Page 12 of Meant to Be

CHAPTER 5

Joe

A few nights before my eighteenth birthday, and just after Berry and I had returned from Andover for winter break, my mother asked if the three of us could have a chat in the living room. The wordchatwas usually a signal that I was about to be lectured, but our grades hadn’t yet been announced and I couldn’t think of anything else I’d done wrong.

As Berry and I sat side by side on the sofa and my mother took her usual place in the wingback chair next to the fireplace, I watched her pull a cigarette out of the engraved silver box she kept them in. She held it between her fingers without lighting it, a ritual that was part of her latest attempt to quit.

“So,” my mother began. “Can you believe it? Only one semester until you’re both high-school graduates and off to college.”

I nodded as Berry said something about how the year was flying by.

My mother chatted a bit more about Andover generally, asking if we were still happy with our decision to transfer from our old school in the city. We both said we were, and I resisted the urge to make a joke about all the freedom I had now that I was living away from home.

“And you’re about to turneighteen,” my mother said, giving me a purposeful look that was a clue about the chat to come.

My turning eighteen had always been a thing for my mother, something she had talked about for years. Obviously, I knew it was a benchmark under the law—that on that day, I would become a person who could vote and fight for my country. But it seemed to hold significance beyond that for her, something she saw as representing my official Kingsley manhood.

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “I sure am.”

She took a deep breath, then said, “Are you excited for your party?”

“Yeah,” I said, then corrected myself before she could. “I meanyes. Very excited. Thank you.”

I still couldn’t quite believe that my mother was throwing a big bash for me, at a trendy downtown nightclub, no less. It wasn’t like her; she was usually very understated about my birthday, perhaps conscious of not wanting to spoil me or create a sense of entitlement beyond that which automatically came with my name. I like to think she succeeded in that aim, but I was also happy she was making an exception this year.

“And how are your friends feeling?” she asked.

The question was vague—how were they feeling about what, exactly? So I played it safe and said, “Great.”

Berry nodded and said, “Everyone is very excited…. It’ll be so nice to get the old gang back together.”

“Yes. It should be wonderful,” my mother said as I caught the two exchanging a loaded look.

“Okay. What’s going on here?” I said, suddenly suspicious that the two were in cahoots—and my mother had waited for Berry to arrive before having this little conversation.

“Nothing is ‘going on,’ Joe,” my mother said. “I just want to talk to you about some things—”

“Like what?”

“Like certain expectations…”

Here we go,I thought, as my mother began droning on about all the adults who would be in attendance, including some notable figures in politics and business, publishing and the law.

I hadn’t given much thought to the guest list beyond the names that Berry and I had come up with a few weeks before, and was a little taken aback by the notion that it wasn’t just a fun party for my friends and family. There was nothing I hated more than making small talk with adults I barely knew and being grilled about my “future plans”—which, at that point, were nonexistent. I was still waiting to hear back from Harvard, a long shot, along with my backups: Brown, Middlebury, and the University of Virginia.

I did my best to hide my annoyance, as I didn’t want to appear ungrateful, and simply said, “Cool. It’ll be a blast, I’m sure.”

“I hope so. I want you to have fun. But please remember that you’re an adult now. And it’s time for you to start thinking about cultivating contacts in the working world.”

“Doesn’t that comeaftercollege?” I said with a smile.

“No. It starts now,” she said. “Your eighteenth birthday is a rite of passage. Things will be different now, moving forward. In the past, you’ve been absolved of your mistakes—”

“Mistakes?” I said, grinning. “What mistakes?”

“Um. Jumping the subway turnstile. Cheating on that math test. The fake ID,” Berry said, then mumbled under her breath, “as ifthatwas going to work.”

“Thanks, Ber,” I said, giving her two thumbs up. “Very helpful examples.”

---