Page 105 of High Hopes

“Congratulations, Liam,” Coach says, shaking my hand firmly. “The Scholar-Athlete Award is well-deserved.”

“Thank you, Coach,” I manage, my voice steady despite the nerves crawling up my spine. I nod to the crowd, murmuring a quick “Thanks, everyone,” before heading back to my seat.

When I sit down, Birdie leans in, her eyes sparkling. “So proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I murmur. Her hand finds mine under the table again, and I cling to it like a lifeline.

The rest of the banquet passes in a blur. My parents congratulate me on the award, though it’s more of a measured acknowledgment than a celebration. A quick “Nice job, son” is about all I get.

By the time the event wraps up, I’m more than ready to leave. As people gather their things, I help Birdie into her coat, brushing a stray curl from her face. She murmurs a quiet thank-you, her cheeks still faintly pink from the warmth of the room.

We stand to say our goodbyes, and my dad steps forward, extending a handshake to Birdie. “Good luck with your work.”

Birdie hesitates for the briefest moment before shaking his hand firmly. “Thank you,” she says steadily, her voice unwavering. There’s no shrinking back, no falter, and I feel a flicker of pride watching her hold her own.

My mom, ever the polished diplomat, offers Birdie a faint smile as we turn to leave. “It was nice to see you again, Bridget,” she says. “Perhaps you can join Liam for dinner at our place soon.”

Birdie blinks, surprised, but recovers quickly. “I would love that.”

I raise an eyebrow, caught somewhere between shock and amusement, but I don’t say anything. As we walk toward the parking lot, Birdie exhales a long breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Well,” she says, glancing up at me with a small, tired smile. “That was . . . something.”

I laugh quietly, slipping my hand into hers. “You did great.”

“I’m sorry about tonight,” I say, my voice low as I shove my free hand into my pocket. “My dad—he’s just—”

Rigid? Impossible to please? A laundry list of traits I’ve spent years trying to navigate without losing my mind.

“Don’t,” Birdie interrupts, her tone firm. “Don’t apologize for him. You’re not responsible for how he acts.”

“I just hate that he was so rude to you,” I say, my jaw tightening. “You didn’t deserve that.”

She squeezes my hand, her smile soft but resolute. “I’ve dealt with worse. Besides, I’d sit through an entire evening of tense small talk and sideways comments if it meant supporting you, my prized Scholar-Athlete.”

The way she says it—with unwavering pride, like she truly believes it—stirs something deep inside me, a warmth that spreads slowly and roots itself firmly. It feels like she’s my biggest fan, standing in my corner no matter what. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I’ve earned this.

All the grueling practices, the sleepless nights, the constant balancing act—it wasn’t just about proving something to everyone else.

It was about proving something to myself.

36

BIRDIE

I’ve been hookedon throwing big pieces lately. Something just clicked during those first weeks in Hall’s mastery class—like I finally cracked some secret code. There’s this rhythm to it, a kind of hypnotic pull when you let the wheel guide you and trust the clay to respond.

The biggest piece I’ve thrown so far is twenty-eight inches tall. It’s not perfect, but it’s huge and commanding in the way I wanted it to be. There’s this rush in pushing the limits, testing what I can handle. And seeing how far I can go without it collapsing feels like its own kind of victory.

I’ve been toying with submitting them to the Ellsworth, but they need to feel finished—not just big. That’s why outside of Hall’s class, I’ve been working with Professor Tanaka, too. His ideas are inspired—sculptured additions that elevate the forms into something alive.

I feel like I’ve hit my stride with this. It’s not about impressing anyone or proving I belong anymore. It’s about the love of creating something that feels like an extension of myself. In just a few weeks, I’ll be working in Claire’s studio, and I’m eager to take everything I’ve been learning to the next level, to experiment without limits.

Right now, though, I’m in Liam’s room, sprawled out on his bed like a starfish. He’s at his desk, flipping through the photos he took of my pieces. Some of the prints are already developed, scattered across the desk in a haphazard display.

“Did you ever think about taking photography more seriously?” I ask, rolling onto my back and propping myself on my elbows. “Like, classes or an internship or something?”

He doesn’t even look up. “Nah. Too good at too many other things. Wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the world if I monopolized photography, too.”

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