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“You’ll see, in a year or two. You’ll be grateful you made it. Music is—” She sighs. “Callum, music is for other kinds of people. A degree is a real thing. As your father says, it’s solid ground. A degree you can put on a wall.”
Know what else you can put on a wall?
A platinum record.
I drink my coffee to keep my mouth busy. Atlas Falling was—and still is—a huge fucking deal to a lot of people. But it isn’t a career. Not according to the Fox family definition.
My father has spent thirty years as a surgeon at Mountain Springs General Hospital and nearly a decade on its board. Recently, he’s started doing more medical politics than actual surgery, which gives him even more time to be disappointed in me from a position of considerable prestige.
To a man with MD after his name and a wall of framed certificates behind his desk, Atlas Falling was never a career. It was a hobby that got lucky. Every chart position, every sold-out show, every crowd screaming our lyrics back at us earned the same wrinkled-nose response.
Yes, but have you reconsidered college?
Well, Dad. Great news. Here I fucking am.
“Right.” Dad comes in. He nods at me and pours himself coffee and sits.
“Callum.”
“Dad.”
“Drew.”
“Dad.”
Silence.
“Well,” Drew says brightly. “Aren’t we a fun little bunch?”
“Mom was just saying how thrilled everyone is that I’m in college,” I tell Dad.
He nods.
“And she’s right. I love it. Books, deadlines, crushing financial anxiety. Can’t believe I waited this long.” I keep my tone loose. Bored, almost. “Speaking of financial anxiety, what’s the timeline on the first release of my Trust? I’m thinking about finding a better apartment next year. Somewhere more conducive to…serious academic thought.”
Drew snorts into his sandwich. I glare at him until he resumes chewing.
“I just need to know what dates I’m planning around.”
It comes out the way I want it to, slightly bored and uninterested. My dad seems to have bought it, but my mom narrows her eyes at me. I take another drink.
My current place is a two-bedroom in downtown Mountain Springs that I’m renting for significantly below market value because the landlady’s sixteen-year-old daughter is an Atlas Falling superfan.
One afternoon in September, I signed everything her mother carried downstairs—vinyl, posters, a guitar strap and, for reasons never explained to me, a small ceramic frog. The frog was apparently her favorite possession and therefore non-negotiable.
Her daughter got autographs. The landlady got a very happy teenager. I got a few hundred dollars knocked off my monthly rent.
My parents think I’m in student housing. I’m twenty-three and old enough to sort out my own life, according to them. They have plenty of money. They’ve simply never believed any of it should make my life easier.
“First quarter of the Trust releases on passing the first year, then another quarter for every year after,” Dad says. “Per your grandfather. As soon as you pass, it’s released.”
“Cool. Thanks.”
“And, are you passing?”
It would be a little less insulting if everyone in this house didn’t doubt me and my abilities to pass freshman year. Great stuff.
“I’m passing, Dad.”
