• chapter four •
In the evening, I was woken by my landline ringing. Yeah, the landline. My parents hadn't allowed me a mobile phone since they are too distracting. I had to pick it up before Stan could do that and tell the caller that I'd fallen from my balcony and died or something. Believe me, he'd done that once. Sharon had called when I was gone for my badminton coaching. Stan had picked up the phone and told her that my hair had caught fire and I was in the hospital. And when I'd asked him about it, he'd said defensively that my red hair always looked afire. I'd shot him in the eye with his Nerf gun for that.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. And then I remembered where I was. I wasn't at home anymore. My new mobile was ringing with mom's call. I pulled it out of my pocket.
"Mom, I know I promised to call you everyday, but I've been busy, I'm sorry," I said in a single breath.
"It's fine, sweetie. Just wanted to see how you're managing alone."
"I'm alive."
"A miracle, if you ask me. I hope you haven't been surviving on chocolate."
"Of course not, mom," I lied. She kept talking for fifteen minutes, and then handed the phone to dad, who, after asking about my studies, gave it to Stan. He awkwardly told me about a movie that he'd watched, and then, I can bet that because our parents had gone from the room he was in, he hung up.
Living alone sure was a lot of work, but I wasn't ever going to admit it to them. It had taken a lot of convincing to get my parents to agree to letting me come here. On the day when it was announced that I'd won and I had made that deal with Sharon and Sana, I came home, dumped my bag in my room and knocked on their door. "Mom! Dad! Can I talk to you?"
"What do you wanna talk about, huh? Huh? Huh?" Stan said from behind me, dribbling his annoying football. I turned around to show him the middle finger, but before I could do that, he kicked the ball. I wasn't ready. It came flying and hit me in the face, causing my head to jerk backwards and hit the door. For a split second, I couldn't feel anything, but then I fell on the floor with the ball in my hands. Pain shot down my spine.
"Goal!" Stan laughed and ran away. I wanted to get up and run after him, but he was much faster. I would never be able to catch him. Besides, I didn't want to create a ruckus and annoy my parents right now. Not when I wanted to talk to them about something important. Very important. Very, very important.
"Won't you run after me, Hazy?" Stan called from the living room.
Oh yeah, laugh all you want. In a week I'll be away from you, living my own life. Let's see what you do then.
I stood up and turned around. "Mom! I need to talk to you!"
"What about?" came her reply.
"About . . . um . . . Can you just come out?"
"We'll talk after lunch, sweetie. I'm busy."
"Please!" I begged.
"Later, Hazel."
I sighed and went to my room. Stan was sitting on my bed. "Get out," I said. I hated it when he came to my room. My room was like my personal space: all over the walls were painted quotes. On one wall I had made a huge painting of a couple dancing in the rain. It covered the entire wall and had taken me six hours to finish. Him sitting in my room was like him invading my mind: he could read everything that was close to my heart, and I hated that.
"You can't order me around. I'm two years older than you."
"Get. Out."
"Make me." He grinned.
I went to his room and brought his Nerf gun. This was the only thing that scared him, since the bullet was hard and I had an exceptionally good aim. If I managed to shoot him in his crotch...
He saw the gun and got up quickly. "Okay, I'm going. Give that gun back to me."
I shot him in the stomach and gave his gun back. "Buzz off now. I'm not in the mood for any of your stupid jokes."
"Aw, Hazy is upset?"
"DON'T YOU DARE CALL ME HAZY!"
"Hazel!" dad yelled from his room. "Stop shouting right now!" So typical of him to sit comfortably in his room and shout at others to stop shouting.
Stan laughed and went out of my room. I shut the door after him and pulled out Chasing Harry Winston from my bookshelf. That guy was nineteen and he behaved like he was a newborn baby.
I spent two hours lying on my bed, reading about Leigh, Adriana and Emmy, and the change they wanted in their lives.
Then mom entered my room without knocking and sat on the bed. "So...what did you want to talk about?"
"Where's dad? I wanted to talk to both of you," I said.
"Okay. I'll get him."
She went out and came back with dad. Dad wore an impatient expression. "Make it short, Hazel. I have work to do," he said.
I took a breath and started. "I didn't tell you, but about two months ago, there was this all-India art competition. I entered it. Five winners were to be selected. And... I'm one of those five. So—"
"You mean you won?" mom interrupted. "Wow! You entered a national art competition and you won? That's great, honey!" She beamed at me. I thought I saw a surprised look on dad's face, too, but it vanished quickly.
"Yeah." I smiled and continued, "So these five winners were to get scholarships to America. There they're gonna get some professional art classes and have their own exhibitions. Imagine. And I won a scholarship. I want to go."
