I DROVE home that weekend. I spent half the trip thinking about where “home” really was. Was home my parents’ house? Was it my dorm room? Neither felt quite right. The house I grew up in didn’t feel like the refuge it had been when I’d been young. I’d always thought they’d been supportive, but the more time I spent away, the more I realized how they’d manipulated me. Maybe it wasn’t conscious, but I’d been pushed and prodded into a box I didn’t fit inside.
Maybe manipulated was too strong a word. They meant well. I was certain they were doing what they thought was best. But somewhere what I really wanted had gotten lost. I’d gone along with the program, because why wouldn’t I want to become a concert violinist?
I felt frustrated. My mother hadn’t heard anything I’d said in months, but I needed her to hear me now. Because I wasn’t going to Europe. And if that meant I’d never get another opportunity to play with a professional orchestra, I was okay with that. There were regional and community orchestras. Playing with them would be less stressful. I could teach lessons to pay my way through grad school, maybe. Get a teaching degree, conduct a high school orchestra. That sounded pretty great. I’d come home to Peter and our dogs. I’d tell Peter I loved him every damn day.
Peter, who was back in our building at WMU. Of course, the dorm wasn’t home either. It was a room we lived in temporarily. I’d have to move out at the end of the spring semester. And then what? Maybe Peter and I could get a place off campus. Were we ready for that? Was I jumping the gun? Did he even want to live in a house up in the mountains with me? What were his dreams, besides art school? Was I pushing this ahead too fast?
I pulled into the driveway at my parents’ house and banged my head against the steering wheel. It didn’t make me feel better, and now I had a headache.
I’d asked my parents to both be home, and they were in the living room watching TV—an opera on PBS, of fucking course—when I walked in the front door.
“Hi, sweetheart,” my mother said.
They weren’t bad parents. I knew they loved me. I’d never wanted for anything. While not wildly wealthy, we lived comfortably, and we always had good meals on the table and plenty of clothing to combat the finicky Massachusetts weather. They’d bought me three violins, and years’ worth of lessons, and clothes for performances. And I’d enjoyed all of those things because I genuinely loved playing the violin. But no one had ever stopped to ask me what I wanted to do with my life, and it wasn’t until I’d gotten away from home that I’d realized the life that had been laid out for me wasn’t what I wanted.
I imagined that was true for Peter as well. How many years had gone by in which he just assumed his future would involve sitting beside his father during tax season doing… whatever accountants did? On the other hand, Peter’s love of musical theater and the arts went back further than my nascent desire to have a more humble life, so maybe he’d been plotting his escape for a while. But I had to focus on what I planned to say now, so I pushed that aside.
My father flipped off the television. The scene reminded me of when I’d come out to them. Knowing they loved me had made that relatively easy. My stomach had churned then as it did now, but I’d had faith that I’d be all right in the end. My parents loved me, they’d never throw me out or cause me harm. I just hated to disappoint them. I’d done it once when I’d told them I was gay. Well, maybe not disappointed them, but changed their vision of me and how I’d live my life.
That’s all this was now, I told myself. I was… changing their perception of me.
“Do you want something to eat?” Dad asked.
“No, I’m okay. I ate before I left school. I just really need to talk to you about something.”
“Of course,” said Mom.
I sat in the big armchair. I’d napped in this chair hundreds of times as a kid, here in this very living room, in a space that had always felt warm and friendly. I was lucky, really. My parents loved each other still. They loved me. They’d given me a good home.
I took a deep breath.
“Let me just say all this before you say anything,” I said.
Mom and Dad exchanged a look. Dad nodded.
“Okay. So, I love the violin. I do. But my life to this point has been about 95 percent violin. Because, the thing is, I’m not a prodigy.”
They both started to protest. I held up my hands. They quieted.
“I’m not a prodigy. I’m very good because I work hard at it, but I don’t have the natural talent some other musicians have. And I’m okay with that. I’m not always sure you are.”
