Chapter 34
Cricket Jenkins
I sit in my room listening to the muffled sound of my parents talking in the kitchen downstairs. Their voices drift up through the heating vents. They sound happy, relaxed after their trip to Asia. The sound makes my stomach twist into knots again.
They came home a day early, pulling into the driveway just as I was finishing my lunch. I heard the car doors slam and rushed outside to see them.
After the hugs and kisses and initial flurry of “we missed you” and “how was your trip,” I made an excuse about having schoolwork due Monday and holed myself up in my room like a coward.
And now I don’t know what to do.
My stomach twists again as I hear their voices shift from the kitchen to the living room, their easy conversation, the familiar rhythms of them settling in after a long journey. Meanwhile, I’m up here trying to work up the courage to shatter their homecoming with news that will devastate my father.
I pick up my phone to text Micah, because he said he’d be here for me, but the doorbell rings, and in my gut, I know it’s him. I race down the stairs so I can answer before my parents get up. “I’ve got it!” I yell.
I throw open the door. Micah stands there with his guitar, like a hundred other times I’ve seen him, but this time, I feel like weeping for joy. “Come in,” I say, breathless.
I grab his arm and tug him up the stairs to my room before he can even say anything. He turns to me, running a hand through his messy hair. “Kiki told me your parents are home. Why are they here a day early?”
I wave my hands. “Something about getting an earlier flight and not having internet to tell me. I don’t know, it’s just thrown me off kilter. I’m so glad you’re here.”
He sets his guitar down and pulls me into a hug. I didn’t realize how much I needed a hug until this moment. Warmth envelops me as I cling to him.
“Hey,” he says, putting his hand on the back of my head, holding me tight and grounding me. “It’s okay. You can do this.”
I nod, but I don’t let go of him. “I know. I just don’t know what to say.”
“Then let’s go over it together.”
We spend the next hour talking it through, practicing my speech, and going over the points I want to make. As we talk, my spirit lifts. There are lots of good reasons why me changing to online school and switching my major make sense. Courage fills me as I make a plan for what to say.
“You’ve got this,” Micah says, squeezing my hand.
I nod, feeling for the first time like he’s right. Like I can do this. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Micah puts his hand on the small of my back as I walk out of my bedroom. I know he’s there for me. We make our way down the stairs, and my heart pounds. This is it. I’m going to do this.
We walk into the living room, my chest heaving like I just ran a marathon instead of down a single flight of stairs.
My father looks up from his conversation with my mother, surprised by our sudden appearance.
They’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, my mother curled up with a throw blanket, my father in his reading glasses with what looks like a travel magazine in his lap.
“Did you get all your homework done?” he asks, his tone casual, completely unaware of the bomb I’m about to drop.
“Yes.” My mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton, dry and sticky. I try to swallow but can’t. I press on anyway, forcing the words out. “But that’s not what I need to tell you.”
“Oh?” He raises one eyebrow, his expression shifting from casual interest to mild concern. He sets the magazine aside and removes his reading glasses with deliberate slowness. His gaze bounces between me and Micah. “What do you need to tell us?”
Great. I’m already messing this up. I had the perfect opening sentence I was going to use, something calm and rational that Micah and I practiced at least twenty times.
And now my mind is completely blank, and I can’t remember a single word of it.
Panic floods through me, making my hands shake.
Micah puts his hand on my shoulder in quiet reassurance.
“I mean,” I say, stumbling over my words. “There’s something I have to say, and I want you to listen to it before talking.”
He blinks at me and frowns, and I can see his defenses going up.
His shoulders square, his jaw sets, his eyes narrow just slightly.
The face he gets when he’s preparing for an argument.
My mother leans forward on the couch, the blanket falling away, her expression shifting from relaxed contentment to maternal concern. “What is it, dear?”
The tension in the room rises like humidity before a storm, thick and heavy and suffocating. I feel like I’m on the defensive even before I tell them anything, which is not what I wanted. Not how we planned this at all. I was going to be calm, logical, and mature.
But now everything is messed up. Our carefully constructed speech has evaporated, leaving me with nothing but terror. I have no idea what to say, so I open my mouth and let words just spill out like water from a broken dam.
“I went to the mainland and changed my enrollment so I’m doing online school. I want to do this so I can—”
“Wait.” My father’s face flushes red, the color creeping up from his collar to his temples. “You quit school?”
“No!” My hands shake harder as I try to calm my nerves, pressing them against my thighs to stop the trembling. Micah squeezes my shoulder, and I gain confidence.
“I’m still in college, taking my classes online. But I’ve decided I’m going to change my major. I’m going to study English and creative writing because I want to be a writer.”
My father works his jaw. “You changed your major? What about marketing?”
“I’m not interested in marketing. I want to write novels. It’s what I want to do with my life. And Micah asked me to be his manager, so I’m going to do that as well.”
