“Mom. It’s just a little thing I do for fun.”
“Billie Hirsch, you tell me every chance you can that you want nothing to do with the entertainment industry. You don’t want to model. You don’t want to act. You don’t want to sing. But here I find out you’re sneaking around, playing in some crummy garage band in Vegas?”
“It’s not crummy,” Cal insists.
I hold up a hand, my expression imploring him to shut the hell up.
My mom stares at Cal for a minute, then at me, then she makes a noise of total disgust and disappointment and turns on her very high heel to stomp back up the stairs.
As soon as she’s gone, I turn on Cal. “You had no right to tell her that.”
“Tell her what?”
“About the band and the drumming. I told you they didn’t know I still played.”
“Well, they should know. You’re really good.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s not your story to tell. I didn’t want them to know.”
“Cal…” I sigh, exasperated.
“I have my reasons for not telling them what I’m up to with my band. And you outed me. It’s not cool.”
“I’m sorry, Billie.”
But he doesn’t look at all sorry.
“You should be,” I snap. “Seriously. My music is forme. It’s notforher. She’s got her own ideas what I should be, who I should be, and I just can’t…”
“I always say the wrong thing at the wrong time.” He says this bluntly as if he’s had to say it before many, many times. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
“Whatever.” I blow out a biting sigh. “I’ll deal with it.”
Cal puts the guitar back on the stand. “I should…I guess I’ll go?”
“I need to go deal with her. She’s probably bitching about this to my dad as we speak.”
“Okay. I’ll get out of your hair, then.”
Cal stands awkwardly, like he wants to lean in to kiss me goodbye, but before he can, he straightens, puts his hands in his pockets, and walks up the stairs. He looks so…dejected, but I can’t deal with that at the moment.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say that my mom’s words stung. “You don’t want to model. You don’t want to act. You don’t want to sing. But here I find out you’re sneaking around, playing in some crummy garage band in Vegas?”It was nice that Cal stood up for me, suggesting that my band isn’t crummy. I’ll give him that. But why is it that my mom cannot simply be happy for me that I’m happy? That I’m fulfilled? Why must she always criticize all my choices?
Because it’s always about her.
And once again, as I’ve done so many times in my life, I’ve disappointed the great Ditta Hirsch.FML.
making the most of the move
“Mr. Cal,” one of the younger kids says, looking up at me with big, brown eyes, “I don’t know how to make the sound you just told us to make.”