Page 28 of The Boy Next Door

Hunter’s right. Maybe it’s time to take more chances. Being with Hunter might be the boldest thing I’ve ever done and it’s paying off.

I take another risk and use only shades of red on my water lily art project. I’m fairly sure Mrs. French will enjoy my project since she pushed for me to take the bolder approach.

But things change.

"C minus?" I echo the letter on the grading sheet.

"Letter grades are so insufficient." Mrs. French glares at the red letter on the page. "But the school offers no other alternatives, despite my pleas."

Okay, deep breath. Don't lose hope yet. "If I ace finals and—"

"Sam, it's not about grades."

Deep breath, don't scream. "All I wanna know is what the best grade I can hope for is now and how to avoid failing.”

She smiles gently. "Failure is quitting halfway through."

A nice sentiment, but whatever grade I earn this semester will probably be the lowest I've ever received on a report card.

We view all the polymer paintings together. The colors are rolling waves that don't end or begin so much as ebb and flow. Which means grading on technique isn't as important. This project showcases my weaker areas, so a C minus for my efforts isn’t terrible. But it doesn't feel like progress.

Yes, I utilized an abundance of red shades instead of adding pink or white. Doesn't the singular color represent what a heart feels, an overwhelming passion that paints the world in roses and his smile?

"Didn't you like my idea?" I ask.

"I thought I would. Only shades of red proved too much." She glances down at her top, one red pattern layered on another. “Should I return this blouse?”

I ignore her clothing woes. "You’re the one who encouraged me."

"Yes, I wasn't opposed to this possibility, though the reality just isn't successful." She turns from my work to me. "The real problem is that you started trusting my instincts when you should have trusted your own."

And here I thought I’d been bold. "You're the superior artist," I argue.

"Regardless, I can't make an original Sam Bell creation. Only you can." She raises her hands and waves them in the air, shaking off this conversation. "It's a shame you became scared halfway through, but this is good news!"

"Yeah... I'm thrilled."

"It's in you," she insists. "The talent and the passion. You were close! When you finally bring it out, what a masterpiece you'll create."

'When' I bring it out? If I haven't yet, who's to say I ever will? And what if my best still doesn't measure up? Who wants to reveal their soul and hear all the reasons it isn't enough?

Not all risks pay off. And when I’ve crashed and burned on my latest art project, I just feel more foolish than I did before.

~

With Dad at some work event, Mom orders pizza for us.

We eat at the kitchen table, and she looks the picture of relaxation in jeans with her hair down, but I'm not fooled.

Subtlety isn't Mom’s strong suit. I should avoid her for the night.

.. except pizza. Hawaiian pizza, which she rarely lets us order.

"My first year of college," she says while poking a piece of pineapple with a finger. "I thought I'd be an architect."

"People change their minds?" I guess her point.

"It's been known to happen. Are there any other subjects you're interested in?"

"Mom."

"Yes, it's not a purely selfless question. Enlighten me anyway. Beyond art and accounting, have you considered other careers?"

"You really wanna know?" I wonder instead of mentioning I've never considered accounting.

"The reason I scoff at mediators so much is because they're competition. Yet there's value in making both sides happy. Let's see if we have middle ground."

While wary, normally she tells me about my future. I like being asked.

"Well, I think telling stories is interesting. Maybe journalism?" Since my electives are already filled with art classes, I never took any newspaper courses in high school.

"Anything less creative?" she wonders immediately. Not exactly surprising. 'Creative' usually doesn't equal 'well-paying.'

"Uh... Detective seems like an interesting job."

"No!" she shouts, pizza slice falling to her plate as she stares at me in horror.

Right. Artist, journalist, detective, they aren't what my parents prefer.

"Mom, I'm allowed to want more than—"

"Of course." She pushes her plate to the side, eyeing me calmly, but there's something about her stare that bothers me. "But do you really think you're capable of achieving more?"

"What?"

"You think I don't wish for a son who's a doctor or lawyer? If only." She laughs. "Let's be realistic. You can't handle the pressure."

"Mom—"

"And artists? Sam, artists believe in themselves when no one else does.

They suffer for their work. You think you can juggle two or three jobs on top of your art while living with four other people in a two-bedroom rathole?

" She shakes her head, voice softening somewhat.

"Not everyone is a lion tamer or a singer or a hero.

Some people play it safe, there's nothing wrong with that.

Life takes all kinds. But you have to know which kind you are. "

Appetite gone, I stare down at the table before finding my voice. "Um, did you ever talk to Dad about this?"

"Oh honey, he agrees with me. He loves you enough not to tell you the brutal truth. And I love you enough to break the news." She reaches across the table to pat my hand. "I know it hurts, but this will be easier when you admit that these dreams of yours? That's all they are. Dreams."

Look, I wanna argue. I wanna say she's wrong. I don't wanna fall on the kitchen floor crushed, so I stumble to my room before falling on the floor there. I fall so hard it hurts my knees, and I wanna crawl to bed but I can't.

Let's be real. Yes, my mother is scary. Yes, she's good at convincing people. But she's still my mom. The only one I've ever had. Her methods? Not new. So if I can't even stand up to her, what hope do I have of standing on my own two feet?

I tell myself I'm strong. I wanna be strong.

Part of me is afraid. What if Mom is right? Maybe some people aren’t meant for risks after all.