Chapter Thirty-four
Going into the second semester of my junior year, I load my schedule with AP college classes offered through an agreement between KHS and Sommerton Community College.
I’ve been on the AP track all through high school, earning college and high school credits this way.
But now, when I’m so desperate to escape this place, knowing that each class completed is one more class I won’t have to pay for myself—if Mom and Dad stick to their guns and refuse to help me with my Musical Theatre degree—gets me through the nightmare of homework that swamps me every night.
But it’s worth it. If Mom and Dad agree to let me take three more classes online over the summer, I’ll be on track to receive my associate degree from Sommerton Community College a semester before my KHS class receives their high school diplomas, and my college general education requirements will be complete—and paid for—before I ever leave home.
Under that heavy workload, the cold loneliness of winter melts into spring, the season of college visits and guidance appointments.
Within the guise of encouragement, my parents try to interest me in studying marketing or public relations—any course of study they believe could make good use of my more creative gifts.
But the more Mom and Dad try and cajole me away from thoughts of pursuing a stage career, the more determined I become—not that I ever wavered.
By the time the end of my junior year is in sight, my head pounds from carrying the weight of my dreams alone, but I’ve made a plan . . .
It’s a plan I’m not about to let my parents in on. I can’t risk them trying to squash it.
It’s a good plan, though.
Solid, I think. I hope.
The kind of plan that might finally prove I’m not some flighty, artistic dreamer, but a mature and capable almost-adult.
At seventeen, however, I’m not an adult. Not legally, anyway. To pull this off, I need help.
And I know just where to get it.
It’s a Saturday afternoon, three days into summer vacation.
I stand on the porch of Grandma Maddie’s Queen Anne-style two story and breathe in the scent of blooming peony bushes for a minute before I knock.
Grandma hates doorbells. She says they jar her nerves—which is more than a little odd, considering she isn’t at all bothered by visitors just walking on in. But that’s Grandma Maddie for you.
A popped-out disco tune floats through the open window. I know the song, of course. Not only because it’s been one of Grandma’s favorites for as long as I can remember, but also because it was retrofitted in the late 1990s as the title song for the Broadway musical Mamma Mia!
More than likely, Grandma Maddie is knee deep in some sort of project.
She finally took herself down to part-time status at the salon over the winter, but her days off don’t slow her stride.
If she isn’t doing hair, she’s volunteering somewhere or crafting or playing Texas Hold ’Em with the group of friends she refers to as her “Bridge Club,” although she openly admits to never having played Bridge.
At seventy-five, Madeleine Prescott the First isn’t a woman who can sit idle.
I heard, through the ugly-but-effective Kanton grapevine, that she shut down someone who was gossiping about me and Noah in her salon a couple of months back. We’ve never spoken of it, but I don’t doubt she full-on roasted them right out of their chair.
I open the door. “Grandma!” I shout over the music. “Grandma!”
“Why, Madeleine Faith!” She appears, wearing an apron that says I kiss better than I cook. “What a sweet surprise. Come on in, honey. I was just throwing together some lemon bars to take down to the Hospice House.”
No surprise there. Grandma Maddie has been taking treats to the Hospice House in Sommerton ever since Grandpa Charlie spent his final days in that facility over ten years ago.
I let the screen slam shut behind me, knowing Grandma doesn’t care. “Is anyone you know in there this week?”
“Mm-hmm. Rachel Donovan. Cancer. So sad. And her daughter just got married last year. I did the hair for the bridal party.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
“You want to throw those crusts in the oven, hon? I’m going to whip the filling together while it’s baking. Ouch!” Grandma Maddie swats her leg. “Darn flies have been biting me all afternoon. You know what that means. There’s a storm on its way.”
I glance out the window as I pick up two pans of pressed graham cracker crumbs. It is getting a little cloudy. Mom says it’s just an old wives’ tale, but Grandma is almost always right about biting flies and rain.
I slide the pans into the preheated oven. “How long?”
“Oh, ten minutes. Fifteen maybe. I usually just watch them.”
I set the timer for ten. Grandma has been known to forget about things in the oven once she starts chatting.
“How are the college plans coming along? Is your dad still pushing for the U of I?”
“Go Hawks,” I say, with very little enthusiasm. “Since both Ryan and Gretchen went there, I think he just assumes I will. Mom’s pushing pretty hard for it, too.”
“Well, that’s their alma mater or whatever you call it, so of course they favor it.” She shrugs. “It’s a good school. And it keeps you close to family, what with Ryan and Danielle and Gretchen up there.”
“I know.”
“There’s a ‘but’ in there, isn’t there?” Grandma pulls a small juicer from a bottom cupboard and plugs it in. “Go grab me a couple of lemons out of the fridge, would ya, hon?”
“Sure.”
“So you’re still pushing to go to one of those fancy New York colleges, huh?”
“Not . . . necessarily.”
