All That Glitters (Unfamous Series, Book #2.5)

Ch. 2 | The Boy with Eyes like The Last Day of Summer

After years of trying to steer me away from the rebellious route that I am so very fond of, my parents have finally managed to get me to university. My father brims with pride when he pulls up outside of what will be my new home for the next year; smiling at me as I unload the last of my boxes from the trunk of his Honda, making ‘proud parent’ eyes with the other proud parents as they too beam at their offspring piling into Brompton’s brownstone student dorm buildings. I’m excited to be here too, but not because I made it to university. I was against the idea, but my father was having none of it; his child was going to uni, and that was that. I was to make something of myself, and in his eyes, the only way you can make something of yourself is by following the rules. A degree and landing myself in debt from student loans, which I would of course be able to pay off once I graduated, because this piece of paper that states that I have a degree will make me more attractive to employers and have them begging me to work for them. That’s the dream they sell you, but we all know that’s not how it goes. You go to university, spend three or more years majoring in some  subject so you can wear a cap and gown and be given a piece of paper with your final grade on it once you’ve proven that you can retain enough information to pass…and then you end up working at some job that has nothing to do with this wonderful degree that you wasted all of that time getting. I tried to get my dad to compromise; my deal was that I go to university in New York and get a degree in Modern Art. He said that New York was too far away for him to keep an eye on me, and that I needed to focus on something other than art as it was unlikely that it would be a ‘fruitful’ career path for me. He offered his compromise; I would stay in London and attend Brompton University and do a joint honours degree; art and business -as if I needed the extra workload. I barely scraped through college with some decent A levels (Art being the subject that saved me from hitting below the necessary UCAS points to get into Brompton because it’s the only thing that interests me), but he thinks that while I’m here, that I should learn something useful so it’s not a complete waste of my (his) time.

It’s tough being a creative –the left brains just don’t understand how we operate. I love art. I live for art and I’m good at it –it’s the only thing I’m good at. I would have happily worked in a gallery by day and painted by night, sitting there in my bedroom with my easel, incense burning, a cup of camomile tea, a spliff (windows open and towel under the door so my parents can’t smell it) and Sza playing in the background while I create endless iconic pieces that would launch me into stardom, like Jean-Michel Basquiat. I’m going to be the next big thing, I can feel it. I don’t know when it will happen, or which piece will be my breakthrough, but I’m going to do it.

“Well, I think that’s everything,” my father slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

I look around and shrug, “Yeah, I guess it is.”

His hands come out of his pocket and pull me into a bear hug, which I respond to by awkwardly slipping my arms around him and burying my face in his chest so that the other students can’t see my slightly embarrassed expression –I bet my brother’s wouldn’t have to go through this. He can be a tough cookie, my dad, but he’s a big softy once you get past the grumpy old man routine –he loves his family and will do anything to make sure they are all right. It strikes me that this will be the last time I may see him in a while, and even though I’m not a fan of public displays of affection, I’m a Daddy’s Girl and I’ll miss him. I give him a squeeze back and he kisses the top of my head. “Try to behave yourself.”

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask, Hideyoshi.” He releases me and places his hands on my shoulders to give me the final once over. “Make me proud dumpling. Go forth and prosper!” he says a little louder than I’m comfortable with, then adds a dramatic sweeping motion with his arm. I cover my face with my hand.