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Lola

Fourteen hours, seventeen minutes and forty-seven seconds. That’s how much longer I have to wait before I can pack my car and start the scenic drive back to my comfortable little three-bedroom apartment in Westvale, New York.

Disappointment has been the theme of the summer.

Before the start of the second semester last year, I decided to pursue the career that I’ve always dreamed of.

It took some convincing but once my signature confirmed the change from pre-vet to business entrepreneurship, with plans to go to culinary school after, I felt so much lighter. I felt like myself again.

This last lecture starts off as they all have, with how disappointed my parents are that I didn’t consult them about my decision to change my major. The funny thing is they hated that I wanted to be an “animal doctor,” as they so lovingly refer to it.

You see, my parents are both highly respected doctors. My Mom is an oncologist who works with breast cancer patients, and my dad is a neurosurgeon. They have always pushed me into advanced classes and extracurricular activities, giving me little choice but to follow in their footsteps.

When I told them I was going to major in biology, they couldn’t have been happier. When I told them I wanted to be a veterinarian, they didn’t even try to hide their disappointment. Eventually, they came around, knowing how much my days at the barn meant to me as a kid.

My tattoos and short black hair might not scream “horse girl” but from my first lesson, riding was my solace.

A full-on screaming match exploded the night I told my parents. You would have thought I told them I was going to work for my estranged great-uncle’s organized crime business in New Jersey. His illegal business dealings are one of the reasons why image and careers mean so much to my parents.

So my family breakdown goes like this. My Nonna, my mom’s mom, was one of seven who came to America from Italy during their childhood.

Like most immigrant families, they struggled at times, and money was tight.

My Nonna’s older brothers took sketchy jobs from even sketchier families, and that is how the divide in my family was born– good versus evil– moral high grounds they use to look down on others for.

The kicker is that we all spend holidays together and just pretend that we are one big happy family. I love those days because I don’t feel like the black sheep of the family.

“Lola, are you listening to us?” Mom’s voice is stern and one most people would not want to push back against.

Me… I’m used to it, so I just give it right back to her.

“Yes, Mom. You have made it perfectly clear that if I don’t live my life according to your life model, you’ll take away everything that I care about.”

She lets out a huff and then leaves the room without even throwing me her signature eye roll.

The glowing screen of the phone tucked into my lap shows another five minutes have clocked down.

So close.

My dad sits next to me at the kitchen table. He thinks I should follow the path he laid out for his children, but he carries himself in a way that makes me feel like I can talk to him and he will listen to what I have to say.

“You’re just so smart, honey,” he says before taking a sip of his evening tea. “Are you sure you want to waste that in a kitchen?”

Gripping the bottom of my seat, I inhale deeply before trying to explain to him for what feels like the thousandth time this summer why I want to go into a field where I’ll waste my talent in the kitchen.

“It’s not wasting my talents, Dad. You use yours to heal people physically.

I want to use mine to heal people spiritually.

That’s what a good meal can do. It can bring people together and help people reconnect.

It helps generations stay connected. They might not have anything else in common other than using the recipes that have been passed down from one generation to another,” I pause, making sure he is looking me in the eye before I say this last part one more time before this summer ends.

“I am healing people, just differently than you expected me to.”

My dad gives me a slight nod, but before he can say anything, my brother’s head pops through the door that leads to the garage.

“Hey, Lola, everything is ready to set up the horse trailer. Can you watch to make sure I’m doing it right?”

A strong hand lands on my shoulder. My dad gives it a reassuring squeeze like he gets it but doesn’t give me the permission I crave to keep my major.

It would be nice to feel the support of my parents every once in a while.

I flash him an unsure smile before patting him on the shoulder a couple of times.

For the first two and a half years of my college experience, I was enrolled in a major that I liked but didn’t love. When I saw my roommate and best friend Ivy take the bull by the horns and start living her life, it was too tempting not to do the same.

Ivy’s parents both died when she was eight.