"Absolutely not," dad said and stood up.
"But—" I began, but he was already out of the room. "Dad!" I called. He didn't answer. I gritted my teeth. He never paid attention to me. He didn't even seem happy about my achievement.
I turned to mom. "Mom, please. Pleeeeeeeaase. I really, really, really want to go. You know I want to be a professional artist. This could be a turning point for me."
She sighed. "Your dad wants you to be a—"
"A doctor or a lawyer, I know. But it's too late now, people start law or medical in their ninth year. I'm seventeen, mom. And I don't really want to point it out, but it's my life. Don't I get to choose what I want to be?" I looked at her expectantly. She was my last hope.
"I'll talk to your dad, okay?" She kissed my cheek and left the room. But since mom didn't update me later that day about what dad had said, I assumed he had refused.
The next day, I decided to try to talk to them again. To avoid losing my nerve and to have the maximum impact, I'd written down a small speech and rehearsed it a thousand times.
I went to their room and knocked, and then entered without permission. They looked up. "Mom, dad, can I talk to you for fifteen minutes?"
"Sure you can, sweetie," mom said. I sat down on their bed and began speaking.
"Look, we've already talked about this, but I really want to go to America and learn to paint."
"And I've already told you, you can't go," dad said.
"Yes, that is exactly what I've come to talk about. I want to know why I can't go."
Dad leaned forward. "Hazel, I've told you that you can't have a career in art. It's a useless thing! Why don't you become a lawyer or a doctor instead? That would be much better."
God, his obsession with me becoming a doctor/lawyer!
I took a deep breath. "Art isn't a useless thing, dad. And I don't want to become a lawyer or a doctor because those things don't interest me. I know those people get high salaries, but so what? If I do become an artist, I'd get less salary. But at least I'd be happy, doing what I love. What do you want me to be, happy or rich? You've always told me that being happy is better, but you seem to have forgotten, so I'm asking you again. Happy or rich?"
Dad didn't answer, but mom did. "We want you to be happy, Hazel."
"Then please let me go!"
"What if you don't become a professional artist?" dad asked. "What if your paintings don't sell or something?"
"Chances are, I'd do better at art than at other boring stuff. You've seen it. I wanted to play basketball. You told me badminton would be better. So I played badminton. But you know I'm better at basketball, because I like that game. I was on the basketball team, too."
Again, dad didn't answer. Mom, being the worrywart that she is, said, "Hazel, even if we let you go, how will you manage alone?"
It took all my effort not to roll my eyes. "Mom, I'm seventeen. I can look after myself. I can cook plenty of dishes. And believe me, those organizers—whatever they're called—will take care of everything, from food to electricity bills. I just need to go and take those classes. I've always done what you've told me to. You never asked me what I wanted to do, but now I'm just asking for one thing. Please."
Dad's face was thoughtful. Both of them remained silent, but I could see that I'd won even before dad said, "Go out for a minute. Your mom and I have to talk."
"Okay." I stood up and went out, my heart beating fast. I tried to eavesdrop, but their voices were too low.
Five minutes later, they called me back in. "We've decided to let you go," dad announced.
"Yes! YES!" I jumped in the air and then hugged him — did I mention I hated hugging dad?— "Thank you. Thank you."
"There's one condition," mom said. "You'll have to call us every day."
"Everyday?" I yelped.
"You're not going," said mom.
"Okay, okay, I'll call," I said and hugged her, too. "Thank you so much."
"Now where do you have to go, exactly?" asked dad.
"Louisville, Kentucky."
"For how long?" mom interrupted.
"One year."
"And when do you have to leave?"
"September 2," I answered. "That's four days from now."
Mom looked at me. "I'll give you two huge suitcases. Better start packing right now."
"Okay." In fifteen minutes, one black and one red suitcase was out and I was jumping up and down and packing before mom and dad could change their minds. Nearly three hours later, I was sweating, my back was aching from bending over for so long, and my hair was all over my face. But my packing was done. I dragged my suitcases into my room and then hid Stan's football under the dining table for no reason.
I didn't believe in giving up on my dreams. I wasn't going to allow anyone to stand in my way. And if anyone did, well...I couldn't really give that person a place in my life. I had done what my heart had told me to do: spent several days on that painting and then, without telling anyone, entered that art competition that got me here. And that was what I was going to do in the future too. I had come here to be an artist, and I had no plans to stop before I got there.
∞
Hello, my beautiful, silent readers! This is probably the first author's note I'm putting in this story. I see my reads increasing every day, but no notification of new votes and comments to complement that XD I guessed a lot of you forget to do that or maybe the shy ones are not comfortable with leaving comments.
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