“I took an oil painting class last quarter, and I got an A.”
“I’m sure you painted a bowl of fruit or two,” she chuckled, “but any beginner can do that.”
“I’m no beginner.” I stood up and stormed out of the living room.
“Where are you going?” Mom snickered.
I stopped in my tracks. Minding my parents like always. Like their slave.
“It was always like you to give up easily,” Mom said. “Your father is right. You don’t have what it takes.”
“I’m not giving up,” I barked. I strode into the studio and picked up two of my best oil paintings. One was from my class and one was the calla lilies I’d done in the studio. I thought they were really good, considering I’d only been painting for three months. I shoved them into my parents’ hands when I returned to the living room. “See?”
My dad held the calla lilies at arm’s length. “This isn’t half bad,” he said thoughtfully. He hadn’t said half good, but my dad was never an optimist.
Mom sneered at my painting of sunflowers she held in her hands. “So? What is this supposed to mean?” she asked. “It looks like any other painting of sunflowers.”
“Exactly,” I growled. “It looks like sunflowers. And it doesn’t suck, like you seem to think everything I draw or paint does.”
She shook her head and scoffed. “There’s a long road between a painting of sunflowers and making any money.”
Dad set the calla lilies painting on the coffee table gently. At least he didn’t drop it in the trash. “Your mother is right, Sam. While these paintings of yours show promise, I don’t know that painting will lead anywhere for you.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked, my hands on my hips as I stood in front of them. “Look around this room! Spiridon has painted thousands of paintings and made millions of dollars. That sounds like a great career path to me.”
My mom smiled smugly and raised her eyebrows like she was the Queen. The Queen of Evil Bitchery, maybe. She said, “Bill, would you care to explain it to your daughter in logical terms she can understand?”
What, did she think I was stupid? I huffed and rolled my eyes.
My dad nodded. “Sam, what your mother is trying to say, I think, is that Spiridon is, well, how can I put this?” Dad spread his hands apart and a pained look tightened his features. “Uh, Sam, well, Spiridon is amazingly talented, and I think, if I had to characterize your skill, well I guess, you see, the thing is…”
Mom placed a stilling had on Dad’s knee. “Your father is trying to tell you that you’re not talented enough. You’re not a Spiridon, or even a Christos.”
CRACK!
That was the sound of my heart breaking in half. I was frozen in place where I stood. I couldn’t speak, or even breathe, like all of my internal organs had suddenly exploded into fragments along with my heart. I had the distinct impression that if someone were to cut me open right at that moment, they’d find a hollow person with small piles of red glass shards pooled in the empty feet. Those red shards would be the broken remnants of my broken heart.
Mom continued, “Not that I’d want any daughter of mine painting pornography for a living like Christos, but I have to admit, Spiridon’s landscapes are very good.”
I was so hurt by what my mom had just said, I couldn’t respond. I stood silently and gaped at the two monster impostors pretending to be my loving parents. They were evil. I wanted to run out of the room, but I couldn’t move when my heart was broken and my insides were hollowed out.
“I don’t know that I would say ‘not talented enough’, Sam,” Dad said quietly, “but it’s clear to me that Spiridon and Christos have both been painting for a long, long time. And I suspect that Spiridon had a large hand in educating Christos in art from birth. Sam, you’re starting late in life. You’re nineteen years behind Christos. More if you factor in Spiridon’s instruction. In my estimation, for you to pursue art would be an unsound business decision. Conversely, you’ve been surrounded by numbers and accounting principles since birth,” my dad smiled.
He was so fucking proud of his accounting.
He continued, “In the same way that Spiridon has given Christos a head start, I’d like to think that your mother and I have given you a head start in business. You are well suited for a career in Accounting. You will excel and make good money while you’re at it.”
Something about my dad’s logic infuriated me beyond belief. I’d been hearing it all my life. He was always missing the point. I was so angry, I think the heat of my irritation melted those red glass shards in my feet and they melded back together. Now my heart was pumping red hot resolve through my entire body.
“You don’t get it, Dad,” I said. “I never wanted to be an accountant. Don’t you see that? You don’t, do you? You and Mom have never been able to see what I wanted out of life. You just dumped all your ideas on me like I’d automatically love them. Like I was a junior version of you two. But I’m not. I’m a different person. I don’t want what you want out of life. I have my own dreams, my own ideas. I’m going to live life my way. Not yours.”
“Then don’t expect any more money from us,” my mom laughed.
“I told you before,” I said stridently, “I don’t want your money. I don’t need your money. I’m doing fine on my own.”
“Even if you manage to sell some paintings,” my dad said, “how much do you really think you’ll earn over a lifetime? You told me yourself that Christos has made over six figures already. How much have you made selling your art, Sam?”
“I DON’T CARE!” I shouted. “I don’t care if I never make ANY money! It’s not about the money! I HATE accounting! I want to do something I enjoy. Maybe you guys like what you do, but the idea of going to the office every day makes me sick. I can’t live like you, and I don’t care how much money I do or don’t make!”
My mom chuckled sarcastically, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Sam.”
“Sam,” my dad pleaded, “Art isn’t a wise career path. I’m doing my very best as your father to show you that. Can’t you see where I’m coming from?”
“Shut up, Bill,” Mom snapped at him. “You’re giving into her and I won’t have it.” She stood up and glared at me. “I don’t care what you think. We should never have let you choose San Diego in the first place. But I let your father talk me out of making you go to American University. If you’d gone there, you could’ve lived at home and we wouldn’t be in this mess. You wouldn’t be shacking up with some two-bit tough like this Christos Manos and his hippie grandfather.”
“They’re not hippies,” I insisted.
She took a menacing step toward me. Her eyes narrowed viciously. “I don’t care what they are. They’re a bad influence on you. They’re turning you into a rebellious little bitch, and I’m tired of it. I won’t have you throw your life away because Christos and his muscles get your panties hot.”
I felt hate pouring off of her in waves.
I almost crumbled at that moment. I almost made a comment about how my mom was trying to debase my love for Christos, like that was a bad thing. But that would’ve been going on the defensive.
I was tired of my mom’s rants. I was going on the offensive.
I was going to attack.
For once in my life, I was going to show my parents how much fight I had in me.
“You’re just jealous, Mom!” I growled. “You see that I’m living a life that isn’t boring and bland! You see that I have a romantic boyfriend who loves me with all his heart. And for the first time in my life, I’m happy.” I narrowed my eyes accusatorially, “And you can’t stand it,” I hissed knowingly. “You want me to be as miserable as you are.” I suddenly realized the implications of what I was saying, that I was comparing my dad with Christos. And it was pretty obvious who won that contest.