Page 84 of Tilly in Technicolor
“Oh?” Mom says, her voice dripping with disappointment.
I square my shoulders and clear my throat. “I’ve decided I want to be a writer,” I say, my voice a bit wobbly. This isn’t necessarily a new realization, but it’s the first time I’m speaking it into existence. Declarative statement and all. “I’ve actually already sold my first article and if I can get a regular income flow from maybe a barista job or something at first, I can focus on my craft and refine my ideas and I’ll—”
“No.” Mom’s voice is flat and final.
“What?”
“That’s not a good job, Tilly,” she says, and I can almost hear her shaking her head. “That’s what people living in la-la land say they want to be before they end up waiting tables for the rest of their lives.”
“What’s wrong with food service work?”
“That’s not the point,” Mom says with an exasperated sigh. “The point is, you need to figure out a real job. Actually, a degree first, then a job.”
“But why?” I ask. “Why does that have to be my set path? We both know I don’t do well in school, and even Dr. Alverez said that traditional educational environments and formats aren’t conducive to the way I learn, so why would I force myself through college?”
“I’m not limiting you here, Tilly.” Mom’s tone is one of ominous warning not to push it. “I’m just trying to be realistic. I—”
“You want to talk about realistic, Mom?” I snap. “My brain is my reality. I’m not some choose-your-own-adventure novel for you to dictate every experience I have. I’m sorry I’m not what you want me to be, but this is the best I’ve got.”
“Tilly, don’t raise your voice. I’m not saying that. There’s a certain way things are done and—”
“But youaresaying that. You’ve always said it.”
Even without words. It’s the way she quickly snatches at my hand if I reach for something in a store. The way she squeezes my shoulder in warning if I start talking to someone too fast. Too loud. It’s the warning look she gives me if I get too excited about a special interest. She’s said it a million silent ways. She wishes I was “normal.”
“I’m just trying to protect you!”
“You treat me like an inevitable fuckup!” The words come out harsh. Sharp. And my mom’s silence screams across the line. I let out a shaky breath.
“I’m not treating you like a… a mess-up,” she says. “It’s the way of the world, Tilly. It’s what Mona did. She even went on to get advanced degrees.”
I start pacing a vicious little loop across the hotel room. I can feel Ollie’s eyes on me, but I can’t look at him. “I’m not Mona and Mona’s not me, Mom. You can’t keep comparing us. It does nothing but wedge us apart. I want my sister as my sister, not some untouchable creature of perfection I’m constantly chasing the shadow of.
“And Mona deserves to be free of that pressure. It isn’t fair to her, either, to carry the weight of needing to be perfect. To be some ideal daughter and uber successful older sister. She’s human. She’s allowed to make mistakes. I am, too. I—”
“I’m not having this conversation. You’re completely missing the point. You need to get serious about the real world.”
I stop my pacing, deflating at the harshness in her voice that leaves no room for argument. No way I could ever convince her that what I want is worthy of pursuing.
She lets out a sigh. “I’ll be there in a little over a week to visit Mona and bring you home. I expect you to have a plan by then. A real one. Is that understood?”
I swallow, my stomach in knots and blood rushing in my ears. All I manage is a hiccupping sound.
“I’m being hard on you because I love you,” Mom says, voice cold. Then the line goes dead.
I crumple to the floor, crying into my knees.
Oliver lets me quietly sob by myself for two minutes before marching across the room and sitting on the floor next to me, pulling me to his chest. He doesn’t ask for details. Doesn’t need a play-by-play. He tucks my head under his chin and rubs soothing circles across my back.
And I feel… safe. Secure. Cherished.
Three scary and vulnerable words almost bubble to my lips, but I tuck them away for later.
I stop crying long enough for Oliver to coax me outside for a walk where he then proceeds to buy me food from every vendor I look twice at. This gorgeous angel has really cracked my love language.
It’s nice, being with Ollie, but I still feel this empty ache through my limbs. All this sadness and fear and confusion about the future has weaved its way so deeply into my muscles, I’m pushed out of the present.
We eventually wander back to the hotel, and we hear Mona and Amina talking through our shared wall. Somewhere along the trip, their own need for privacy won out over the always-open-shared-door rule.
