was, in fact, delicious.
Mom frowned. “I guess you were taking pictures out there again. Doesn’t that get boring?”
“No.”
“It’s the same everywhere you look.”
“No, it’s not, Mom.”
“
Pictures
,” she said scornfully as she whacked up the large, knotty carrots. “That’s all you ever think about.”
It was an old argument and I didn’t take the bait. “Why did you want to talk to me?” I asked. Might as well get it over with.
Mom pointed her knife at me. “This college idea of yours. Your father and I have been talking. You have to start being more realistic about your future.”
Oh damn, it was
that
talk. I clenched my jaw.
“College is one thing,” she continued. “If you wanted to go to Cape Cod Community like Michael, get an apartment in Hyannis with some other girls for a few years, that would be okay. You’re smart—you could get a business degree or a teaching certificate. You could get a loan—we’d figure it out. But art school? It’s a silly idea for people like us, Jackie.”
Us? I wanted to scream. “And what kind of people are we, Mom?”
“Simple people,” she said immediately. “We don’t have grand ideas like the kind Elsie McGavrock puts into your head. Going off to Boston or New York or someplace like that. Do you know how much it costs to go to a fancy art school, Jackie? To live in a city? A lot more than you can make working at the Blue Moon in the summer, I’ll tell you that. And we don’t have the money to help you pay for it.”
I stared at the tabletop, rolling stray breadcrumbs together into a pasty ball. “I know. There are scholarships,” I said, but so quietly I could hardly hear myself. The whole question of college was so big it overwhelmed me. Getting into the school. Getting the money to go. And then actually packing up and moving there. I hated to admit it, but that was what scared me most: leaving Provincetown, the place I knew so well the streets and alleys were practically extensions of my own body. I didn’t just live in this town—it lived in me.
“Even if we did have the money,” Mom said, “it’s like throwing it away! Art school? What good is being an artist? Who makes a living at that?”
“Some people do.” But I knew I didn’t have a solid argument against her worries. I debated the issue with myself all the time. Even if I worked while I was in college, I’d be lucky to cover the cost of housing and food. I couldn’t possibly earn enough to pay tuition. And even if I got a scholarship, what would happen afterward? How
would
I make a living? I knew being an artist wasn’t a practical decision, but if everyone was practical there wouldn’t
be
any artists. Maybe if I’d never seen those books of Picasso and Matisse, never held a charcoal pencil, never looked through a camera lens, I could be happy working in a real-estate office or teaching elementary school. But now I knew what I’d be missing. Without the chance to make art, to learn and get better at it, my life would feel so small.
“Who makes a living at it?” Mom wanted to know. “Finn’s parents? Sure, they’ve got money, but it’s just because his father won that big prize. Most people who write books or paint pictures don’t live in a big house like they do. Most of them are lucky to have some little room over a garage. They wait tables until they’re too old to stand up straight. Is that the life you want? I hope not.”
She took a package of thawed codfish chunks from the refrigerator and located her fish knife. “It’s like you’ve been bewitched by that Rosenberg family,” she said. “Those people think they’re Provincetown royalty or something.”
“No, they don’t. Elsie’s invited you over lots of times, and you always come up with some excuse not to go. You’re the snob.”
But she wasn’t listening to me. She was whacking up the fish with such force I was a little afraid she was going to slice off a finger and throw it
Mom frowned. “I guess you were taking pictures out there again. Doesn’t that get boring?”
“No.”
“It’s the same everywhere you look.”
“No, it’s not, Mom.”
“
Pictures
,” she said scornfully as she whacked up the large, knotty carrots. “That’s all you ever think about.”
It was an old argument and I didn’t take the bait. “Why did you want to talk to me?” I asked. Might as well get it over with.
Mom pointed her knife at me. “This college idea of yours. Your father and I have been talking. You have to start being more realistic about your future.”
Oh damn, it was
that
talk. I clenched my jaw.
“College is one thing,” she continued. “If you wanted to go to Cape Cod Community like Michael, get an apartment in Hyannis with some other girls for a few years, that would be okay. You’re smart—you could get a business degree or a teaching certificate. You could get a loan—we’d figure it out. But art school? It’s a silly idea for people like us, Jackie.”
Us? I wanted to scream. “And what kind of people are we, Mom?”
“Simple people,” she said immediately. “We don’t have grand ideas like the kind Elsie McGavrock puts into your head. Going off to Boston or New York or someplace like that. Do you know how much it costs to go to a fancy art school, Jackie? To live in a city? A lot more than you can make working at the Blue Moon in the summer, I’ll tell you that. And we don’t have the money to help you pay for it.”
I stared at the tabletop, rolling stray breadcrumbs together into a pasty ball. “I know. There are scholarships,” I said, but so quietly I could hardly hear myself. The whole question of college was so big it overwhelmed me. Getting into the school. Getting the money to go. And then actually packing up and moving there. I hated to admit it, but that was what scared me most: leaving Provincetown, the place I knew so well the streets and alleys were practically extensions of my own body. I didn’t just live in this town—it lived in me.
“Even if we did have the money,” Mom said, “it’s like throwing it away! Art school? What good is being an artist? Who makes a living at that?”
“Some people do.” But I knew I didn’t have a solid argument against her worries. I debated the issue with myself all the time. Even if I worked while I was in college, I’d be lucky to cover the cost of housing and food. I couldn’t possibly earn enough to pay tuition. And even if I got a scholarship, what would happen afterward? How
would
I make a living? I knew being an artist wasn’t a practical decision, but if everyone was practical there wouldn’t
be
any artists. Maybe if I’d never seen those books of Picasso and Matisse, never held a charcoal pencil, never looked through a camera lens, I could be happy working in a real-estate office or teaching elementary school. But now I knew what I’d be missing. Without the chance to make art, to learn and get better at it, my life would feel so small.
“Who makes a living at it?” Mom wanted to know. “Finn’s parents? Sure, they’ve got money, but it’s just because his father won that big prize. Most people who write books or paint pictures don’t live in a big house like they do. Most of them are lucky to have some little room over a garage. They wait tables until they’re too old to stand up straight. Is that the life you want? I hope not.”
She took a package of thawed codfish chunks from the refrigerator and located her fish knife. “It’s like you’ve been bewitched by that Rosenberg family,” she said. “Those people think they’re Provincetown royalty or something.”
“No, they don’t. Elsie’s invited you over lots of times, and you always come up with some excuse not to go. You’re the snob.”
But she wasn’t listening to me. She was whacking up the fish with such force I was a little afraid she was going to slice off a finger and throw it
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