Her sister dropped everything going on in her life to raise her.

Ivy thought she was indebted to her sister and only focused on school and basketball.

Her sister and I called our roommate, Indy, before the start of last school year and set up an intervention for Ivy.

Between that and being forced to supervise her now boyfriend–then mortal enemy–at Westvale’s animal shelter, she learned that you can go out, live and still be successful.

Watching Ivy become truly happy gave me the courage I needed to change my major, even though I knew my parents were going to go nuclear. So far, they haven’t gone through with any of their threats, but I have a feeling that might change when I don’t change my major when I get back to school.

After slipping on my sneakers, I go to my Suburban, which is parked in the driveway. The weather has started to cool, marking the end of summer in Philadelphia.

“You ready for tomorrow?” I ask my brother as I hand him the wrench he needs to start the process of hooking up the trailer.

My parents saw at a young age that I had a love for animals.

I always tried to bring my friends’ pets home, saying that our dog, Mickey, needed a friend.

I was promised if I stopped trying to steal other people’s pets, they would sign me up for horseback riding lessons.

It quickly became a passion of mine, and when I went to college my freshman year, I brought my horse Cookie with me, and she has come back every year since.

“Yeah. I can’t wait to get to Westvale,” he doesn’t look up from the final steps of securing the trailer.

Oliver is about to start his freshman year at Westvale University. He snagged a scholarship because he’s a badass hockey goalie.

I became close with the team last year. It’s kind of hard not to when both of your roommates are dating guys on the team. I almost got roped into that hockey girlfriend life, when I got kind of close to this one guy on the team but things fizzled out when we went home for the summer.

“Have you spoken to Penny since she left?” My older sister is a second-year medical student at Yale.

We have never been super close. She is the perfect daughter, gets perfect grades, dates all the right boys, has never gotten a tattoo.

My sweet angel of a brother has tried to keep the peace between the two of us since he could talk, wanting us to foster a relationship like he has with both of his sisters.

“Yeah, I texted her to make sure she got to school safely. She told me she’d call this week.

” I do love my sister and want to have a better relationship with her.

I think she wants that, too. We call each other, but the conversations are always surface-level.

I’d never tell Penny this because she idolizes our parents, but I blame them for our disconnection.

They always made it feel like we were competing against each other.

We are now stuck in this weird rivalry that isn’t healthy for sisters who were born less than two years apart.

Oliver glances over at me, a smile tugging on his lips, happy his sisters are getting along. He shakes the trailer to ensure that everything is attached correctly.

“We are all set for tomorrow,” he wipes sweat from his forehead. “What time do I have to be up?”

“We have to get Cookie by eight, and then we have a two-hour drive to school. You have to be at your dorm by eleven to get your key and start orientation.”

He nods before heading to the shower. He’s writing the first chapter of his college experience as I’m getting ready to write my last.

By eight the following morning, I have worked out, showered, packed the last of my toiletries and made myself and Oliver coffee to go. I take great pride in perfecting the art of spending the least amount of time at home as possible.

The silence of the morning is interrupted by bare feet slapping against the hardwood. The steps even out, becoming soft as they make their way to the kitchen.

“Honey, please just promise me no more of these silly little tattoos while you are gone. They make you look so hard, and you have such a pretty face,” my Mom says in a tone that oozes disdain. She rubs her hand down my right arm like she has the power to erase the ink with a simple touch.

Placing the sponge in the sink I’m free to roll my eyes out of view from the most judgmental person I know.

With our heart-shaped faces and dark green eyes, my mom and I could be mistaken as twins, but the little pictures scattered over my skin—predominantly my right arm—show how different we truly are.

“I’ll see what I can do Mom.” We both know that there is a high probability I’ll come home for Thanksgiving with a new tattoo or two.

My relationship with my parents wasn’t always like this. I can’t pinpoint when, but at some point, the opinions of their strong-willed second daughter diverged from theirs.

Our relationship has been downward spiraling since.