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“I’m not going to college,” I blurt.
My mother turns around from her spot in front of the sink. From my periphery, I see my father look up from his iPad.
“Yes, you are,” he says simply.
“I didn’t even apply to the University of Nebraska. I lied.”
“We know,” Dad says, his voice devoid of any emotion. “My check was sent back six weeks ago with a letter stating there was a mistake because there wasn’t a Devyn Malloy accepted.”
“You knew?” I challenge, somehow feeling betrayed even though I was the one who lied in the first place.
My father drops his eyes back to whatever he was reading.
“I guess you’ll just have to go to the local college,” Mom says, turning the water back on to finish her breakfast dishes.
By local college, they mean the community college that’s over an hour and a half away.
“And if I don’t?” I snap, the tone in my voice unfamiliar.
I stare down at my hands, feeling like a complete failure as Mom turns the water in the sink off once again.
“You go to college or you leave,” Dad says, his eyes still on his iPad.
“L-leave?” I manage.
“As in move out,” Mom says. I wonder if they had a conversation about being a united front.
“You’ll kick me out if I don’t go to college?”
Mom’s lips form a flat line, a hint of annoyance in her eyes.
“What if I go to fashion school?”
“Not an option,” Dad says. “You’ll get a degree in something useful.”
“Or I’ll be homeless?” I argue.
Only now does he look up at me. “It’s your choice.”
I know arguing with them would be a waste of time. There’s never been a compromise where my parents are concerned. It’s their way or no way. They don’t care enough to argue. They never have. Their fight left them the day they got the call about Vaughn dying.
I don’t give them an answer before leaving the kitchen and heading back up to my room.
I grab my phone and press the first contact.
“What did they say?” my best friend Quincy asks the second the call connects.
She knew I was heading down there to confess from our conversation earlier this morning.
I sigh before responding. “They told me I can go to college or leave.”
Silence fills the line.
“Quince?”
“Seriously?” she says, disbelief in her tone.
“Yep,” I confirm as I drop back onto my bed, my eyes angled up at the ceiling.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers, as if we’re telling each other a secret.
“That’s because you have two moms who love you more than anything in the world. We aren’t the same.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. I know she hates the way my parents are, as much as she feels grateful she was adopted by two women who love her dearly.
I don’t begrudge her for the life she has. I just wish mine looked a little more like hers and much less like mine.
“What are you going to do?”
I wish I was bold enough to tell her that I’m going to pack all my things and leave. That living on my own and struggling all my life would be better than being stuck in some stupid class learning things that will only advance me in life and has no hope of making me happy, but I’m a reasonable person.
“I guess I’m going to register for classes at the community college,” I mutter.
“In North Platte? It’s over an hour away.”
“I know.” I lift my hand to my forehead, the threat of a headache pressing against my skull.
“Maybe you can get all online classes.”
“Maybe,” I say, thinking that’s just as bad as driving so far and sitting in class.
I’d be less likely to keep my focus sitting in my room, but the energy it would take to go to class everyday doesn’t sound very appealing at all either.
“Wanna meet for coffee later?”
She’s silent once again.
“Quince?”
“I’m moving into my dorm today,” she reminds me.
She’s the only reason I knew anything about certain dates for the University of Nebraska. Where I lied about going to college, my best friend actually got in. As adamant as I’ve been about being a fashion designer, she’s been the same way about being a Maverick.
“Maybe it’s not too late to get in.”
“Quince,” I groan.
“I know, I know,” she says. “The core classes would be a waste of time.”
I never wanted to sit through another math or history class again. The only math and history I wanted to endure would be the math that came along with pattern making and the history of fashion trends.
“I’ll figure something out.”
When I expect her to offer the floor of her dorm room, she tells me that she has to go instead. I love my best friend, but she’s never quite understood why I won’t just go to college like a normal eighteen-year-old. Once she even agreed that maybe my parents were right about wanting me to have a safer degree, but she was quick to tell me that she knew I could make it as a designer.
