Chapter 7 #2
I walk through the house, making my way to the overly expensive room with velvet seats and a chandelier hanging from the painted ceiling that looks like a Renaissance structure, with little angels dancing around the base.
When I see my parents, they grin—soft and fake, and stand to exchange false pleasantries.
Suddenly, I wish the chandelier would pop off its tiny chain and crush me beneath its weight so I didn’t have to endure an entire evening of their fallaciousness.
My father hugs me first, his expensive cologne a reminder of my childhood as I breathe it in. My mother fake kisses my cheeks and then looks down at my outfit with surprise in her eyes. “What are you wearing, Josephine?”
My ensemble is one of comfort: black boots, black sweats, and one of my favorite band T-shirts. I feel like myself, and considering I’m about to be wearing outfits picked by our team for the next ten or so months, I figure I should dress down whenever I can.
Especially for a dinner with my parents, because if there’s anything that irritates them more, it’s casual wear.
With a rebellious gleam, I smile right in her face. “This old thing? Just something I threw together.”
“It looks like you got them from a thrift store,” she reprimands.
“Okay?” I say, dumbfounded. “Thrift stores are great.”
I don’t stop to mention that these sweatpants were a gift from a luxury brand, mainly because I wouldn’t have bought these pants with my own money given that the cost was a bit too high to be reasonable.
But, regardless, the sneer on my mother’s face shows her bias and I am already sick of it as we sit down.
“So, how have things been?” my father asks, ever the diplomat. Staff immediately pile in with the first course, and I blink at their presence, wondering if my parents invited the entire staff for their two-week vacation so they wouldn’t have to do anything themselves.
“Um,” I start, already overwhelmed by the clinking of plates and the rush of people through the space. “Good, things are good. I’m just gearing up for another long stint away from home.”
He nods just as the last of the staff exits the room. With the room empty, I can finally smell their complimentary scents in the air, both floral and pungent in a way that reminds me of New York. “It must be rough being on the road that long.”
“If you had followed your talent with piano, you could have stayed in New York year-round with a stable position at Carnegie Hall,” my mother adds her two cents, the insult sounding casual in her callous tone.
James and Jennifer Rosewood are inheritors of old money.
They respect social standing, traditionalism, and anything that can propel my father’s political career forward.
Their accents are fake, their mouths emitting posh sounds that sound ridiculous on their American tongues.
They were born in New York, not fucking Kensington.
Throughout my entire life, I never wanted to be the perfect doll they were grooming for the prestige spotlight.
The dresses were too constrictive, the ballrooms too stuffy with prejudice and pompous attitudes.
I always felt like something was wrong with me.
Like I couldn’t fully understand why I wasn’t relating to the people raising me or the company they kept.
I felt alone, a left-behind piece that was supposed to have its perfect place in this puzzle my parents had curated for me, but I never fit.
I was bent, deformed. The spot wasn’t meant for me, but for the person they wanted me to be.
Then I met Cleo, and I never felt that way again.
I suddenly realized there were people like me, people who saw the world in a blast of color and full of wonderful opportunities that weren’t defined by the price tag of your clothes or the size of your house.
It was never me, but the wall my parents had built to keep me from being who I am.
I grit my teeth. “And I would have been miserable.”
“And you’re not miserable now? Traveling nine months out of the year, never any free time. It’s a wonder you haven’t turned to drugs to cope with the stress.”
The dig hits me right in the gut, Cleo’s face flashing behind my eyes. “You’re acting like being a world-class pianist wouldn’t be just as stressful,” I argue, glaring at her. “They don’t have a lot of free time either, Mom.”
She sputters. “At least you’d be dealing with sophisticated people on a daily basis, not the trash that continues to gussy you four up to look like knock-off Nancy Spungens and Courtney Loves.”
I can only let out a laugh, because the fact that she even knows those two women is hilarious.
“I’m doing what I love,” I argue.
“We’re just saying you would have been a lovely pianist,” my father drawls on. “I used to love watching you play ‘Gaspard de la nuit.’”
I swallow a gag, remembering the song that I used to play constantly until my fingers bled and my butt hurt from the wooden piano bench.
“Well, not anymore. Those tattoos covering your skin make sure of that,” my mother says, her tone permeating daggers. “I mean, I guess some concert pianists have tattoos, but not any respectable ones.”
My jaw tenses, and I put my fork down to look at her. “I was never going to be a concert pianist.”
Not to mention, that was the whole reason for my tattoos to begin with. The first time I came home with one after my eighteenth birthday, I thought my mom would have an aneurysm. She cried to my father for hours that night.
That’s how ridiculous she is, crying over the fact that her dream for me had died by something as silly as a scorpion tattoo. The fact that she couldn’t push me into trying out for the concert line-up anymore because of the mark on my skin, rather than my reluctance to do it to begin with.
“We just want what’s best for you, Josephine,” my father inserts, seemingly unbothered by the tension rising in the air.
He’s usually the one with less bite in his tone, probably from the years of practice with his colleagues with opposing views.
My parents may be classist, but they’re not dumb.
They know the way to get ahead is by putting on a smile and pretending everything is fine, and my resistance to that lifestyle is baffling to them.
“What’s best for me,” I echo, a humorless laugh escaping me.
I steel my spine, looking each of them in the eyes.
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my band is very successful.
We have several number one singles. Our first album hit gold status, and our second hit platinum.
We have made millions in sales and we do all that while doing the thing we love most, which is making rock music.
I don’t see how that can be a failure in your eyes just because you don’t like the aesthetic of it. ”
At the heightened emotion in my voice, my mother’s strong violet scent turns sour. “Josephine, lower your voice.”
Some of the staff pile in then, more food in their hands, and I realize this affair was intended to be a long one, but I can’t take it. Twenty minutes of being lectured for my choices is fine, but two hours is a little bit much.
“No, I think this dinner is over.” I throw my napkin onto the table and stand, ignoring my parents’ protests as I turn to the staff in the room and smile. “Thank you for the service, and the hospitality.”
“Josephine, sit back down, now.”
I look at my parents, holding onto the back of my chair for support so I can stand tall. “I have a tour to pack for. Maybe when I get back, we can talk about why you can’t be the unconditionally loving parents that your social circle thinks you are.”
They both balk at that, and I see one of the staff give a soft nod of support as I turn to leave.
I have a job to do, and placating my parents is no longer a part of it.