is the equivalent to working a part-time job. How are you going to participate in the campaign, which requires traveling, keep up your grades in the fall and compete for this internship? I’m sorry, but it’s not possible.”
Dad’s not seeing the bigger picture. The last stage of the application process is to create an app from scratch. My idea. My conception. My responsibility from birth to production. “Creating the app will be considered one of my classes in the fall, and I have the summer to work on it, as well. I have time.”
“Twenty hours a week,” Dad says. “That’s the minimum the counselor said is expected of you to work on this program. Subtract the hours you’d work on the program at school, and that leaves fifteen hours to be done at home. I’m sorry, but I don’t see how it’s possible for you to create this program with the commitments you’ve already made to me and your mother.”
The ends of my mouth turn down. “So you’re saying I can’t apply for the internship?”
Mom slides the locket along the gold chain. “What we’re saying is that six months is your shelf life on anything. You try something new, you grow tired of it and then you flitter off. There’s something about your personality that loves to chase the new and shiny.”
“It’s not like that this time.” It’s not like that most of the time. Shame overwhelms me and I stare down at the table. I don’t grow tired of what I try as much as I grow tired of Mom and Dad waiting for me to be the best. When I don’t somehow become a brilliant star in the new thing I’m trying out, it’s akin to a failure.
“Elle.” Dad wants me to look at him, but I can’t. The table is the only thing I can focus on without feeling like the entire world is shattering. If I glance at Dad, what’s left of my pride will be destroyed, and that’s a loss in confidence that will take forever to repair.
“Elle,” Dad says again with a more direct and demanding voice. “I have a press conference. If you want to sit this one out, I understand, but I would like to finish this conversation before I leave. You’re my daughter, I love you and nothing makes me more proud than when you stand by my side onstage.”
My eyes flash to his then, because I want to make my father proud. I want him to want me by his side.
“We believe in you,” Dad says. “But you don’t understand commitment. Your mom and I do. We know what it takes to succeed.”
Dad grew up dirt-poor and on government assistance. Mom, on the other hand, grew up in the lap of luxury, but her father was emotionally and physically abusive. Life for them was brutal, and they had to scratch, claw and bleed to make it out of their childhoods alive.
“We’ve had to learn tough lessons with nobody there to help. Your mother and I are trying to give you the benefit of our experiences. We’re trying to keep you on an easier path and to give you everything we never had. Trust the decisions we’re making for you.
“Plus, I don’t know how I would feel if you were to win, and then you decline the internship. This is a large corporation in our state. A lot of eyes will be on you if you win. It would look bad on you and on me if you quit this like how you’ve bailed on most things.”
He believes in me, but he doesn’t. Somehow, through this conversation, I’m starting to no longer believe in myself.
“I’ll tell you what.” His face brightens like I haven’t been smashed to pieces. “Let’s pass on the internship, get through the summer and if you’re still excited about programming, and if we see a change in your understanding of commitment, we’ll allow you to take a coding class in the fall. But you have to give us a hundred percent this summer. Agreed?”
This is how Dad negotiates. He gives, I give, then we each win. But my mind is a swimming mess as, for the first time, this feels more like a dictatorship than a democracy.
Because I can’t stand the twisting in my stomach at disappointing Mom and Dad, because I want to take a coding class, I say, “Agreed.”
Dad smiles, a beaming one reserved for me when he’s proud. He checks his watch, stands and kisses my forehead before going on about how he’ll give me a few more minutes to collect myself before meeting him outside to walk together to the press conference.
The door opens, then closes. I’m staring at the table again. It’s white, has a couple of coffee mug stains and the table isn’t interested in crushing my dreams.
“We’re not doing this to hurt you.” Mom’s voice is soft and sweet. If we were home, we’d be lying on my bed, and she’d stroke her fingers through my hair. I’d be a millionaire if I had a penny for every time this scene has played out between us. “We’re doing this to help you.”
I suck in a breath and slowly release it. The good news is that my chest aches less, so I guess I will survive the stab wound that conversation created.
“Most people your age have a focus by now,” Mom continues, and I wish she’d stop. Do other people’s parents know when to stop? Do they understand that less is sometimes more?
“Whether it be sports or academics or a hobby. We have tried so many different things with you—dance, theater arts, numerous instruments, what feels like a hundred different sports. We have given you a million opportunities for you to find your focus, but you never focus.”
“The coding is different,” I say. “When I’m programming there’s this rush in my blood, and it just feels right.”
Mom gathers papers in front of her and places them in a folder in such a slow motion that it’s obvious she’s thinking her next words through. “We’ve heard this before, and if your father and I weren’t persistent with you helping him with the campaign, you would be graduating next year with a college application that says you have the inability to be focused and responsible. Do you really not see it? One of the reasons you were given a position in the campaign is because we need you to appear focused and driven. By having a steady position with the campaign over the past few years, you look exactly like a determined young lady ready to conquer the world instead of a teen who has no idea what she wants to do with her life. Yes, who your father is could open doors for you, but that’s not what we want for you. Don’t you want to be the woman who opens doors for herself?”
I nod, because I have never wanted things to happen because of my father.
“Life is cruel,” Mom says. “It’s hard. Don’t be sad because your father and I are trying to help you avoid the roads that cause pain. Do you have any idea how much I wanted a parent who was involved and supportive when I was younger? Do you know how badly your father wished he had the opportunities you do? We’re not trying to hurt you. We’re trying to help.”
Pain. It’s something both of my parents understand. My mother had every possession she could think of, but her father was a monster, and Dad’s father died when he was young. While my father had a great mom, he understood hunger pains far more than anyone should. Yes, my grandmother had the land, but sometimes farming the land didn’t pay out like they needed, and she stubbornly refused to sell.
Guilt pounds me like a hammer. “I should have told you about the internship.”
Mom stands, places her fingers under my chin and forces me to meet her gaze. Her blue eyes are soft, the stroke of her finger against my hot cheek softer. “I love you, and I hate being harsh with you, but the next few months are crucial for your father and me. We need you. I can’t help but think that
