Sculpted From Wax Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee
Sculpted From Wax
Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee
When I get home Thursday afternoon, after an hour spent sipping cocoa and eating pastries at Buttercup Bakery with the girls, I find Dad in the front yard, running the mower over the grass. Inside, Mom’s a whirlwind of energy: tidying the living room, folding laundry, packing dog food into Ziploc bags, and prepping meals that will be easy to microwave.
They’re flying to Virginia tomorrow. Major is off to spend a long weekend with Dad’s Deputy Commander, who’s been offering to dog sit since she met our pup last autumn. I’ll be on my own Friday night to Tuesday afternoon and, frankly, I can’t wait.
As darkness falls, I find my parents in their room to see about dinner. Dad’s finished the lawn and is packing a carry-on. Mom might as well be prepping for a weeks-long transatlantic voyage with her clothing, toiletries, and shoes organized into piles throughout the room.
“I’m about to order pizza,” Dad says, tucking a pair of black dress shoes into his suitcase. Since he’ll be speaking at Connor’s ceremony, he’ll attend in uniform. He’ll stand in front of family, mentors, and peers, and say a million wonderful things about his best friend.
I almost wish I could be there.
Mom’s watching me. She pauses folding a pair of slacks to say, “You’re allowed to change your mind, lovey. We can still get you a ticket.”
“No. Thanks, though.”
“You sure?” Dad asks. “We could hit up GMU. See about getting a tour.”
Because he thinks I’m waiting to be notified about whether I was accepted.
My face goes warm.
“I wonder if we could find time to drive down to Charlottesville, Cam?” Mom says. “Give Lia another chance to see the campus?”
“We could fit in a day trip,” Dad answers charitably.
“I don’t need to see CVU again,” I say, and for a moment, my parents’ expressions shine with newfound hope. I crush it. “I’ll be there fall semester. I already sent a deposit.”
Dad fumbles the shirt he’s holding. “You what?”
This is my chance. They’ll be furious, and then they’ll leave town for a few days. By the time they come back, they’ll have cooled off.
Not that it matters.
What’s done is done.
“I didn’t apply early action. I applied early decision. When I found out about my acceptance, there was a deadline to commit. So I did.”
“But you haven’t heard back about your other applications,” Mom says, baffled.
I could keep up this part of the lie. They never have to know that I applied to CVU exclusively. Or I could show some integrity. Come clean about the choices that led me to a future at Commonwealth of Virginia University.
A future I’m not even sure I want.
“There aren’t other applications. I only applied to CVU.”
Dad’s face drains of color.
Mom sinks to the bed.
His back is steel-rod straight.
Her hands grip her knees.
Like I’ve done a terrible thing, getting accepted at my first-choice university.
“Lia,” she says. “How could you?”
Dad’s face twists in outrage. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”
He hasn’t yelled. She hasn’t cried.
They’re stony faced, wan with shock.
They look like they’ve been sculpted from wax.
“Go to your room,” Dad says. When I don’t move, he looks me hard in the eye and says scathingly, “ Go. ”