Page 119 of Intermission
On.
Going into the second semester of my junior year, I load my schedule with AP college classes offered through an agreement between KHS and Sommerton Community College. I’ve been on the AP track all through high school, earning college and high school credits this way. But now, when I’m so desperate to escape this place, knowing that each class completed is one more class I won’t have to pay for myself—if Mom and Dad stick to their guns and refuse to help me with my Musical Theatre degree—gets me through the nightmare of homework that swamps me every night.
But it’s worth it. If Mom and Dad agree to let me take three more classes online over the summer, I’ll be on track to receive my associate degree from Sommerton Community College a semesterbeforemy KHS class receives their high school diplomas, and my college general education requirements will be complete—and paid for—before I ever leave home.
Under that heavy workload, the cold loneliness of winter melts into spring, the season of college visits and guidance appointments. Within the guise of encouragement, my parents try to interest me in studying marketing or public relations—any course of study they believe could make good use of my more creative gifts. But the more Mom and Dad try and cajole me away from thoughts of pursuing a stage career, the more determined I become—not that I ever wavered. By the time the end of my junior year is in sight, my head pounds from carrying the weight of my dreams alone, but I’ve made a plan...
It’s a plan I’m not about to let my parents in on. I can’t risk them trying to squash it.
It’s a good plan, though.
Solid, I think. I hope.
The kind of plan that might finally prove I’m not some flighty, artistic dreamer, but a mature and capable almost-adult.
At seventeen, however, I’m not an adult. Not legally, anyway. To pull this off, I need help.
And I know just where to get it.
It’s a Saturday afternoon, three days into summer vacation. I stand on the porch of Grandma Maddie’s Queen Anne-style two story and breathe in the scent of blooming peony bushes for a minute before I knock. Grandma hates doorbells. She says they jar her nerves—which is more than a little odd, considering she isn’t at all bothered by visitors just walking on in. But that’s Grandma Maddie for you.
A popped-out disco tune floats through the open window. I know the song, of course. Not only because it’s been one of Grandma’s favorites for as long as I can remember, but also because it was retrofitted in the late 1990s as the title song for the Broadway musicalMamma Mia!
More than likely, Grandma Maddie is knee deep in some sort of project. She finally took herself down to part-time status at the salon over the winter, but her days off don’t slow her stride. If she isn’t doing hair, she’s volunteering somewhere or crafting or playing Texas Hold ’Em with the group of friends she refers to as her “Bridge Club,” although she openly admits to never having played Bridge. At seventy-five, Madeleine Prescott the First isn’t a woman who can sit idle.
I heard, through the ugly-but-effective Kanton grapevine, that she shut down someone who was gossiping about me and Noah in her salon a couple of months back. We’ve never spoken of it, but I don’t doubt she full-on roasted them right out of their chair.
I open the door. “Grandma!” I shout over the music. “Grandma!”
“Why, Madeleine Faith!” She appears, wearing an apron that saysI kiss better than I cook. “What a sweet surprise. Come on in, honey. I was just throwing together some lemon bars to take down to the Hospice House.”
No surprise there. Grandma Maddie has been taking treats to the Hospice House in Sommerton ever since Grandpa Charlie spent his final days in that facility over ten years ago.
I let the screen slam shut behind me, knowing Grandma doesn’t care. “Is anyone you know in there this week?”
“Mm-hmm. Rachel Donovan. Cancer. So sad. And her daughter just got married last year. I did the hair for the bridal party.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
“You want to throw those crusts in the oven, hon? I’m going to whip the filling together while it’s baking. Ouch!” Grandma Maddie swats her leg. “Darn flies have been biting me all afternoon. You know what that means. There’s a storm on its way.”
I glance out the window as I pick up two pans of pressed graham cracker crumbs. Itisgetting a little cloudy. Mom says it’s just an old wives’ tale, but Grandma is almost always right about biting flies and rain.
I slide the pans into the preheated oven. “How long?”
“Oh, ten minutes. Fifteen maybe. I usually just watch them.”
I set the timer for ten. Grandma has been known to forget about things in the oven once she starts chatting.
“How are the college plans coming along? Is your dad still pushing for the U of I?”
“Go Hawks,” I say, with very little enthusiasm. “Since both Ryan and Gretchen went there, I think he just assumes I will. Mom’s pushing pretty hard for it, too.”
“Well, that’s their alma mater or whatever you call it, so of course they favor it.” She shrugs. “It’s a good school. And it keeps you close to family, what with Ryan and Danielle and Gretchen up there.”
“I know.”
“There’s a ‘but’ in there, isn’t there?” Grandma pulls a small juicer from a bottom cupboard and plugs it in. “Go grab me a couple of lemons out of the fridge, would ya, hon?”
