Lisa Ko: The Leavers

Peter said nothing, scooped up forkfuls of eggs benedict.

“Daniel,” Kay said. “Don’t talk to your father like that.”

“Enough of this,” Peter said. “No more beating around the bush. We didn’t drive five hours to listen to his sarcasm.”

“We have good news,” Kay said. “Great news. Carlough College is willing to take you as a student, starting this summer. You can make up the credits you missed. It’ll be on a provisionary basis, of course.”

Peter and Kay had wanted Daniel to go to Carlough, where they could get him a faculty tuition cut, but had relented to his choice of SUNY Potsdam as long as he promised not to take music classes. His financial aid and work-study income had been enough to cover tuition when his grades were decent, and Potsdam had been far enough upstate that Daniel could hide out, not be solely known as Roland’s friend.

“But I’m here now. I have a place to live.”

“Roland’s sofa is not a place to live,” Peter said.

Daniel took a long sip of water. “I don’t want to go to Carlough.”

“You should have thought of that before you got expelled from Potsdam.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to be here.”

“Your mother and I have put ourselves on the line for you. We succeeded at getting you into Carlough despite the misgivings of the dean, which were, honestly, quite warranted. She saw the dismissal, your transcript. We had to bend over backwards to convince her you deserved another chance. Your ingratitude is simply astounding.”

Kay placed her palm on Daniel’s wrist. “I know it’s been a difficult time. But you cannot quit after two years of college. What are you going to do without a degree?”

“Play music.”

“Play music!” A flush spread across Peter’s forehead. “Don’t be foolish. Is music going to pay your rent, buy your groceries?”

Peter had been saying the same thing since Daniel was twelve years old. “Roland didn’t finish college and he’s doing fine,” Daniel said, neglecting to mention that Roland was taking business classes at night. “His roommate Adrian’s in his third year of college and already has a hundred thousand dollars in student loans.”

“This is madness.” Kay rummaged through her tote bag, removed a bundle of papers, and passed them to Daniel.

“March 15,” Peter said. “Three weeks away. That is the deadline for you to fill out this application in order to matriculate at Carlough for the summer. The website for the online form is printed out here. I would write the statement of purpose for you myself if it wasn’t ethically wrong. Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But do not mistake this for a choice.”

Peter had already filled out the first page with Daniel’s name and their address in Ridgeborough. Daniel folded the forms and put them in his pocket.

“What if I enroll in Carlough in the fall, or transfer to a school in the city? There are more job opportunities here, networking opportunities. I need a few months off. When I do go back to school, I’ll be healthy. Focused.”

“I don’t think so,” Kay said.

“One semester off is already too much,” Peter said. “You’re in danger of falling behind. Now, if it were up to me, we would be taking you home with us after this meal. But your mother seems to believe that you can take care of yourself.”

“Well—” Kay said.

“I am. You have nothing to worry about.”

“We’ll get the forms from you next weekend. A copy of your statement of purpose. And after that, you will send us a confirmation of your submitted application.”

“Next weekend?”

“We’ll be in the city again,” Kay said. “Jim Hennings is turning sixty and having a party on Saturday night. Angel will be there. You’ll join us, of course.”

Daniel’s muscles contracted. So Angel hadn’t gone to Nepal. If they were still friends, if she was still talking to him, he would tell her about Michael’s e-mail, about Peter’s accusation of ingratitude, how torn he felt between anger and indebtedness. If only Peter and Kay knew how much he wanted their approval, how he feared disappointing them like he’d disappointed his mother. Angel had once told him that she felt like she owed her parents. “But we can’t make ourselves miserable because we think it’ll make them happy,” she had said. “That’s a screwed up way to live.” Daniel had known her since they were kids, but their long, insomniac phone calls had only started last spring, and for most of last year she had been his greatest consolation. Her sincerity was contagious, and he liked hearing about her friends and crushes, her plans for the summer, the classes she liked and the ones she didn’t, how living in the Midwest was calmer and quieter than Manhattan — sometimes the silence still spooked her — but God, she would kill for a decent slice of pizza, a lamb shawarma in a pita.

Kay motioned to the waitress for the check. “We love you. We want the best for you. I know it doesn’t seem like that right now, but we do.”

“He’ll see it someday.” Peter pushed his chair away from the table. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Daniel watched Peter walk across the restaurant, a new stiffness in his shoulders and legs. Guilt sank through him; they wanted him to succeed in the ways that were important to them because it would mean that they had succeeded, too. Roland had been too busy to talk to him for a year, but Kay and Peter called each week. How could he hurt them more than he already had? He could never return Michael’s e-mail.

He turned back to Kay. “I’ll fill out the application, Mom.”

AFTER A SEVEN-HOUR SHIFT at Tres Locos, Daniel’s wrists were sore from bean scooping, pepper chopping, and burrito wrapping. On Roland’s kitchen table was an empty box for a Neumann microphone, and Daniel picked up the receipt and let out a low whistle. The mic had cost two thousand bucks. He removed the Carlough College forms, now crumpled after being in his pocket, and left them on the counter.

The couch pulled out into a bed where he slept, his backpack and guitars stashed at its feet. Roland’s roommate Adrian was either working or at school or at his girlfriend’s place, and Roland was mostly out as well, taking classes, transporting art, working on a construction crew for gallery installations, modeling for a designer friend, helping friends in other bands. Daniel sank onto the couch and took his guitar out. Despite his sore wrists, he wanted to work on a song.

He heard keys in the door, and before he could put his guitar away, Roland came in. “What are you playing?”

“Just fooling around,” Daniel said.

They looked at each other. “Listen.” Roland shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I want you to know I’m not mad or anything.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“We’d barely practiced.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Come listen to something I did today.”

Daniel sat on Roland’s bed as Roland opened Pro Tools on his computer. A line trickled out, Roland’s voice, a Psychic Hearts song. Roland pressed a button. It was the same line, but altered with plug-in effects to sound scratched up, scuzzified. Daniel didn’t get it. It was using cheesy CGI effects in a historical film, a bad vintage photo filter.

“Hutch, the Jupiter booker, is into this shit,” Roland said. “After you left last night, I ended up talking to him about the bands he’s worked with. You know he helped Jane Rust blow up, right? And Terraria. Brutal percussion, guitars in overdrive. Now they’re huge. I’m thinking Psychic Hearts should go in this direction.”

“You want to change the band for Hutch?”

“I want to play Jupiter. I want to get signed.”