Leslie, it's Mom. Not sure what you're up to. Call me back."
I don't know why my mom insists on leaving a message every single time she calls. I always call her back as soon as I'm able. Probably because Mom and Dad drilled into Meri and me from the time we had cell phones that if we didn't answer or didn't call back within a few minutes, we lost our phones.
I may still harbor an irrational fear about having my phone taken away.
I'm listening to her message while on the train home. I just got off my shift, and it's too late to call her back now, even though she called around three. It'll have to wait until tomorrow. I shoot her a text, telling her that. I've been picking up the late-night shift a lot, finding that drunk people tend to be a little more generous with their tips. There are fewer drunk people on a Monday night, but still, the tips were decent tonight. I'm making ends meet—for now—just working a mere sixty to seventy hours a week on my feet.
It only leaves me time to take a few hours of ballet class—recreational, of course—which is the least I've ever danced since I was six, if you don't count that summer I did theater camp.
It's one of those interesting situations. Ballet has definitely broken my brain, but on the other hand, my brain only feels right when I'm dancing. An hour of class here and there isn't quite enough to keep me feeling good.
I'm almost wondering if I'd be better off walking away from ballet altogether. I've never actually considered doing that before, but it would make sense. Whether I'm ready to face it or not, I'm not going to have a career as a professional ballerina.
I'm like Moonlight Graham inField of Dreams, who made it to the major leagues but never got to bat. Except I’m in satin pointe shoes.
I doubt Kevin Costner will be building me a stage in the middle of a cornfield any time soon so I can achieve my dreams.
One can hope though.
Most people get a lifetime of working toward their apex. I had to go and pick a career with a limited shelf life and early retirement age. Hell, even if I'd become a principal dancer, I'd probably be done by the age of thirty-five or so. But if that were the case, then I'd have achieved my goals and been the best, and there would be no shame in moving on to the next great thing to conquer. Just like my father, and his father before him, who both pitched their way to world championships with the Fiji Sevens National Rugby team.
At fifty-three, my dad now coaches in a successful high school program, taking part in molding the next generation of ruggers—as I like to call them—into successes. Though I doubt any of the mid-Western Ohio boys he coaches will ever come near winning Olympic gold medals like the Fiji National Team did in both the 2016 and 2020 Olympics. Go Flying Fijians!
He's not only had one successful career but two. All while being a doting husband and loving father.
I can barely pay my rent, and I was stood up by a Tinder date last week.
I'm not gonna lie, it's getting hard to look in the mirror. The only thing worse would be having to face my parents.
Which is why seeing them both standing impatiently outside my apartment when I walk down the street is rather disconcerting. Not to mention it's after one a.m.
"Mom! Dad! What are you doing here? I got your message, but I worked a double and just got off. It was too late to call you back. I was going to call in the morning. I swear. I texted you. You didn't have to come all the way out here."
Wait, why are they here? Columbus is a good fifteen-hour drive.
"When you find out your daughter's life is completely off the rails and she's been hiding it from you, you take the first flight." My mom crosses her arms over her chest.
Shit.
So my dad is a 6'4" hulking, muscle-filled, dark-skinned Fijian who has made a career out of creaming other hulking, muscle-filled men on the field. Yet my Irish-German mother, who topped off at about 5'2", is the more intimidating of the two.
She's in full-on silent rage mode, which is the most terrifying of her emotions. I'd rather have her screaming like a lunatic. The calmness of her voice instantly has me wanting to break down in tears.
Instead, I do what I've always done when I can't face the disappointment I know I'm causing. I lie.
"I'm not off the rails. I'm totally good. Great. I just decided to pick up some more shifts for a little extra money. No big deal. I'm fine."
"Fine. We've heard that one before."
I'd like to roll my eyes, but I don't dare. I may be twenty-six, but you just don't do that with Mama Moose. I'll never be old enough to roll my eyes at my mother.
"Um, should we go in?" my dad suggests.
"I'm not sure if Imani's there or not," I stall. I can't help but notice he's wearing the Moose family T-shirt. The one that says, "Do your best. Be the best. Whatever It Takes." I'm not sure exactly when the Avengers started using that phrase, but it's been the Moose family creed my entire life. We've had several versions of these shirts made over the years.
Needless to say, I am not the best.
"Why don't you come back to the hotel with us then? We have some things to discuss." My dad may have phrased it in the form of a question, but there's only one acceptable answer. At least they're not planning on crashing with me. That would be terrible. No room to get away from them and their probing questions about the disastrous path my life has taken.
