Page 26 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Language.”
“—tail off. I’m working harder than any other associate, but my success is credited to being the daughter of one of the partners. That’s not fair. I don’t even get recognition for the work I’m doing. Just accusations of nepotism.”
“From whom?” Dad walks in with the box of peaches.
“All of them! They’re lawyers, Dad.” I am vibrating, shimmering with the weight of my realization. I have a choice, and I’m making it with or without my parents’ permission. “I’m quitting law.”
“You can’t quit. I paid for your law school!” Dad yells.
“That was your choice, not mine.”
“Like heck it was!”
“Language,” Mom mutters. Then to me, she asks, “What are you going to do?”
“I…” My throat feels tighter, and the air has suddenly gotten a lot thinner. I don’t know. I’ve never had the space to do or be anything apart from what Mr. and Mrs. George McKinney have dictated. Star pupil, law student, grunt at McKinney, Rosenberg,and Wallace trying to make junior partner. The thought of having the space and freedom to authentically be me is panic-inducing, chase two Lexapros with a cup of peppermint tea, and curl up with Shakespeare, terrifying. But it’s also freeing. I’m scared witless of what comes next, but I also, for the first time since ever, feel weightless.
“She doesn’t know,” Dad accuses. “She’s throwing everything away without even a plan.”
“George, please. We raised Bea better than that.”
I smile. “I’m going to vibe.”
“Vibe?”
“Exactly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some packing to do.”
Chapter 8
I’d like to pretend that I had the final word and calmly sailed out of the kitchen to begin my new life, but that’s not what happened. Dad lost it and told me that he refuses to subsidize or enable such idle, lazy entitlement and told me that until I come to my senses, I’m no longer welcome intheirhome. I volleyed back that no one can kick me out of a house I’m already happily vacating, along with a string of childish insults regarding my dad’s age and receding hairline. It wasn’t my finest hour, but it did cement my conviction that this was totally the right decision.
After Mom and Dad head off to golf, I reach for my phone and dial Adam. Some things are easier said than texted.
“Adam West McKinney,” my brother answers.
“I’m calling in that favor,” I say as I reach under my bed for my gym duffel.
“Bea—not now.”
I dump everything from my bottom drawer into the bag. “I want you to find me an apartment to rent in La Jolla.”
“Bea, I’m not a real estate agent.”
“And I’m not a cosplayer, but I showed up at your escape room when you needed help. Turnabout is fair play.”
“Fine,” Adam sighs. “I’ll see what I can do. Text me your non-negotiables and price point.”
“I already have.” I shove my yoga mat into the bag.
“Sorry, you want an apartment, not a shoebox. Not a van by the ocean.”
“I want an apartment that has a patio or veranda or something. Definitely one that requires no freeway commute to get to the ocean.” I find my yoga blocks, dust them on the back of my golf skirt, and shove them in too.
“When are you looking to move?”
“Today.”
“What happened?” Adam’s tone changes.