My father sighs and rubs his forehead. “Writing is a wonderful hobby, honey. But you can’t earn a real living with it. And being a manager is great, but how much can you earn with that? You need a reliable career path.”
I knew he’d say this. Of course I knew. I’ve heard variations of this speech my entire life. He always talks about practical careers, stable income, reasonable expectations. My heart sinks as my shoulders hunch inward, my confidence crumbling. What if he’s right?
Micah nudges me. “Tell him about the advance.”
I straighten my spine and give him a nod. Micah is right. My father isn’t moved by what my hopes and dreams are. He’s a businessman, and actual numbers are what makes a difference for him.
“I got Micah a recording deal with Atlantic Coast Records and a one-hundred-thousand-dollar advance. I get fifteen percent—fifteen thousand dollars. I got the check yesterday.”
My father’s mouth drops, and my mother smiles at me, giving me courage.
“You did, sweetheart?” she asks, obviously pleased.
I nod. “Yes. And Micah’s going to go to Nashville to record his new album. He’s very talented. I know he’ll do well, and this can become a career for me.”
My father lifts his chin. “Okay. But what about being Micah’s manager as well as study marketing? If you go into marketing, you could eventually work at the company with me.”
I take a step back, reeling. “That’s why you wanted to push me into a marketing major?”
His eyebrows furrow. “I’m not going to run my company forever. I thought… maybe after college, you could help me then eventually take it over.”
I can’t believe what he’s saying. That’s sort of sweet in his own way.
But I have no interest in his business at all.
In fact, I can’t think of a more boring business than what he does.
Why would I want to sell rivets? I take a moment to think so I can be rational and still not hurt his feelings.
“I don’t think manufacturing industrial fasteners is really my thing, Dad. That’s what you’re passionate about.”
“It’s not exciting, but it’s a stable path. Reliable income.”
I sigh, and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to take over your business.”
His expression turns thoughtful. “What about health insurance? Have you thought about that?”
The question catches me off guard. I expected more arguments, more objections about the instability of creative careers. But this is a practical question. A real concern, not a dismissal.
“Yes.” I shift my weight. “I’ve already contacted an organization called Music Health Alliance, which helps musicians and their managers get health insurance. They work with people in the entertainment industry to find affordable coverage. I’ve filled out the preliminary paperwork.”
My mother crosses her legs. “You seem to have done a lot of research.”
“Yes,” my father says. “But it’s still a gamble. An unstable income. Like writing is.”
Micah and I practiced this part, so I take courage and go into my speech.
“I know it’s difficult to make a full-time living as a writer, but I’ve done a lot of research.
Many authors are turning to self-publishing to make ends meet.
You get a higher percentage of royalties.
You get seventy percent versus the twelve to fifteen percent traditional publishers offer.
And you can do things like create audiobooks and translations to bring in multiple streams of income. ”
My father raises his eyebrows but doesn’t interrupt me. The silence feels like permission to continue, so I do.
“And while I write books, I can take online classes. One of my life goals is to get a diploma, so don’t worry about me quitting school.
I want to graduate.” My voice grows more passionate as I speak, the words flowing faster now.
“Online school isn’t any easier. In fact, in some ways, it’s harder than going to in-person classes.
You have to be self-motivated. There’s no one checking on you, no professor taking attendance. But I am determined.”
My father shifts but doesn’t object anymore, so I continue.
“And as I’m doing all of that, I can be Micah’s manager, which pays real money.”
My mother practically bounces off the couch, her face glowing with pride. She crosses the room in three quick steps and envelops me in a hug. “Oh, sweetie. This is so exciting.”
She turns to Micah. “Congratulations. Your hard work is paying off.”
“Thank you,” he says, ducking his head.
I grin at her, tears pricking at my eyes, but I force them down. I can’t fall apart now. Not when my father is still sitting there, silent and unreadable.
My mother steps back. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears. “I’m so proud of you both.”
“Of course I’m proud of you both as well,” my father stammers, the words coming out unsurely. He stands slowly. “I just worry about you,” he says quietly, and for the first time, I hear the fear underneath his control. The love underneath his demands.
“I’ll be fine, Daddy.” The childhood nickname slips out without thought. “I need to follow my dreams.”
He finally crosses the room and walks to me, his steps hesitant. When he reaches me, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a hug that feels awkward and wonderful at the same time. “I just want you to have everything life has to offer,” he murmurs into my hair.
I can’t believe it. I actually stood up to him, and he didn’t force me into submission. He didn’t threaten or manipulate or guilt me into changing my mind.
He listened.
He does love me. He’s just been showing it by trying to protect me from failure, from struggle, from the uncertainty of a creative life. By trying to get me to take over his business.
But I don’t need protection anymore. And I don’t need his manufacturing business. I need freedom.
And for the first time in my life, I get to live my dreams without someone else’s hand on the steering wheel.
The relief that washes over me is so intense it makes my knees weak. I sag against my father, letting him hold me up, and finally let the tears come. Tears of triumph. Of liberation.
I did it.