Paying Her Dues

CHAPTER1

Jess

Today should be different. Bigger, somehow. A day upon which I launch myself into the abyss of adulthood.

But, it’s not.

It’s my 18th birthday but also, Tuesday means two hours of violin lessons, forty-five minutes in the car, and a whole night of orchestra practice. The car ride to the hall with my parents isn’t over yet, and I’m already dizzy with tiredness.

And I’m hungry. So hungry.

I’m also hot, and North Carolina humidity makes leather seats squeaky, sticky, and uncomfortable. Right now I’m in the backseat of my parents’ Range Rover, feeling slightly carsick; Dad is driving, Mom is shotgun-driving. I watch her foot push on an imaginary brake as she nervously rubs the pad of her thumb over her perfectly manicured nails.

My stomach makes a rude gurgling sound and I suck in my belly. “Mom. Do we have anything to eat?”

Without turning to face me, she plucks a Ziploc bag out of her purse and tosses it back to me.

Celery. Again. For crying out loud. “Anything with any flavor? Or anything with nutritional value?”

“Eat your celery, young lady. And put those ear buds in. That lesson was a disaster. You’ve got a long way to go.”

I swallow a groan. The reason the lesson didn’t go so well is that my stupid fingers were bleeding because she made me practice for four hours and sixteen minutes yesterday, which I told her was a Very Bad Idea. But did she listen? Oh no she did not. As freaking usual.

I press my thumb against the pad of my first finger. Hardly more than a papercut, but super painful. From my backpack I grab a Band-Aid and some antibiotic cream. My mom turns slightly and her eyes flash.

“Make sure that isn’t the numbing kind! We can’t have your fingers numb for practice.”

Correction. We can’t have our fingers any way at all because they are my fingers. I dab the antibiotic cream on and wrap it with a Band-Aid pre-treated with an analgesic agent. I am all about the little rebellions these days, even if they come in the form of basic first aid.

“It’s not the numbing kind. See?”

I hold the tube up for her and she squints. She’s way too vain for glasses and she has to keep her face pinched up like that half the time. It makes my heart hurt.

She used to be lovely and soft and wonderful. She used to remember my birthdays and let me eat like a normal girl. But slowly she’s hardened and now she’s got so many brittle edges that I hardly recognize her anymore.

She is all about control. And my dad, he’s all about making my mom happy. But my dad is softer and kinder, less obsessed with my music, and never focused on my weight. And yet not strong enough to stand up to my mom, either.

I guess it’s tricky for them in some ways. I have a talent, a real talent, or so I’ve been told since I was barely five. And since I was five, my mom has treated my music like her own personal obsession.

At first cradling it, fostering it, but then slowly controlling it, judging it, managing it. And so now, she really is more my manager than my mom. I don’t think I need a manager, and I sure do miss my mom.

Her obsession with my music got so intense that my parents held me back a year in seventh grade to give me the best chance possible at a stellar music career. But it also means I had to repeat seventh grade, which was miserable. And now it means I’m a year older than all my friends, but not in a cool kind of way.

More in an ugly-duckling-never-a-swan kind of way. That’s how it feels, anyway.

I shove a piece of celery in my mouth, and as I chew, I indulge in a soon-to-be-realized fantasy. The one good thing about orchestra practices is that there are no parents allowed in the building.

It’s the top orchestra in the area, and at some point, somewhere along the line, the orchestra founders realized that we young musicians feel much more comfortable without our parents hovering around us constantly, constantly, constantly. So for four hours twice a week, we’re free.

And so even though it’s hard and tiring work, it’s a little slice of something better than this.

Next to me, in an actual freaking car seat, sits my violin, strapped in with its own seatbelt. It’s the most expensive thing in our house, except for our house itself. And I love my violin. With all my heart. But sometimes I wish I could just scoop her up in my arms and…

…. Run.

But that’s not an option. Because I have no money. And no car. And no control. All I’ve got are my music, my private thoughts, and my little rebellions.

Here’s another one. When I am at orchestra practice, my mom allows me two bottles of water, that I pay for at the vending machines with the debit card she gives me. Two-fifty a pop equals five dollars. If I spend more than that, I’m in trouble. But do you know what else equals five dollars?