Page 121 of Intermission
I’m sweating. And not because it’s hot in the kitchen. This is soweird. I’ve never had to ask for anything like this before. My heart is pounding.
I take a big breath. “I was hoping you might consider giving me a loan. A short term loan.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Umm...” I gulp. “The deposit is four thousand dollars. I’ve applied at a few restaurants in Sommerton to make some extra money this summer. If I get hired, I should be able to pay you back in full by the end of the summer. But,” I add, “I totally understand if you can’t or you don’t want to. It’s cool. I’ll figure out another way.”
The timer beeps. As I pull the graham cracker crusts from the oven, my back tingles where Grandma Maddie’s eyes are surely drilling into it. What does she think of the idea? Will she help? I know I said I would figure out another way, but I haven’t yet, so...
I send up a quick prayer, one of many I’ve breathed in and out while forming this plan.
“The cream cheese is on the counter. It’s all softened up,” Grandma says. “You start whipping it with the powdered sugar, and then we’ll sit down and talk about the specifics. I think we can probably work something out.”
My last summer at home passes in a flurry of online classes, voice lessons, working as a receptionist at Grandma Maddie’s salon, and waiting tables at a restaurant in Sommerton—not The Smoked Salt Grille—in the evenings. Things have relaxed at home, probably because I stay in my room a lot and give my mother no reason to suspect me of... whatever. Outside of work, my social life is nonexistent and my expenses, few. Grandma is adamant that I’m not allowed to pay her back until I’m all finished with college and settled with a job in New York, so by the time school starts, I’ve saved enough to pay the remaining balance that will be due to La Bella when I start night classes in October.
Back in school, I keep working weekends at the restaurant in Sommerton. The first two months of my senior year fly by. Three days after my eighteenth birthday, I get up extra early to pray, something I’ve been doing more and more often these last few months. Today, I’m going to finally unveil my plan to my parents, and I need God’s help with that—if only to stop the shaking of my hands.
At breakfast, I pick at my egg white omelet for a good five minutes before I work up the nerve to blurt out, “I’ve decided to graduate early. At the end of this semester.”
I wait for the explosion, but it doesn’t come. Instead, my parents exchange a glance. Dad sets down his newspaper.
“We know,” he says. “The school counselor sent a letter at the beginning of the year.”
My pulse thrums. I can’t believe they’ve known for two months but didn’t say anything.
I swallow and rearrange the silverware around my plate.Stay calm. Stay... calm. You’re an adult now, so be an adult.
I nod, trying to act like I’m not as surprised as I am. “I’ll have all my credits completed this semester, as well as my associate degree from Sommerton Community College. There’s no reason to stay in high school.”
I inhale a tight breath. I’ve practiced my speech for weeks, but it’s hard to force out the words.
“Since I’m eighteen now, I don’t really need your permission, but I would like your blessing.”
“Our blessing? Hmm,” Dad says, and the fact that he’s doing all the talking while Mom remains silent is freaking me out a little. “Honestly, Faith, we were hoping you would change your mind.”
“What about all your college applications?” Mom chimes in, and I let out a breath. “You’ve applied for admission next fall, right? Not in January.”
“Right.” I nod. “I’ll start college next fall, as planned. I’m not sure where yet, but I’m planning to major in Musical Theatre.” I hold up my hand to silence Mom’s inevitable interruption. “Since you’ve made yourselves clear about what you will and will not pay for in regards to my education, I’ve made some additional plans to help pay for my own schooling.”
I hate that I can’t look my parents in the eye, but if I do, I might lose my nerve, so I continue to stare at the omelet on my plate.
“Starting next Monday, I’ll be taking night classes at La Bella College, studying esthetics. I’ve already put down a deposit, and I have the remainder due in my savings account.”
“Beauty school?” Mom’s jaw drops. “Tell me you’re kidding, Faith. You got a twenty-one hundred on the S.A.T.!”
As if intelligent people with good test scores shouldn’t consider a skilled trade?Careful, Mom. Your snobbery is showing.
“Yes. And I hope those scores will put me in the running for some good scholarships toward my Musical Theatre degree.”
“I’m lost.” She splays her hands and leans away from the table. “What does beauty school have to do with Musical Theatre?”
“CosmetologySchool,” I correct as gently as I can, considering my teeth are clenched.
I make an effort to relax my jaw, my voice, and my body language. “As a licensed esthetician, I can work in a spa or a salon. Ican even work as a makeup artist for theatrical productions after I finish college and start auditioning in New York. It’s a respectable skilled trade that a lot of people make really good money doing.”
“But . . . why?”
“Haven’t you always preached about—” I cringe. Bad word choice, probably. “Er, told me that I won’t be able to make a living in the theatre? That I need something to fall back on? Well, I don’t believe that. But I do know I need marketable skills to support myselfuntilI’m able to make a living in the theatre. Not only that, but this is a skill I can actually use in a theatrical setting, doing stage makeup.”
