Page 50 of Exchanged

His face scrunches in embarrassment. “What? About how I was a douche on the field or about how I was a douche with Tyler and got way too drunk?”

I watch him for a second, as he stands there with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. Either he doesn’t remember, or he’s trying to tell me that what almost happened between us isn’t something he wants to talk about.

Whichever it is, I think I have my answer.

It hurts more than I thought it would. I hadn’t realized how powerful the small kernel of hope I held had become, how much I wanted him to want me like that. The rejection feels colder than the wind whipping at my face, and I’m suddenly weighed down by the sense that I’m the one who’s not good enough.

FOURTEEN

“Have you finished your School of Mines application yet?” Dad asks.

Aunt Liz is over for dinner, and everyone is sitting around the table, stabbing at Tater Tot hot dish with their forks. Great timing, Dad.

I nod and take a bite to avoid having to say anything.

“Good.”

Garrett scrutinizes me, head tilted to the side. It was easy to tell him about Burton-Clark when we were by the lake. Out there, it was a different world, one where I could forget about the break-in and our business’s finances and the near impossibility of me affording tuition.

But Garrett’s gaze makes me feel like a coward. He asserts himself with confidence and doesn’t let people walk over him. I place my fork on my plate and swallow. “I’ve also been thinking about applying to this conservatory that seems cool.”

Aunt Liz’s face lights up. “A conservatory!”

I look at her instead of Dad. “Yeah, they have a great composition program—”

“Composition?” Dad interrupts.

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to do with a degree in music composition?”

“I dunno, I’d probably … compose music.”

Dad’s face darkens.

Aunt Liz tries to smooth things over. “Tell us more.”

“It’s pretty selective, but a lot of the best film composers went there. And it’s small—”

“Small, as in private?” Dad growls.

“Yeah.”

“And how do you think you’re going to pay for it?” he asks, and I can tell we’re both thinking about the missing cash register. I’m sure he blames me for not noticing that someone was robbing us blind, for not doing something about it, like Garrett did. And now I have the balls to bring up a school we can’t afford when Dad is working his ass off to keep our shop from going bankrupt.

“Scholarships and financial aid and—”

“Financial aid is code for student loans,” he says. “So after you graduate and end up working at a coffee shop because your degree is useless, you’ll be buried under a mountain of debt you can never crawl out of.”

The table has gone quiet.

“Composers make money,” I argue, trying to keep my voice even. “And not just the ones who do major films. There’s lots of work in the video game industry and television.”

Dad takes a deep breath. “Enzo, you have to understand that there’s a difference between hobbies and professions. Plenty of people would love to paint pictures for a living, but almost none of them can actually support themselves at it. Only the ones with real talent make it as full-time artists.”

I feel anger boiling in my chest at his patronizing tone, anger at the way his comment belittles not just me but also Aunt Liz, who has been trying to get her own art career off the ground for years.

“I am talented,” I say, and the sentence sounds strange to me because of how much time I’ve spent minimizing myself. “Do you have any idea how hard I work at this? This isn’t just a hobby!”