Golden (29 page)

“Lines Written in Dejection on the Eve of Great Success”

—1959

I slam my bedroom door so hard my windows shudder, and I throw myself on the bed, still fighting back tears. Like a reflex, my eyes go straight to the collage above me, and I almost laugh at how ridiculous it seems now, with its sparkles, and quotes, and images of something that doesn't exist.

I get up. Balance on my mattress and rip it off the ceiling in one swift motion. I tear it in pieces, sending glitter and magazine clippings to the floor all around me. And then I sit down right where I'm standing, put my face in my hands, and cry. I cry over so many things—Julianna and Shane, and Orion and their sad, sad story. Kat and me, and the way things are already shifting and changing between
us. Trevor, and that kiss that could have been so perfect.

I cry over how lost and powerless I feel, and how terrible I know my words have surely made my mom feel. But most of all I cry over how foolish I was to think I could actually change anything. Sitting here in my room, nothing has changed. I
almost
brought Julianna back to Orion,
almost
had a chance at something real with Trevor, was
almost
brave enough to tell my mom that her plan for me had stopped fitting. But almost moments don't count, and it all comes down to the choices I could've made but didn't.

And now I'm faced with a situation I don't have a choice in. I will have to go to that scholarship dinner tomorrow night, and I will have to stand up in front of all those people and give a speech I have yet to write. The irony of the fact that the pieced-together, Googled speech won my mom's approval is not lost on me. Of course she would applaud the stolen words of famous overachievers. It almost makes me want to deliver it just to make a point.

But I can't get up there and speak someone else's words, even if I don't have any of my own.

The ride to the restaurant where the reception will be held is silent, like the last day and a half have been. I haven't talked to Kat or heard from Trevor. Shortly after our fight my mom came into my room, took my phone and computer, and left without saying a thing. We've moved around each other since, with me only leaving my room when I could hear she was in hers, and her avoiding me completely. I've never gone this long without talking to another person, and she's never
gone this long without speaking to me. It's clear, here in the car, that she doesn't plan on breaking the streak.

The
click clack
of the turn signal, the sound of the car accelerating then shifting as we drive up Main Street, all these things are exaggerated and loud in the silence between us. I fidget with my dress—a “smart” black one she picked out for me when we went to tour colleges. I'd hated it then just as much as I do now, but I didn't dare come downstairs in anything else.

A wave of sadness washes over me as we approach the corner where Kismet sits. It's evening now, and with the lights shining warm inside, it looks like a happy, inspired place. I don't see anyone behind the counter, but I picture Orion in the back room somewhere, burying himself in work, his path solitary without Julianna. And hers is the same. That's what seems the most sad to me—that neither of them even think there's a possibility they can be together.

We drive one more block and pull into the parking lot, get out, and walk up the stairs to the restaurant without speaking. A man in a black suit greets us and sends us to our table, where there are two older couples, presumably members of the scholarship board and their spouses, already seated. I look around the room at the few other tables. Each is a mix of kids I know from school, their parents, and the requisite board members, most of whom are already engaged in friendly-looking conversations with the other finalists. Nervousness rolls through my stomach hard, and I want to turn and walk out right then, but my mom clears her throat and gives me a nudge, and I put on my best smile and address
the man seated closest to the place with my name on it.

“Hello,” I say tentatively. “I'm Parker Frost, and this is my mother, Diana.”

The elderly gentleman stands. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Frost.” We shake hands. “I'm Sid McCoy, foundation president, and this is my wife, Betty.” The woman seated next to him nods and smiles politely.

“Pleased to meet you both,” I say. And then I have a silent panic attack. Of course I would be seated with the foundation president.

“Thank you so much for having us,” my mom adds. “It truly is an honor.”

Mr. McCoy nods. “Please, sit,” he says with a warm smile. We do, and he settles back into his own seat too. Before I have a chance to worry about what to talk about, he says, “Frost. Like the poet. Do you know his work?”

“I do,” I say, and I thank God that I do, and that he asked me about that instead of my having gone missing, like my mom was so sure everyone would. I'm so relieved I continue. “Actually, my father is a huge fan, and he passed that on to me early. ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' was the first poem I learned by heart.” I smile and keep my attention on Mr. McCoy. I don't have to look at my mom to know her smile has probably tightened at the mention of my dad, but I had to answer the man's question.

“Ah,” he smiles. “One of my all-time favorites, after ‘The Road Not Taken,' of course. One traveler, two roads, and an inevitable choice.”

“One that he won't know was right or wrong until he's
lived with it,” I say, and again I thank God for my dad and his love of Frost. I am much better prepared for a discussion on the ambiguities of this poem with the foundation president than I am to give a speech.

Mr. McCoy raises an eyebrow. “Precisely,” he says. “Your father taught you well.” My eyes jump to my mom at this, and I can see the hurt flash quick over her face. “It doesn't surprise me,” he continues, “considering the depth of his own talent.”

This
does
surprise me. “You know my father's work?”

Mr. McCoy nods. “I do. He has that same ability as the original Frost, to take a simple moment and transform it into something more with his words.” He smiles. “I'm guessing that since you're here, you've probably got a bit of that magic yourself.”

