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“Lenore, this has got to stop,” Dad says, his voice stern. “The bouncing around. The indecision. Now that you’re starting college, we need you to find some... focus.”

“Wait, I’m confused,” I say, searching their expressions forsome sign that this is a joke. Why are they talking to me like this is some sort of intervention? Like I’m some kid on the Dr. Phil show desperately trying to spout out some catchphrase that’ll get me a Sprite sponsorship or whatever. I had a 4.2! I’m not some meme-worthy mess!

“I think you know what we’re taking about,” Mom says, her brown eyes locking with mine. “You’ve never been able to settle on something for too long, and we... welovethat about you! We love that you’re talented at so many things. But we thought once you began your studies, that you could pick one path for yourself. It’s hard to become an expert at anything when you move on so quickly.”

She’s right that I’ve been this way for most of my life. Just like Grandma Lenore mentioned yesterday—photography to watercolor to collages to whatever medium caught my attention next. I’ve always loved to explore and try new things. But I thought that was a good thing. Teachers at Chrysalis and all the way back to elementary school praised my ingenuity and creativity. College apps look for that, even—your hands in many pots, all the different ways you’re a leader.

When did that change? You graduate and thenbam, there’s a shift, and a laser beam of attention ononly one thingis all of a sudden the standard?

“You need to get serious. Life isn’t fun and games anymore,” Dad says. “Look at your brother. He hunkered down at UCLA and did what he needed to do. No messing around and trying to figure things out. He had focus.”

The mention of Wally makes my whole body tense. They’re always doing that, comparing the three of us, when we’re nothing alike. And let’s face it, next to them, I’ll never measure up.

“That’s not fair,” I say, my voice sounding more whiny than I would like. “Wally is just doing what you did. That’s the easy path.”

Dad leans forward, elbows on knees, and points at me. “Now listen, nothing about Wally’s path has been easy. Student government, internships every summer, a 173 on his LSAT. Your brother has worked for everything that he has. Hard work, sacrifice, andfocus.”

“Yeah, we all know how perfect Wally is. You don’t have to remind me.” I know I’m not helping my case with all the snark, but I can’t help it. “You know what I mean, though. What Wally does, it’s not creative. It’s different for me. With art, I don’t have to know right away what exactly I’m going to do.”

This makes Dad stand up and start pacing, and Mom exhales all loudly again.

“Lenore, we’ve supported you wanting to be an artist,” Dad says, and I hate how he says “artist,” like it’s “astronaut” or “zookeeper” or something. You know, like one of those precious but totally unrealistic future careers that kindergartners proudly claim.

But also, I can’t be too mad because it’s true. They have supported me 100 percent. They’ve paid for every day camp and after-school art class. Mom took me to Michaels every Saturday growing up and wouldn’t say one word about buying theexpensive acrylics. And my dad is the one who first heard about Chrysalis and said what a good opportunity it would be.

“We just think it’s time to pick, Lenore. Narrow it down to what you’re truly passionate about,” Mom says. “I always thought it would be fashion, you know.” She gestures to my outfit, a tiered lavender dress with bright red polka dots and a vintage (i.e., “borrowed” from Grandma Lenore) silk scarf tied around my neck. “And if that’s what you want to do, we would be okay with that.”

Dad stops pacing and gives her a look, but she shuts him down with her own.

“We would be okay with that,” she repeats. “But you better work your butt off and be the best damn fashion designer there is out there.”

I’ve taken a handful of design classes at Chrysalis, which got me unlimited access to the fabric closet so I could make whatever wild outfits popped into my head. Babydoll tops out of thrifted pillowcases. Floral-print wrap skirts. A baby-blue tulle ball gown that I still haven’t found an occasion to wear yet. Making something beautiful from a sum of parts. I love it. But do I want to do that for the rest of my life? I don’t know. How can I know?

I guess they can see that indecision written all over my face, because Mom’s face shifts into a frown and Dad sits down on the ottoman, eye to eye with me.

“What I need you to understand, Lenore, is that we don’t have the privilege to figure things out. To float around andsee where things take us.” His voice is low and steady. It hits me right in the chest. “It’s not a fair race for us. We have to be better or we’re behind, and part of that is being prepared and having a plan.”

I don’t need him to tell me who “we” is. Not just “we” as in our family, but the collective “we.” All of a sudden, the severity of this hits me, and I feel ashamed for being surprised, for joking. Of course what they’re saying makes sense. Of course they’re worried.

“Black people don’t get second chances in life,” Mom says, sitting close to me and holding my hands in hers. “You know this, Lenore. And it’s not right, and it shouldn’t still be like that. But it’s reality. So we gotta be ready on the first one. College is your first one, and we just don’t want to see you waste it.”

“You are too bright to waste it,” Dad adds, putting his smooth palm to my cheek.

I can feel tears coming on, so I look past them out the window. The June Gloom is in full force; gray skies and dark clouds make it look like it’s going to rain. It matches how I feel.

My parents have excelled so far beyond the barriers their own parents faced. None of my grandparents were able to go college, and my grandpa Wallace, who Wally is named after, had to leave school after eighth grade to work on his family’s farm. But it was because of my grandparents’ sacrifices that this was possible, like Grandpa John working double shifts as a janitor to save for Mom’s college tuition or Dad’s parents driving him two towns over to go to the best public high school. Myparents, in turn, have sacrificed so much for Wally, Etta, and me. They have given us all their time and money so we could have the best futures possible, and because of that, they deserve excellence from us. We owe that to them. To be better than even they are.

But am I following through with my end of the deal? I got into a great college, yeah, but my plan is just to, what... wing it? Imagine if my parents had winged it. Where would our family be?

“I’m sorry,” I say, and my mom’s eyes soften.

“You don’t need to be sorry, Lenore,” she says. “We want what’s best for you because we love you. We want you to know where you’re going, so you don’t miss this opportunity that’s ahead of you.”

“You need to be sure,” Dad says.

“I will.”

Dad looks me right in the eye, and it’s hard not to look away. I feel like his sharp eyes are cutting right through me.