I nod at Dad, who pops another blueberry in his mouth. “Trying to talk about how my favorite architects have influenced my style. It’s just so general. I don’t want to highlight too few, because then I feel like they’ll think I don’t know enough. But I don’t want to highlight too many and look like a try-hard.”
Dad looks over what I’ve written thus far, and I see him chewing over a thought in his head. I work to emulate the man; he can internalize things so well and only say exactly what he means or thinks. I’m prone to fly off the handle or over-explain. I’ve always admired that Dad never seems to waste words, and the ones he does speak mean so much.
“Highlight one architect. Just one, your favorite. Go into depths on their projects, the design they use, their process. These professors and advisors want to see the kind of student their program will be able to mold. If you make it known just how passionate you are on one style, what you might bring to the world of architecture, I know I’d personally value that much more than lumping together a bunch of big names in the industry and muddling together what you like about multiple styles.”
I weigh that in my head, and also sour at the idea. “But I already wrote so much of this.”
And honestly, it’s been difficult for exactly the reasons Dad has just said. There are too many architects I’ve written about, even though I’ve whittled the list down. The paragraphs seem rushed, and I am trying to cram every bit of information I know into the essay to try to impress them. Every other student applying is probably trying to do the same thing. Dad’s suggestion would set me apart and show my real knowledge in the field.
Dad gives me a wry smile. “If you want to gamble with your future by submitting subpar work, then be my guest. But I know I didn’t raise my son that way. It will take some extra effort, but by erasing these words and writing better ones, I think you’ll have the best shot possible of getting into the program.”
As annoying as it is, I know he’s right. With one last sad, fleeting look at my document, I highlight every single word and erase them.
“I think we’re going to need more blueberries,” I joke, settling my hands on the keyboard to start all over again.
Inside, I know it’s the right decision. Instead of feeling exhausted and drained from having to start the essay from scratch, there is an excitement in my chest. Because I know I’m doing this the way it should have been done from the beginning.
Mom walks in as I finish up my intro paragraph, and she’s carrying a massive turkey.
“Tom, help me?” She struggles to say, and Dad swiftly gets up after setting his cell phone down at the sound of her voice.
“Jeez, Mallory, are we feeding a small country?” Dad asks as he heaves the frozen bird up onto the kitchen counter.
Mom is busy bringing in bag after bag of groceries, of what I’m guessing are all the fixings of our Thanksgiving meal happening in a week.
“Todd and Blair are coming for Thanksgiving this year, since his mother moved to the senior community in Florida. They’re going to be eating dinner with us, and I know how much you men like to eat. Also, I expect you to be on your best behavior.” My mom wags a finger at me.
That woman might be a sweetheart, but I do not want to be on her bad side. My mom is as fair and loving as they come; the scales of justice with a gooey center.
But I’m her son, and it’s only natural I push her buttons. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mom shoots me a look as if to say, don’t play with me, boy. “You know darn well what that means. I’m not blind, I see how you’ve treated that sweet girl the past couple of years. I’m not sure what happened between you two, but Blair is one of the kindest souls, and I won’t have you disrespecting her under my roof. After what she’s had to endure on family holidays, she deserves the most peaceful day. And I didn’t raise a son who would be rude to anyone, much less a girl he used to like very much.”
What was all this talk about raising a son who doesn’t do X, Y and Z? My parents are really lathering on the guilt today.
But I guess it’s working, since a pang of regret hits me right in the gut. I know all too well how much Blair has gone through with her bitch of a mother. I don’t say that about most females, rarely any, even if they annoy the shit out of me or are generally mean. But Blair’s mother? She’s vile. She’s the most selfish person I’ve ever met, when she’s bothered to show up for her kid or husband. It’s been years since she’s truly meant anything to either people in her little family unit, but she still manages to fuck with her daughter’s head. That kind of sickness can’t be cured, and yet I wish she’d just fuck off and leave them both alone. As my mom said, leave them to their peace.
“Fine, I’ll be good.” I almost stick my tongue out at her, but then decide I’ll only look as immature as she’s accusing me of being.
Although, she has no idea just how unkind I’ve been to Blair, especially lately.
In the end, Mr. Fennis was not accepting anything other than the original pairs he put together. Which means Blair is stuck with me, and I am stuck with her. I saw red after she chewed me out in the hallway, stooping so low as to attack my future career choice with our fathers and their firm. She
