Chapter 3 #2
When I closed the annealer, a wave of bliss rolled through me. Was my cup flawless? No, but I’d learned that sometimes the process itself was more beautiful than the finished product.
But unfortunately, when I left the hot shop, my stomach twisted.
My parents were leaving in several hours.
Which meant I was running out of time.
You can do this, I told Future Audrey.
NO ONE—AND I MEAN NO ONE—WAS MORE organized than Monica Barbour.
My mother had hired a town car to drive my father and her to JFK, had their luggage standing at attention by the front door, and even drafted a list to go over with me.
While I ate a roast beef sandwich at the spotless marble island, she paced the kitchen and read aloud from her trusty leather notebook.
“Water the plants” fell somewhere between “pick up the dry cleaning” and “supervise the pool cleaners next Tuesday.”
“We have a pool?” my dad joked, glancing out the kitchen’s French doors at the tasteful rectangular pool in the backyard.
It was saltwater and surrounded by a dark slate patio.
Four wrought iron loungers sat poolside, with beige cushions and black-and-white-striped throw pillows. Summer had decided to arrive early.
My mom looked up from her list and smirked at him. In response, he flashed her an award-winning grin. I rolled my eyes, though I had to admit my parents fascinated me. I’d never seen them more in love, despite the fact that they lived on different continents.
Vienna hadn’t agreed with my mom. She loved our life in Philadelphia and hadn’t wanted to move to an unfamiliar city where she knew no one.
A little over a year later, I realized she was barely leaving our apartment.
She binged a lot of Netflix, read every cozy mystery series in existence, and became obsessed with the interior design corner of social media.
She diagnosed herself with depression, and after seeing a therapist, she was professionally diagnosed with depression.
“What will make things better, Mon?” my dad had asked at dinner one night, and I could tell it pained her to admit it, but she said, “Home.”
It was quickly and neatly decided that my mom would move back to the States after Christmas, and I said I would join her, assuming we would return to Philly.
But in a plot twist, we ended up moving to Connecticut.
My parents bought six acres on the Long Island Sound; the pièce de résistance was a gorgeous colonial mansion, stately white with black shutters.
After moving, my mom spent the next six months renovating it into the Nancy Meyers house of her dreams.
Meanwhile, I started school.
And even though she and my dad were long-distance, they seemed really happy.
They spoke on the phone every day, sometimes for hours.
She wanted to know all about work and he asked all about the house and they talked about trips they wanted to take together.
She actually looked forward to her occasional visits to Vienna.
The only problem was that because my dad still hadn’t moved to Connecticut, he seemed more like a visitor when he came home every few months.
At least, that’s how it felt to me.
I took a deep breath, again cursing myself for choosing to procrastinate until the final moments before my parents departed for the airport. They wouldn’t be back until the week of my graduation.
The tuition deadline would be long gone by then.
“Audrey,” my dad said, “will you drive the Spider while we’re away? It’s been sitting in the garage for too long and should be driven.”
Driving my parents’ cool car—it was every kid’s dream, wasn’t it?
I swallowed the last of my sandwich. “I would, Dad, but I don’t know how to drive it.”
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean? You haven’t learned to drive stick?”
I shook my head. He’d given me one or two lessons years ago, but they dropped off when he’d gotten too busy. “If you want, I can ask Griff to take it for a spin,” I said. “He drives a Camaro.”
“Griffin Keeler is a nice boy, Jeff,” my mom filled in when my dad didn’t respond. He had yet to meet Griff.
“What about Henry?” he asked.
I shook my head. Henry hated driving in general. It had apparently taken him three tries to get his license.
My mom shifted the subject by announcing I could use my American Express card for food and food alone; she also reminded me that I’d only be alone for three nights.
My cousin James was coming to stay with me; he’d just finished his freshman year at Boston University.
“But until then,” she said, “use your best judgment. We trust you.”
Then why did you recruit James? I wondered. James was the last person to use his best judgment about anything.
“Can we talk about something?” I blurted when my mom ushered me and my dad into the foyer. “I know you guys have to leave, but it’s important.”
“Of course.” My mom surreptitiously glanced at her watch. Their car was due to arrive any minute. “What is it?”
