Page 30 of High Hopes

Tanaka is right. Art isn’t about getting it right every time. It’s about pushing through the messy, uncomfortable parts and trusting that, somewhere along the way, you’ll stumble onto something real.

Something that’s yours.

11

LIAM

Birdie

so, do I name the creepy hand sculpture I’ve been working on, or do I just let it speak for itself?

I chuckle under my breath,glancing down at my phone, where Birdie’s latest text is lighting up the screen. I’m sitting in the dining room at my parents’ house, but my attention is half here, half on my phone under the table where no one can see it.

Liam

“The Grab”

Birdie

maybe “Grasping at Straws”?

Liam

my life in a nutshell

She sends a laughing emoji, followed by a picture of the sculpture she’s been working on. It’s exactly what she’s been describing—creepy, severed, and kind of awesome in a weird way. I can tell she’s put in a lot of hours on it.

Birdie

told you it’s weird, right?

Liam

weird, yes. but also badass

A grin creeps across my face as those three little dots appear. But before a reply comes through, my mom interrupts. “Liam, honey, are you paying attention?”

I snap my head up. Mom and Dad are sitting across the table, looking at me like they’ve just asked something important. I’m sure whatever it is, it’s probably something I’m supposed to care about.

These biweekly dinners are always the same. Polished silverware, a spotless tablecloth, and conversations that feel more like check-ins than actual catching up. I’ve mastered the art of nodding along, but tonight, my focus is clearly slipping.

It used to be me and James, both of us sitting here pretending we weren’t counting down the minutes until we could leave, but now I’m flying solo. James is off in the minor leagues, and I’m left with the full brunt of their attention.

I blink a few times, trying to piece together what I’ve missed. “Uh, yeah. Sorry,” I say, stuffing my phone into my pocket. “What were you saying?”

Mom exchanges a glance with Dad, who’s frowning slightly like he’s already tired of this conversation. Tired of me. Great.

“We were talking about your internship for the summer,” Mom says, her voice carefully neutral. “We spoke to Oliver, the head of development at Welch City Planning, the firm I mentioned a few weeks ago? He’s agreed to take you on as an intern.”

I sit up straighter. “Wait, what?”

“Liam, we told you about this. We’ve been working on setting it up for you.” Dad says slowly, painfully, like he’s explaining something to a five-year-old. “It’s a great opportunity.”

I blink again, trying to process. “Urban planning?”

“Yes,” Mom says giddily. “Oliver’s one of the best in the field. This will give you excellent experience—”

“But I’m not interested in doing that.”

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