a smile and returns to the closet and gets back to work. Because that’s what the Konowitz women do. They feel something and they keep moving.
I guess there’s nothing left to do but pack.
After a painful ten minutes of working in silence, I finally drum up something to say. “I could pass accounting, I think.”
“Really?” Mom says through a sniffle.
“Maybe. If I get an eighty-nine on the final.”
“Can you do that?”
“I’m gonna try.”
“Good for you.”
It’s a flat, lifeless exchange, but it’s better than silence. I peel back picture after poster from the Wall of Fame, choosing to toss more than I’d originally imagined, while Mom slowly removes the last evidence of my childhood from the back corners of the closet. The more we strip away at the old Murphy, the more room there is for a new one, built in the blank, empty space where I’m no longer a kid, not quite an adult. I’m still adjusting to the in-between. Old enough to drink but not old enough to fear the consequences. Old enough to worry about where I’m going but not old enough to know. Hovering in the sort of intermission between one life and another, one Murphy and the next. But I’m ready to move forward.
When I pull back the ring of tape on the last Polaroid, the Wall of Fame is officially just a wall, completely blank besides the few dozen places where the tape stripped up the paint. A clear canvas. I decide I’ll print a fresh copy of the study guide tomorrow. I’ll focus on the back half of the textbook and give it another go. Pass or fail, I’m not sure what’s next for me, but I do know I’m ready to move on. Step one: Pass this class and get out of community college. Step two: TBD.
twenty-three
The back office at Sip is a micro museum to the way things used to be. Emphasis on micro—it’s about the size of three cubicles pushed together, or at least that’s what my manager said when we were first setting up the space. I’ve never had the pleasure of spending time in a cubicle, but if my days in the back office are any indication, I don’t think I’d mind it too much.
To call it cozy would be generous; there’s just enough space for a diner-size table, a coatrack, and two desks—one for me and one for the Sip desktop, which serves exactly two purposes: clocking in and clocking out. The walls are a mismatched gallery of decor from the old shop that didn’t fit the new aesthetic. Highlights include several old tin coffee signs, framed pictures from storewide Christmas parties, and a poorly designed poster from our first open mic, hosted shortly after my one-year work anniversary. The poster has since yellowed with time, a subtle reminder that, among my sixteen-year-old coworkers, the realrelic here is me. Only in my own hometown would I feel practically prehistoric at twenty-one. At least I feel at home here in the office, surrounded by antiques.
A notification dings in the bottom-right corner of my laptop screen: all 3,099 photos and videos from the reopening are officially uploaded. It’ll take hours to sort through them, and I’ll probably need to take some work home with me tonight, but I’d still choose this over a barista shift any day. I eject my SD card and the computer whirs to remind me how hard it’s working. Nice try, bud, but you can’t impress me. I’m working hard too.
Time slips away as I click through the gallery, dragging and dropping my favorite video clips into my editing software. I don’t realize I’ve fallen into a flow state until the buzz of my phone extracts me from it—one text from Mom. It’s an apartment listing, the third one she’s sent me today. I suffocate my urge to thumbs-down react to it, then click the link and swipe through the photos: plain white countertops, gray paneled flooring, angular faucets on the bathroom sinks. Same as nearly every other suburban apartment that labels itself “affordable luxury housing.” The balcony is a nice touch, but the complex is two towns over, which would double my commute to Sip. I send a generic “nice!” and connect my earbuds to Bluetooth before switching on Do Not Disturb. She’s trying to be helpful, but I can’t think that far ahead right now. I need to stay focused. Popping in my earbuds, I press play on a voice memo I recorded while studying last night.
“What are the tax differences between a Roth IRA and a traditional IRA?” my recorded self asks, and I whisper the right answer along with her. The low-budget audiobook of the studyguide was my idea, but listening to it at work was Brooklyn’s suggestion. She’s a first year at Weymouth, it turns out, which explains why we get along better than I do with my high school coworkers. She and I essentially cohosted a roast of WCC over our lunch break yesterday, followed by an extensive bitch session about the pains of still living with our parents. Us post–high school hires have to stick together, even if it’s just for the holiday months.
“When’s the group upstairs clearing out?”
This time, it’s not my own voice asking the question. I pluck out an earbud and swivel toward the door, where Brooklyn leans against the doorframe, rotating one of the half dozen gold rings stacked on her fingers. We’ve worked enough shifts together for her to know I’m the person to come to with questions, but not enough shifts to recognize that I’m rarely enthusiastic about answering them. If someone is going to interrupt, I’m at least glad it’s her.
“The book club?” I ask. “Are they not out yet?”
Brooklyn shakes her head. “And I can’t remember if there’s a group after them.”
“It’s super not your job to remember that,” I assure her. “You’re doing great.”
I swivel my chair back toward my laptop, clicking into today’s reservations. Looks like the women’s Christian book club is running a little over, and while there’s no reservation after them, we’ll need the extra seating once school lets out for the day. “Go ahead and clear them out,” I say, double-clicking on the reservation and sending the rental receipt to the email onfile. “They’re a monthly reservation. They’ll understand. And remind them to tag us if they took any photos.”
Brooklyn makes a clicking sound with the side of her mouth, but instead of turning back around, she leans to the side, catching a peek at my computer screen. “Whatcha workin’ on?”
“A highlight reel of the reopening. Wanna see?”
“Duh.”