Before I can respond, a woman I don't recognize hurries over, all nervous excitement. She gives me a kindly glance, then turns to Mr. McCoy. “I am so sorry to interrupt, but it's time we get started.”

My stomach drops, and Mr. McCoy nods and pushes his chair back, then looks at me. “I suppose we'll have to continue this discussion over dessert.”

I nod weakly. My mom squeezes my knee under the table, and I put my hand over hers. An apology of sorts. Mr. McCoy strides to the podium at the front of the restaurant and taps the mic. Discussions hush, and forks still. I think I might be sick.

“Good evening,” he says, “My name is Sid McCoy, and I would like to welcome you all to the annual Cruz-Farnetti
Scholarship dinner. This year marks a decade that we've come together to honor and remember Shane Cruz and Julianna Farnetti, two of our own, whose lights were extinguished before they had a chance to reach their full potential.” He pauses and turns to their pictures behind him, and the audience nods in acknowledgment before he goes on. I look around at the other finalist tables, taking in the competition, wondering what they're going to say. There are four of them—all honors students, all earning inflated GPAs, all with potential to spare.

I swallow hard as Mr. McCoy continues. “We are not here tonight to dwell on that loss, but rather to celebrate the lives they led for the short time they were here. Lives that were lived to the fullest while they had the chance. We, the board of the Cruz Foundation, would like to give that same chance to a deserving individual here tonight by awarding a complete, four-year scholarship to the winner's chosen university.”

I glance again at the other finalist's faces. Look for some indication that they're as panicked as I feel right now. Mr. McCoy continues.

“The process of choosing this individual is a rigorous one. In addition to reviewing the academic records of the nominees, we take into consideration teacher recommendations, extracurricular activities, and involvement in community service. All of those factors tell us about the strengths and talents of these individuals. But the reason we are gathered here tonight is more important than the sum total of all of those things. Tonight, we are here to listen to each candidate
speak, and within their words, to learn more about the spirit of each of them. Every year we look for an individual who, like Shane Cruz and Julianna Farnetti, possesses something special. Something beyond what we can see on paper. I welcome you to listen to each of these students with that in mind. We will begin in alphabetical order by last name.”

He pauses just long enough for me to realize that means I'm first, which is also long enough to wish I were anywhere but here at this moment.

“So, without further ado, I would like to introduce to you our first nominee, whom I had the pleasure of meeting already, Miss Parker Frost.”

My heart leaps into my throat and I slide my chair back, taking the napkin from my lap. My mom puts a hand on my shoulder as I reach into my purse and pull out a black-and-white composition book. “You've got this, Parker,” she says.

I nod, unconvinced, then on shaky legs weave my way through the tables of people who watch me expectantly. I'm supposed to be the shoo-in. I've worked to be the shoo-in. But with each step I take, I feel more unsure of myself. I hadn't expected to have to live up to my dad's words on top of everything else. The room is silent when I reach the podium, and the microphone picks up the rustling as I set my composition book in front of me. I look up with a smile I have to force, and sweep my eyes over the audience. It's now or never.

I clear my throat. Try for a smile. “Good evening. As Mr. McCoy said, I'm Parker Frost, and I'm honored to be here tonight. Um.” I clear my throat again, and the volume of it
over the mic is loud and awkward. I hear myself take another deep breath, and with this one, I decide. I will tell them what I know.

The first sentence comes out sounding timid. “Tonight I want to tell you about a teacher at our school, and a project he does every year.” I glance at my mom and see the surprise and alarm I expect. This is not the speech she thought I was practicing up in my room.

I take a deep breath and continue, gaining a tiny measure of confidence. “Mr. Kinney is one of those rare teachers who truly inspires his students. Every year he gives his seniors two things: one of these”—I hold up the book—“and a question to answer. It comes from a poem by Mary Oliver, and it asks this: ‘What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?' ” I let the line hang there a moment, hoping the audience understands just how important this question is before I go on.

“His students spend the last few weeks of their senior year writing their answers down in these before they seal them up and turn them in. And ten years later, when they've probably forgotten their answers to that question even exist, he sends them back to those same students.

“As Mr. Kinney's TA this year, I consider myself an honorary member of his class, so I wrote my speech in this book, and tonight I'm going to try and answer that question. It's a big one.” I laugh nervously and get a few sympathy laughs in return.

I look down at my messy notes scrawled over the first page. The room is silent, all eyes on me. I recognize Mr. and
Mrs. Cruz sitting attentively at the front table, half-smiling, like I've already impressed them. I glance at my mom, who leans forward, chewing her lip and wringing her hands without any idea that's what she's doing. I try and remember to breathe.

“Up until recently, I had a plan for my one wild and precious life, and it's one I've stuck to for as long as I can remember. It's pretty simple, really. The plan has always been to study hard, get good grades, get into Stanford, study hard, get more good grades, and eventually become a doctor.” I glance up at the audience again and see nods of approval all around. “I've got a lot of those boxes checked off already. This scholarship can definitely help with the rest.