Page 47 of Beyond the Lines
“Come to think of it, where are your parents?” Em’s question hits me like a bucket of ice water. “They only live about an hour away, right?”
I fidget with my gloves, suddenly very interested in a loose thread. “They’re, uh, not big hockey fans.”
“They raised a hockey player and aren’t hockey fans?” Em’s eyebrows arch so high they practically reach her hairline.
“They didn’t raise a hockey player. They raised a future doctor who happens to be excellent at hockey.” I let out a sigh. “At least, that’s how they see it.”
“Oh.” Em’s voice drops. “One of those situations.”
I’ve managed to mostly avoid telling Em about my family thus far, besides Mike. It helps that Em comes from what she calls a “sprawling French dynasty” full of quirky characters and hilarious cousins she loves to talk about. But looking at her expectant face, I realize I can’t avoid the subject forever.
“My parents are… fine with Mike playing hockey,” I say, choosing my words carefully as Princeton’s offense makes a run at Pine Barren’s goal. “But they’ve never been shy about telling him they hope he chooses med school over going pro after graduation, although I think there’s zero chance of that.”
“But he’s so good!” Ping chimes in, gesturing toward the ice where Mike has just stolen the puck from a Princeton forward.
“They think medicine is more stable and mature.” I sigh. “Which is ironic, since I’ve never met anyone more devoted to anything than Mike.”
“So they’re OK with him playing now, but not as a career?” Em asks, clearly trying to understand.
“They see it as an extracurricular that looks good on med school applications. ‘Demonstrates teamwork and discipline,’” I mimic my mother’s clinical tone.
On the ice, the action back underway, Declan receives a pass and nearly scores, the puck ricocheting off the goalpost. The crowd groans collectively, and the “PUCK ME” crew squeal encouragement, jumping up and down yet somehow avoid giving themselves concussions with their bouncing chests.
“Mike spent the whole summer lifting, running, and practicing, in between attending a training camp out in Colorado,” I continue. “I think he feels like he’s got a lot to prove.”
“But he just scored,” Ping points out, confused. “And maybe if your parents showed up, he’d?—”
“Not going to happen.” I grimace. “The one time my parents actually showed up to watch him play, freshman year, it was his worst game ever.”
Em winces. “Ouch.”
“It didn’t help that neither of them understands the game. They actually confused Declan for him and started cheering for the wrong player.”
Em’s mouth drops open. “That’s… mortifying… even before we found out Declan was a dick.”
I tuck a curl behind my ear. “Mike was crushed, even though he tried to play it off as funny.”
As Princeton scores, tying the game, the crowd around us deflates. I watch Mike slam his stick against the ice in frustration, his shoulders hunched. Even from this distance, I can see how much it matters to him. But a moment later, he’s thecaptain again, cheering on his guys, patting backs, and giving high-fives.
“At least they’re consistent,” I say, wrapping my scarf tighter around my neck. “They give me the same grief about art.”
I feel a pang of regret saying it. I don’t mean to sound bitter, and I realize I don’t like talking about this with my new friends, especially after I’ve done nothing but talk about Declan the Dick for the past few days. I’m supposed to be making a fresh start here, not dragging around all my old baggage.
“They think art classes are a waste of your time?” Em asks, her normally vibrant voice subdued.
“My Dad thinks I should be doing something more stable and practical,” I explain, watching as the players reset for a face-off, my eyes once again—frustratingly—drawn tohim. “And my Mom thinks if I’m going to waste my time on art, I should at least do it the ‘right way’—like my grandmother did.”
I haven’t told Em much about my grandmother, whose shadow I’ve been living in since before I was old enough to hold a crayon. How could I explain that the woman I’m supposed to idolize, the woman whose talent supposedly runs in my veins, is also a giant weight on my shoulders?
“The ‘right way’? What does that even mean?” Em’s indignation on my behalf warms me more than my hot chocolate.
“According to my mother, it means being wildly original and taking risks.” I shrug, trying to keep my tone light. “You know, dropping out of college to stage your own exhibition.”
“That sounds…”
“Terrifying? Irresponsible? Completely unrealistic for anyone who isn’t independently wealthy or willing to starvefor a decade?” I scoff. “The irony isn’t lost on me. They want Mike to go to med school because it’s stable, rather than pro hockey, where he can earn millions. And they want me to be a starving artist.”
Em laughs. “Well, I was going to say ‘badass rebel artist with an attitude,’ but your version works too.”
