Under the Lights

I don’t think my parents have ever both waited for me on the couch.

“Hi,” I greet them quietly, knowing I won’t get any points for acting like nothing’s wrong.

“Sit down, Vanessa.” My father is a soft-spoken man — always has been — but it usually comes off as gentle. Right now, though, it’s a fearsome kind of quiet. It’s the most sure I’ve been that Something Bad is coming since my grandfather died. I immediately comply.

When I do sit and finally look at my mother, I can see that her eyes are rimmed in red. My stomach clenches at the knowledge I’ve made my mother cry, that I’m doing a bang-up job in general of hurting people I care about lately. Really not the kind of thing I’ve ever aspired to.

They’re both silent, like they’re waiting for me to kick off the conversation I’d rather die than have. I don’t know what they know yet. Lord knows they’ve never been very interested in my career. They don’t support it so much as they just don’t get in the way of it, which, while hurtful, has always been the best I’ve known I could ask for.

Today, though, I suspect that’s about to change.

Finally, I can’t take the angst anymore, and I venture out with, “I’m not sure what you think you know, but I can explain all of it.”

It’s the wrong thing to say; the flash of anger in my father’s dark eyes makes that patently clear. “Explanations no longer matter, Vanessa. We have allowed you to live this lifestyle for long enough. We said when you first auditioned that we would allow this as long as you behaved well and kept up your education.”

“And I have,” I burst out. “I have been so good. I’ve gone to family events, even when it’s meant bailing on award shows. I had Ally tutor me for the SATs last year, and I did well enough — the second time, at least — to get into UCLA. And—”

“And that’s good, because it’s where you’ll be going next semester,” my mother says flatly. “The time has come for this hobby to end. You’re eighteen now, and you cannot keep pushing off the future.”

“I’m not pushing off anything! This is my future!” My mother’s frown lines tighten at my outburst, and I force a deep breath to help me rein in my rage. Yelling has never gotten anywhere with my parents, and I know it won’t now either. “Mom. Dad. I have a job, and it pays well, and I’m good at it. If I were a doctor—”

My mother snorts, and I wince. God, it’s amazing how much disappointment I can see on both their faces right now. And even more amazing how quickly it drains the fight out of me.

“You can’t even imagine how many people dream of being me,” I tell them, quieter now. “Why can’t you understand that? Why can’t you understand that what I’m doing is important? Even if you don’t think my show is, the fact that I’m doing it is amazing. The fact that a Korean-American actress has a starring role on a primetime network show is amazing. How can that not mean anything to you? It means everything to me.”

Tears stream down my face, but they’re not moved at all; they never have been. Even when they allowed me to audition, it wasn’t with any hope or pride; at best, they saw it as a potential résumé-builder, maybe something to improve my confidence and public speaking. My mother didn’t even watch me try out; she brought a crossword puzzle.

“It’s a television show,” my father says, still quiet, still stony. “Do not make it more than it is.”

I couldn’t possibly, I think, but I already know he doesn’t understand. Neither of them do. And it breaks my heart. Because I do love it more than anything. I love it enough that I chose it over the first person I’ve ever had real, strong feelings for. If the fact that I passed on being with Bri for this life doesn’t convey how much it matters to me, nothing will.

But of course, I can’t tell them that. Because as disappointed as they are in me right now, I can’t even imagine how much it would compound it to tell them their only daughter is not going to marry a nice Korean boy. Is probably not going to marry a boy at all.

“You can’t make me stop,” I say, forcing my voice above the whisper it desperately wants to be. “You can’t. I have a contract.”

“Your uncle is looking into that,” my mother says proudly, as if her brother, a real estate lawyer, knows anything about entertainment contracts. I bite my tongue, though, because the only thing my parents hate more than yelling is sarcasm.

“It doesn’t matter.” I try to keep my voice respectful, but I know there’s no way I’m caving on this. Especially not after what I’ve just given up. “I’m not going to quit. This is my life now. I wish you would respect it, and I understand that you don’t. But I’m not quitting. And I’m not going to UCLA next semester.”

“Then you are not living in this house.” My father’s voice is firm. “If you insist on keeping this job and this lifestyle, you’re not doing it under our roof. You think you’re an adult, earning your own money? Use that money to buy yourself a respectable apartment.”