Read Online Everything You Want by Barbara Shoup - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Shoup
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supposed to do because of the money,” she goes on. “Like, maybe, quit teaching and just paint. See how good I could be.”
“You should do what you want to do,” Dad says. “Whatever that is. The money’s not a sign or an omen. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just—luck. We were lucky. That’s all. If the money means anything, it just means we never have to think about money again.”
“Mac,” Mom says. “Money is all we think about now. We’ll always have to think about it. It’s going to change us, it already has.”
Her voice sounds harsh, like a warning, and I don’t stick around to hear where the conversation will go from there. I don’t want to know. I just slink back to bed and lie there, still sleepless, washed in moonlight, the happiness I’d felt for the last twenty-four hours collapsing all around me.
Eight
I sleep till eleven the next morning, then curl up on the couch in Mom’s studio trying to read, but she ranges around, moving this, dusting that, glancing now and then at the unfinished painting set on her easel, as if hoping it might somehow surprise her. Finally, she sinks into the easy chair and stares at me until I look up from my book.
“I’ve had two epiphanies about the money,” she says. “Well, so far.”
“Number one?” I ask.
“The cosmos remains the same,” she says, grimly. “You can have all the money in the world, and you still have to do things like go to the grocery store. Or at least think about food. You still have to exercise, if you don’t want to get fat. That sort of thing.”
“Okay,” I say. “And number two?”
“All those people who win the lottery and say they’re just going to keep on doing what they’ve always done? If anybody ever bothered to track them down and see what came of it, I’d bet what they’d find out is that people who have to work, which is virtually everyone, are never going to forget that you don’t. Even if they’re your friends, they can’t help resenting you, at least a little. Honest to God, Emma, every time I walked into the teachers’ lounge those few days before your dad and I left for St. Maarten, conversation just stopped .”
“They were talking about you?”
“Yes,” she says. “They were. And I’ll tell you something else. I’m pretty sure that what they were talking about is how pissed off they are, because I’m making them look bad. Choosing to stay when I don’t have to—well, it’s as good as saying all the petty rules, all the stupid, asshole things administrators do to make your life miserable don’t really matter. The work itself should be enough.”
“Well, isn’t it?” I ask. “I mean, for you?”
She sniffs, blinking back tears. “I don’t think it can be anymore. That’s the worst part. Because the work isn’t the same. My students were so thrilled by what happened to me, it was all they wanted to talk about. What was I going to do with the money, they wanted to know—and expected me to tell them something wonderful and romantic. They wanted it to be like TV.”
“The girls in my dorm are like that,” I say.
But she’s up, pacing, again; I guess she doesn’t hear me.
“It’s so boring ,” she rattles on. “Thinking about money all the time. And it’s not going to change. How could it, when I’d always be taking time off to go…wherever? I’m going to quit,” she says, abruptly. “Really, I have no choice. The truth is, I don’t want to teach every day. I can’t. Your dad and I—” She waves her hand vaguely, to indicate … plans .
Okay, here’s the moment I could tell her that I’m kind of a mess myself. Scared, like she is. Struggling to figure out who I am . But Jules comes bouncing in to remind me it’s time to take her to the airport. There’s an audition Monday morning and she absolutely has to get back to New York so she can work with her vocal coach to prepare for the singing part of it.
“Do you think Mom’s acting weird?” I
“You should do what you want to do,” Dad says. “Whatever that is. The money’s not a sign or an omen. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just—luck. We were lucky. That’s all. If the money means anything, it just means we never have to think about money again.”
“Mac,” Mom says. “Money is all we think about now. We’ll always have to think about it. It’s going to change us, it already has.”
Her voice sounds harsh, like a warning, and I don’t stick around to hear where the conversation will go from there. I don’t want to know. I just slink back to bed and lie there, still sleepless, washed in moonlight, the happiness I’d felt for the last twenty-four hours collapsing all around me.
Eight
I sleep till eleven the next morning, then curl up on the couch in Mom’s studio trying to read, but she ranges around, moving this, dusting that, glancing now and then at the unfinished painting set on her easel, as if hoping it might somehow surprise her. Finally, she sinks into the easy chair and stares at me until I look up from my book.
“I’ve had two epiphanies about the money,” she says. “Well, so far.”
“Number one?” I ask.
“The cosmos remains the same,” she says, grimly. “You can have all the money in the world, and you still have to do things like go to the grocery store. Or at least think about food. You still have to exercise, if you don’t want to get fat. That sort of thing.”
“Okay,” I say. “And number two?”
“All those people who win the lottery and say they’re just going to keep on doing what they’ve always done? If anybody ever bothered to track them down and see what came of it, I’d bet what they’d find out is that people who have to work, which is virtually everyone, are never going to forget that you don’t. Even if they’re your friends, they can’t help resenting you, at least a little. Honest to God, Emma, every time I walked into the teachers’ lounge those few days before your dad and I left for St. Maarten, conversation just stopped .”
“They were talking about you?”
“Yes,” she says. “They were. And I’ll tell you something else. I’m pretty sure that what they were talking about is how pissed off they are, because I’m making them look bad. Choosing to stay when I don’t have to—well, it’s as good as saying all the petty rules, all the stupid, asshole things administrators do to make your life miserable don’t really matter. The work itself should be enough.”
“Well, isn’t it?” I ask. “I mean, for you?”
She sniffs, blinking back tears. “I don’t think it can be anymore. That’s the worst part. Because the work isn’t the same. My students were so thrilled by what happened to me, it was all they wanted to talk about. What was I going to do with the money, they wanted to know—and expected me to tell them something wonderful and romantic. They wanted it to be like TV.”
“The girls in my dorm are like that,” I say.
But she’s up, pacing, again; I guess she doesn’t hear me.
“It’s so boring ,” she rattles on. “Thinking about money all the time. And it’s not going to change. How could it, when I’d always be taking time off to go…wherever? I’m going to quit,” she says, abruptly. “Really, I have no choice. The truth is, I don’t want to teach every day. I can’t. Your dad and I—” She waves her hand vaguely, to indicate … plans .
Okay, here’s the moment I could tell her that I’m kind of a mess myself. Scared, like she is. Struggling to figure out who I am . But Jules comes bouncing in to remind me it’s time to take her to the airport. There’s an audition Monday morning and she absolutely has to get back to New York so she can work with her vocal coach to prepare for the singing part of it.
“Do you think Mom’s acting weird?” I
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