Page 12 of So This Is War
“The fuck you’re not,” he says. “You have one year left. Finish it out, take your degree, and do something worthwhile.”
“This is worthwhile, Dad.”
He hangs up the phone with a slam. “Graphic art? You think graphic art is worthwhile? What are you going to do? Dream up logos for the local shipping yard? Jesus Christ, Wylie. This is your future you’re talking about, not some random idea that came into your head one lonely night.”
Growing frustrated with my dad’s ignorance—because the mandoes not know me at all—I say, “It’s not a random idea that’s come to my mind. I’ve been going to classes at night for a year and am really good at it. I’ve been paid a few times.”
“Paid a few times? Well, then.” Dad wipes his hands and leans back in his chair. “Then, by all means, let me roll out the red carpet. You’ve been paid ‘a few times,’ so we might as well start looking into private jets.”
My expression falls flat as I stare at the man I hold in high regard. The man who raised me and put me first in every aspect, even over hockey. When my mom left him and said she didn’t want to take me with her, he stepped in and gave me a memorable childhood. Is he controlling? Yes. Does he think he can run my life? Yes. But do I love him . . . yes, although he’s making it hard at the moment.
“Dad, this means a lot to me, and I think if you just let me show you what I can do, you will believe that I can do something great with this.”
“I have no doubt you have talent,” he says. “You’re my daughter, after all, but that doesn’t negate the fact that you’re throwing away a stable future.”
“A master’s in business doesn’t provide a stable future. A master’s in business is like throwing a coin in a pond and hoping someone makes your wish come true. I don’t want a desk job, something that bores me day in and day out, and over the past year, I’ve come to realize that’s exactly what will happen if I continue moving forward with this degree. I don’t want to waste my time or your money.”
“You’ve already wasted my money if you cut out a year before you graduate.” He runs his hand over his smooth head. “I don’t see why you can’t just finish the year, graduate, and then pursue whatever it is you want to pursue.”
“Because it’s a waste of time, Dad. It’s a giant waste of my time, and you, out of everyone, know how time is an invaluable commodity. You never get it back. So why would I waste a year of my life to appease someone else?”
“Because I’m your father, and I’ve paid for your college until now. I’ve housed you, fed you, taken care of you.”
“And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Dad, but I’m twenty-two, and I think I should be able to start making my own decisions, don’t you?”
“No,” he says flatly, not even considering it.
I sigh heavily. “Well, I don’t know what else to say other than I’m not going back to school, so if you want to pay for my classes, by all means, pay for them, but I won’t attend.”
He does not take too kindly to that because his jaw tenses, then works back and forth as his eyes remain fixed on me.
That look would have scared me right out of my shoes a few years ago. I would have apologized and told my dad I’d do whatever he wanted. But over the past few years, I’ve grown a thicker skin. I’ve started to realize what I want—well, at least what I don’t want. The direction of my graphic art aspirations is still a little foggy, but I do know I want to be creative.
“Fine,” he says while placing his hands on the desk. “If that’s what you want, then you can cut out of school.” Why do I feel like that’s not the end of the conversation? There’s no way he’s going to let me just quit school, not with the anger boiling inside him.
“Fine?” I ask. “I can pursue graphic art?”
“Yes, of course. If anything, I want you to be happy.”
I don’t believe that for a second. He has something up his sleeve.
“But . . .”
And there it is.
“Since I paid for your five years of college, I believe you owe me something.”
I sigh heavily, knowing it was too good to be true.
“And what do I owe you, Dad?”
He folds his hands together. “Here’s the deal. I don’t think you’re making a smart choice.”
“That much is obvious,” I say as I fold my arms across my chest.
“Therefore,” he continues, “I think you owe me one semester.”
“Of school? What’s the point?—”
