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SLOANE

TEN CUPCAKES, ONE PERSON, UNKIND MATH

My mother called from somewhere in Europe where church bells were ringing in the background and immediately asked why I had thrown away my future.

She didn’t even say hello first.

“Sloane,” she said with a strained patience that told me I was in for a lecture, “your father and I were just discussing that internship you left.”

I moved my phone farther from my ear and stared at the cupcake recipe on my laptop, trying to imagine a version of myself who had enough energy to produce them.

“I didn’t leave the internship, Mom.”

“You chose not to continue,” she argued.

“That’s not true. I wasn’t offered a job at the end of it.”

There was a brief silence on the line, followed by the distant sound of my father saying something about finding the correct entrance to a cathedral. My parents had been in Europe for two weeks and had already visited France, Belgium, Germany, and whatever country they happened to be standing in now. Their itinerary changed often enough that I stopped trying to follow it.

“Well,” she said, “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have stayed a little longer and proven yourself.”

“Because they stopped paying me.”

“I thought internships were supposed to be about experience.”

“They are, but experience doesn’t pay the rent.”

My mother exhaled into the phone. She had a sigh reserved just for me, one that suggested I had made adulthood unnecessarily complicated through poor planning and stubbornness. Growing up, I had heard the same sigh whenever I received a ninety-two instead of a ninety-eight on a math test, forgot to send a thank-you card within forty-eight hours of receiving a gift, or expressed an opinion that had not first passed through committee (i.e., her) review.

“We just hate seeing you give up on something so promising,” she said.

“I did not give up. They didn’t hire me at the end of the internship, and I was running out of savings while continuing to do graphic design work for free.”

“But weren’t the student loans enough to cover your expenses?”

I closed my eyes, imagining how far I could chuck my phone if I put my back into it.

The church bells continued ringing. Other people around them were probably standing beneath the bells having meaningful experiences, becoming cultured, falling in love, or eating bread that had been prepared by someone with high standards.

And I was sitting alone in my apartment, wearing sweatpants with a hole near the knee, explaining federal financial aid to my parents yet again.

“No,” I said. “The loans weren’t enough. I maxed them out.”

“Well, what happened to all that money?” she asked.

“College happened to it.”

I heard my father’s muffled voice. My mother moved the phone away and answered him, then returned with a new layer of distraction. “Your father says we’re supposed to go inside now, but I told him this was important.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“You don’t need to be sarcastic.” I could practically hear the scowl on her face.

“I’m not being sarcastic.” I was. Sarcasm was one of the few luxuries I could still afford in my mediocre life.

My mother lowered her tone into something more confidential. “I suppose I assumed you had some of the loan money left.”