“No?” A can of Sweetened Condensed Milk slips through her fingers. She jumps back, keeping her metallic purple pedicure out of its path.
I have to admit, Grandma Maddie makes seventy-five look pretty swag.
“Whyever not?” She picks up the can, inspecting it for dents. “I thought New York was your big dream.”
“It is. Well, part of it.” I take the lemons to the cutting board to slice.
“My dream is to sing on Broadway someday. That hasn’t changed.
It would be great to be in New York, but living there is crazy expensive.
” I gather the sliced lemons and deliver them to the juicer.
“Since I’ll be paying for it on my own, I’m widening my options. ”
“Paying for it yourself? Your parents won’t help at all?”
“Not if I major in Musical Theatre.”
“But with all those classes you’ve already taken, you’ll only have two years left on your bachelor’s degree!”
“Something like that. Maybe a little longer, depending on how I can schedule all my major classes and the required recitals and all that while holding down a job. But I will get to New York”—and Noah, the other half of my dream—“eventually.”
“After all your hard work, they won’t help you pay for two measly little years of college.” Grandma Maddie grinds her teeth as she juices a lemon. Then another.
When she turns back to me, her anger has relaxed into concern.
“Honey, I know it’s what you want to do, but I don’t see how you can go to school full-time and make enough money to pay for it without their help.
There aren’t enough hours in the day. I don’t suppose Musical Theatre’s one of those things you could do online, is it?
If it was, I’d say you could just move in here with me, get out from under your mother’s . . . Well, you know.”
If only it were that easy. “Thanks. Really. That means . . . a lot.” I clear my throat.
“But I need to be on campus. It’s a performance studies program, so I have to be where I can perform.
I’m applying to several schools with good Musical Theatre programs, and I’m going to apply for every scholarship I can find, at all the schools I’m applying to.
” I take a breath. “I’ve decided to graduate a semester early.
I’ll be eighteen, so Mom and Dad can’t really stop me. ”
Grandma sighs and puts a lemon-scented hand on my cheek. “In any case, my door is always open to you, honey. Always.”
“I know. And I appreciate that. I do. But at least for now, they’re paying the bills, so . . . I’m going to try to tough it out at home. If they let me stay after I’ve told them my plans.”
Her eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I’ll go to college for Musical Theatre—somewhere—next fall. But in the meantime, I’m thinking . . . I’d like to go to La Bella and earn my esthetician’s license.”
She blinks. “La Bella College of Cosmetology?”
I nod. “That’s where Lissa Reynolds went.”
“Yes, I know.” Grandma Maddie nods several times, slowly. “An esthetician’s license, you say. I see. So that’s why you’ve been spending all that time talking to Lissa at my shop.”
“For not being there most of the time, you sure know what’s going on.”
“It’s what I do best. But what does a career in esthetics have to do with Musical Theatre?”
“Stage makeup!” I flourish my hands around my face. “But that’s not all. Estheticians make pretty good money in bigger cities. I can have a good job through college and gain experience to hopefully get a job in theatre makeup once I get to New York and start auditioning.”
“Hmm . . .” She nods with a thoughtful expression that seems to approve of my plan. At least, I hope that’s what it means.
“I’ve talked several times with the college rep from La Bella. Did you know it only takes twenty-seven to thirty weeks to be eligible for an esthetician license?”
“I think Lissa might have mentioned that.”
“Right. Well, a new term starts right after my birthday. I’ll be eighteen, so Mom and Dad can’t say no.
And if I start then, I can be finished and fully employable by May.
I’ll have decided on a college by then, so as soon as I find a job in a day spa, I can move to .
. . wherever and start earning money. The La Bella rep said they would help me with licensure in another state, if I need it. Which I will.”
The timer goes off. I check the crusts and put them back in for a few more minutes.
“There’s only one hitch,” I say, grimacing. “La Bella needs a fifty percent deposit by June fifteenth, and I don’t have it.”
I’m sweating. And not because it’s hot in the kitchen. This is so weird. I’ve never had to ask for anything like this before. My heart is pounding.
I take a big breath. “I was hoping you might consider giving me a loan. A short term loan.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Umm . . .” I gulp. “The deposit is four thousand dollars. I’ve applied at a few restaurants in Sommerton to make some extra money this summer.
If I get hired, I should be able to pay you back in full by the end of the summer.
But,” I add, “I totally understand if you can’t or you don’t want to.
It’s cool. I’ll figure out another way.”
The timer beeps. As I pull the graham cracker crusts from the oven, my back tingles where Grandma Maddie’s eyes are surely drilling into it. What does she think of the idea? Will she help? I know I said I would figure out another way, but I haven’t yet, so . . .
I send up a quick prayer, one of many I’ve breathed in and out while forming this plan.
“The cream cheese is on the counter. It’s all softened up,” Grandma says. “You start whipping it with the powdered sugar, and then we’ll sit down and talk about the specifics. I think we can probably work something out.”