“Darling,” my mother said.
“Just listen, okay? Because I’m not a prodigy, in order to be good, I have to practice all the time. And what that has ended up meaning is that I don’t have a life outside of my violin. Did you know that? Until this semester, I only had a couple of friends, and they were almost all in the orchestra. I went to a couple of parties freshman year, but you guys said that kind of thing was a distraction, so I stopped. My only extracurricular activity was playing violin in other ensembles. Do you know how lonely that gets? All around me, all these other kids were having fun, living their lives, meeting the people they’re going to end up with. Kids at WMU go to parties and play sports and spend their Friday nights out at bars or the movies. I never do any of those things.”
My mother reached for me, but I held up my hand again.
“I don’t… I don’t think it’s worth it.” Tears sprung to my eyes. “I’m tired, you know that? I’m so tired. I’ve worked so hard to get this spot in an orchestra, but for what? To sacrifice the entire rest of my life? I don’t even think it’s what I want anymore. Every time I think about Europe, I feel like I have to vomit. I’d like to visit Europe someday, but right now? I want to finish my bachelor’s degree. Then I want to go to grad school for education. I want to get a teaching job. I want to teach kids how to play the violin and play in a community orchestra and have a full, rich life. I want to have friends and get married and be home enough to take care of a dog.” By the time I finished talking, I was basically crying.
My parents exchanged looks again. My mother asked, “Is this about Pe—”
“It’s not about Peter!” I took a deep breath to calm down, realizing I had yelled. “I’ve been feeling this way since before I even met him. But being with him this semester has just highlighted for me how much my life was passing me by while I was in rehearsal. Will I end up with Peter? I have no idea. But I deserve the chance to find out. I don’t want to be forty and have nothing to show for it besides a chair in an orchestra.”
“What are you telling us, son?” asked Dad.
I wiped my eyes and tried to get my emotions back under control. “I’ve decided not to accept the offer to tour Europe. I haven’t told Professor Costner and Mr. Lundberg yet, but I will on Monday. I want to stay at WMU and finish my degree. And then we’ll see, okay?”
My mother leaned forward. “I had no idea you felt this way.”
“That’s because you haven’t listened to me. I’ve been trying to tell you all semester.”
My mother let out a breath. She must have been going back over everything I said to her. She nodded slowly. “I guess you have. Oh, sweetheart. We just want you to be happy. You know that.”
“I don’t think playing with an orchestra in Europe would make me happy.”
“Then don’t take it. I’m sure Professor Costner would be thrilled to work with you for another year.”
“Yeah. I’ll have to talk to him too. I don’t want extra rehearsals next year. I don’t care if playing in an ensemble undermines his teaching or whatever. I want to play with the Theater Club pit orchestra again.”
“Okay,” said my father. “It’s your decision. But!” He held up his hand. “If you stay at school, you have to keep your grades up. I’m not paying for you to party all the time.”
“I will. I’ve made Dean’s List every semester that I’ve been in school. I won’t change that. Okay? I’ll work hard, but I want to have fun too. Before I have to join the real world. You know?”
My father smiled, which surprised me. He reached over and patted my knee. “I remember what it was like to be your age. I understand.”
And apparently we were done talking, because next thing I knew, my mother had wrapped her arms around me and was holding me tight. She stroked my hair.
“We love you, Logan. You know that. If I’d had any idea you were this unhappy, I wouldn’t have put so much pressure on you. I just wanted you to succeed. I thought the orchestra was what you wanted.”
“I did too for a long time. But it’s not,” I said, and then I really began to cry, mostly out of relief. Everything would be okay, I realized.
Mom helped me up. I wiped my eyes as I stood. My dad hugged me too. Then he said, “Are you sure we can’t take you to dinner before we send you back to school? You can tell us more about this fellow of yours. Peter. He sounds like a special guy.”
“He is, Dad. And, yeah. I can stay for dinner.”