“The next thing I knew, my mom was over my shoulder saying, ‘What are you doing?’ I covered my drawing instinctively, fear instantly knotting my guts.”

I looked up at Christos. “How lame is that? I was afraid of my mom looking at my drawing.”

Christos cupped my cheek with his palm and stroked my face with his thumb, wiping away my tears.

I continued. “I told my mom it was nothing. I remember her eyes narrowing as she searched my face, almost like she knew I was up to something…I don’t know, like I was up to something dangerous…”

SAMANTHA

PAST…

“What is this?” my mom asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“It’s not nothing. It’s a drawing.” She reached over my shoulder and pulled it off my desk to examine it.

I watched her face, trying to figure out where this was going to go. She knew I didn’t socialize much anymore. I’d thought maybe she would’ve said something about how it was nice I had a hobby or whatever.

“Why were you hiding this, young lady?” she demanded, like it was a crack pipe or a handgun.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Then she rifled through the other drawings I had laying out on my desk. I’m sure a normal girl would pin her best work to her bedroom wall. I kept mine in a stack under my books when I wasn’t working on them so my parents wouldn’t notice them.

“What have you been up to, Sam?” my mom asked, eyes narrow.

“Drawing,” I said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, because I like it?”

“You sure have a lot of drawings here. You’re not sacrificing your study time to do these drawings, are you?”

“I—”

“You need to be focusing on keeping your grades up, studying for the SATs, and college applications, Sam. Not on goofing off drawing all these worthless drawings.”

“I’m not goofing off! I have to do these drawings for the art schools!”

“Art schools?” my mom sneered. “We never talked about any art schools.”

“So?”

“So? You’re not going to any art schools.”

“Why not?”

“Because we already discussed this with your father. We’re looking at business schools.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “You’re looking at business schools.”

My mom’s brows knit together. “Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I sighed. I almost gave up. I was about to stack my drawings up and set them aside to make room for my school books. But I couldn’t. I had to say something. “Mom, I really want to go to art school. I’ve been looking at a bunch of different programs online, and I think maybe I could get in. I read the different portfolio requirements, and you can’t get into an art school without submitting artwork. It’s not just grades and SATs.”

My mom looked at me, assessing me. “Is that so. How long have you been thinking about this?”

“A few months?” I was so unsure of myself.

“Have you looked at tuition?”

A felt a glimmer of hope. “Yeah.”

“How much is it?”

It always came down to the bottom line with both my parents. I sighed heavily. “It’s almost double.”

“Double?!” my mom blurted. “You’re kidding,” she laughed.

“No.”

“It’s out of the question, Sam,” she said with finality.

“But what if I can get a scholarship or something?”

My mom put her hands on her hips and her lips welded together sternly. She picked up my drawings and flipped through them so heatedly I thought she was going to tear them up. But I kept my mouth shut, hopeful.

She nodded with increasing intensity as she flipped. “Mmm-hmm. Hmm. Mmm-hmm.” She dropped them on my desk dismissively. “I don’t think you’re good enough for a scholarship.”

My jaw dropped. “Who are you to say that?”

“I’m your mother, Sam,” she growled.

“Mom, you don’t know anything about art!” My face was hot with anger.

“I know enough to know you’re probably not going to get a scholarship.”

“But shouldn’t I try?” I struggled to hold back my tears.

“Not when it means taking time away from your studies and your other applications.”

“But I’m getting A’s in all my classes! And I have time left over. How do you think I’ve been able to draw all these drawings and still keep my grades up?”

“Yes, but you have SATs coming up. You need to be focusing on your SAT study guides.”

“I have been!” I protested. “And I still have time for drawing!”

“I don’t want to hear it. No more drawing, Sam. We’re not paying double for some fancy art college. Your father and I simply can’t afford it. And that’s final.” She marched out of my bedroom.

When my father came home, I didn’t even bother to mention it. I didn’t want to have him look at my drawings and tell me I wasn’t good enough, too.

Over dinner that night, my mom just had to bring it up. Dinner with my parents was never actually fun.

“Do you know what crazy scheme your daughter has been cooking up?” my mom orated as she scooped a spoonful of carrots onto her plate before passing them to Dad.

“What’s that, dear?” my dad asked, spooning carrots.

“Sam has the crazy idea she can go to art college. And get a scholarship, no less.”

I felt like the literal translation of my mom’s words would be “Our daughter is insane, isn’t that a laugh riot? What an idiot.” 

“Art college?” my Dad frowned. “We’ve never talked about art college. A good business college is the proper place for her.”

They were talking like I wasn’t in the room.

“That’s what I said,” Mom said, chuckling.

Was it okay to think your mom was a total bitch? I mean, not every second of the day. But more often than not?

My dad turned and addressed me directly. “Sam, art colleges are generally private universities, and therefore, significantly more expensive.”

“I already knew that,” I sniveled. Demonstrating that I wasn’t a completely ignorant idiot was my only remaining defense. Sadly, I didn’t think it was going to get me anywhere.

“Knowing doesn’t pay for anything,” my mom laughed.

Called it.

“Your mother is right, Sam,” Dad said. “We don’t have the money.”

Called it again.

“But I could get loans, maybe even a scholarship!” I protested.

“That’s all well and good, Sam, but how do you plan to pay off those loans? Have you thought about what kind of a job an artist can get? Do you intend to draw caricatures at the county fair? Sell watercolors on the boardwalk in Atlantic City? How could you possibly support yourself making twenty dollars here and there?”

“I wasn’t talking about that kind of an artist!” I argued. “There’s other kinds of artists everywhere. What about that painting you guys bought, the one of the waves that hangs in your office?”

I was grasping at straws, and my parents knew it.

“Sam,” my dad said condescendingly, “I paid one hundred dollars for that painting. How long do you think it would take you to paint such a painting?”

I didn’t want to say that I didn’t know how to paint an oil painting. I’m pretty sure if I had, my dad would’ve said “Check and mate, game over.”

“Your daughter doesn’t know how to paint in oils,” my mom said. “She just draws in pencil.”

Thanks, mom. I rolled my eyes. They were both playing with me like cats before the kill.

My dad was smiling now, always happy to run the numbers. “Now hold on a second, Linda. Let’s think this through. Sam, how long does it take you to finish a drawing? And I mean a good one?”

Why did I feel like I was walking into a trap? “Um, all day?”

“Okay. Let’s call that eight hours. So, for eight hours of work, you make one hundred dollars. That’s $12.50 an hour.”

My dad was a human calculator, and quite proud of it.

“That’s pretty good, isn’t it?” I knew minimum wage was $8.25 in D.C. $12.50 sounded pretty damn good to me.

“Hah!” my mom bellowed. Her eyes twinkled as if she enjoyed the way my dad was shredding my artistic dreams with practiced ease.