Page 9 of Badd Daddy

“There shouldn’tbeprereqs, Mom! I know exactly what I want to do. I don’t need history or math or chemistry to be an artist.”

“Then why are you there?”

She huffed. “That’s what I’m starting to wonder. Mom, I had this whole vision of getting an art history degree and doing all this amazing art, and living in New York, and becoming this amazing artist with a degree but, in reality, it just sucks. I just want to be in the studio all the time, and the homework sucks, the tests are stupid, the professors are arrogant snobs, my classmates are pretentious as fu—as heck, and I’m learning nothing worthwhile. I mean, I knew all the possible interpretations ofStarry Nightand all about the other paintings of his life by the time I was in eighth grade, and they’re sitting here trying to tell me to write an essay about how Van Gogh’s burgeoning madness informed the visual style of his most recognizable masterpiece. I mean, duh. That’s elementary school bullshit, not undergrad art history material.”

“Poppy—”

“And then when Idoget into the studio, I have a pathetic wannabe who couldn’t make it as an artist as my professor trying to tell me I need to find my voice. Like, shut the fuck up, old man! Ihavefound my voice! If you would get out of my personal space and let me paint, I’d be able to find my voice a hell of a lot faster, because I wouldn’t be dealing withyou!”

“Poppy!” I shouted.

She huffed again. “What.” Her voice is flat, bored.

“Did you call to rant at me, or do you want my input?” I asked.

“Honestly, I called you because I needed to vent.”

“Well you’re getting my input anyway.” I glanced at the notepad on my clipboard, on which was doodled a cartoonish image of a bear. Can’t imagine why I would be doodling bears all of a sudden. “You need to decide what you really want. You know I’m not in favor of spending four years and a hundred thousand dollars to get a degree just to have a degree. If you’re pursuing a degree that will get you a job you couldn’t otherwise get, then by all means, stay at Columbia. But, if you’re pursuing a degree which you’re increasingly doubting the value of, then I would spend some time seriously reconsidering your priorities. If your one real, true goal in life is to be a working artist, then you’re wasting my money, your own money, your father’s life insurance policy money, the government’s money, and worst of all, your time. Which is the most precious commodity you’ll ever have. Life is too short to waste it chasing a degree you don’t want and won’t ever use.”

She eyed me through the screens. “You’re telling me you think I should drop out.”

I shook my head. “No. I’m telling you that you need to be certain of what you’re chasing. A university degree is a great thing, when it has value to you. But it’s a long hard road and you have to really want it, especially at the level you’re in—Columbia is Ivy League, honey. The big time. It is not easy. So don’t drop out just because it’s hard and you don’t love every second of it. But if you feel like all you really want to do, what will really bring you joy and value and meaning is to create art, then you may just be wasting your time. Only you can determine that for yourself, Poppy.”

Poppy took another sip of her drink. “Mom, I just…I don’t know. I need to think, I guess.”

“Yes, you do.” I frowned. “Does that have sugar in it?”

“Don’t start,” she warned.

“Poppy, you know how I feel about you consuming sugar.”

“It’s iced coffee, Mom. Chill.”

“Iced coffee…with three pumps of mocha and whipped cream?”

She huffed yet again, this time with supreme annoyance. “No, Mom. Just coffee and half and half and ice. That’s it. I promise.”

“Fine. But if you’re lying to me, I’ll know.”

“You’re thirty-four hundred miles away, Mom. How are you going to know if I’m lying?”

“Mom powers.” I squinted and frowned, touching my fingertips to my temples. “For example, I happen to know you spent a weekend in the Hamptons last month when you told me you were staying at the dorms studying for a test.”

She groaned in irritation. “Fucking Cassandra. I swear I’m going to send her a glitter bomb. She’s the most untrustworthy person I’ve ever met in my life.”

I laughed. “Untrustworthy to you, maybe.”

“Yeah! She’s a snitch!”

“If you don’t want her to snitch on you, don’t do things she feels the need to snitch on you for.”

“Or just don’t tell her shit,” Poppy muttered. “Never telling her anything again.”

“And what is a glitter bomb?” I asked.

She cackled. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Sounds messy is what it sounds like.”