I took a deep breath. “So, okay, I know we’ve talked about this already, but I feel like it would be better in person rather than over FaceTime.” I closed my eyes. “I know Wharton’s a huge deal, but I still really want—”
“Audrey,” my dad interrupted, “if you say ‘take a different path’ one more time…”
“Dad, why not?” I tried to keep my voice level. “I have a plan, I promise. It’s not like I’m asking to go backpacking in Europe to find myself.”
My mom pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Blue Ridge’s fellowship is basically impossible to get into,” I continued, echoing what I’d said when I announced my acceptance two months ago.
“But I did, and it’s too amazing of an opportunity to pass up!
I’m going to become a better glassblower…
” I swallowed; I needed to lay it on thicker.
“And also learn new skills, like career resources for the future. Connections like that will really give me a leg up. My head isn’t just going to be in the hot shop. ”
I remembered emailing my parents information on Blue Ridge Glass School’s fellowship program as soon as I discovered it.
Business school for glassblowers!!! I’d written in the subject line.
The fellowship was both an educational and professional yearlong program designed to help young artists take the first big step in their careers.
While I’d be strengthening my skills in the hot shop, I’d also tighten up my résumé, develop a website, learn about portfolio documentation, and get future glassblowing application tips.
Going there would help me get into other prestigious courses and residencies around the country.
Only my mom had responded to the email: Thank you for sharing, sweetheart.
Now my parents exchanged a look.
I sighed. “Please don’t say you’re happy I found a hobby I’m so passionate about. Glassblowing is more than an after-school activity to me. You’ve seen my Etsy store.”
“Yes.” My dad nodded. “Golightly Glass is pithy.”
“The program is for a full year?” my mom asked.
Ignoring the fact that she clearly hadn’t read my email, I nodded, heart suddenly skipping. Were they finally getting it?
“Yeah, it starts in July,” I said. “It could be a good stepping stone to future programs. It’ll beef up my résumé.”
My dad chuckled. “Sounds like we’re applying to college all over again.”
The back of my neck heated. “Dad, I applied to college.”
“Oh, Audrey, come on,” he said. “You know that’s not what I meant.” He smiled. “You applied, and we were there cheering you on.”
A beat passed.
“What about Blue Ridge?” I asked quietly. “Can you cheer me on there?”
I didn’t want to play the I-already-paid-the-deposit card unless I had to.
My dad stroked his beard thoughtfully, but I knew he was stalling, waiting on my mom. “Sweetheart,” she said. “Getting into Wharton is such a remarkable accomplishment, and I worry…” She trailed off, then sighed. “I worry about you throwing away an incredible education.”
“I wouldn’t be throwing anything away,” I countered, because if Blue Ridge and other glass schools were going to teach me the business ropes, did I really need to go to business school?
“How much is the fellowship?” my dad asked just as I heard a car pull into the driveway. “Are there scholarships?”
“Blue Ridge’s scholarships and donors cover most of the tuition,” I replied. The school had unbelievable funding. “But I have to cover the rest…” I bit the inside of my cheek, not yet able to utter ten thousand dollars.
My parents did support my glassblowing by paying the astronomical gas bill, but I bought my glassblowing materials and paid for my classes in Brooklyn.
Jeff and Monica weren’t going to fund a glassblowing program, and I just couldn’t afford it myself.
The three of us were silent until we heard my mom’s phone ping with a text. “Our driver is here,” she reported, then looked at me. “We love you, Audrey.”
“The tuition is due tomorrow!” I blurted in a last-ditch Hail Mary.
Their driver could wait a few minutes, right?
A lump formed in my throat and I felt tears in the corners of my eyes.
“And Blue Ridge is holding my spot,” I added.
“I already paid the deposit, but I can’t actually go unless I pay the last ten thousand—”
“Audrey!” my mom cut me off as my dad folded his arms over his chest.
“Can you get it back?” he asked.
My brows knitted together. “Get what back?”
“The deposit,” he said. “You don’t want to throw that money away, do you?”
Blood pounded in my ears. No. This was their way of saying no. They weren’t going to pay my tuition, therefore rendering my deposit a complete and utter waste.
“We’ll talk about this more later,” my mom said after three beats of silence. “There’s bound to be traffic…” She slung her travel tote over her shoulder and beckoned me over for a hug. “We love you, sweetheart.”