Page 51 of Solo

Drew gives a long, low whistle.

“Shit. I’m guessing Senator Dad wasn’t too thrilled by that,” he surmises.

“Not so much,” I confirm. “I was so sure I could convince him to let me go, but he saw the whole thing as a personal betrayal. Oh God, he was so furious.”

I close my eyes as an involuntary shudder runs through my body at the memory. They fly open again when I feel the press of warm flesh. Dr. Drew Markham gives my hand a supportive squeeze. I don’t comment. Nor do I pull away.

“What happened then?” he asks, his eyes glued to my face.

“I was given the choice between studying something that he approved of, like political science or business or premed with his total backing…or continuing with a music degree without his financial or emotional support.”

He inhales sharply and his hand tightens around mine.

“He—he kicked you out?”

“Pretty much. I got to keep my car and he gave me a little bit of money to start with, but I was told not to come home. Not to call home. Not to write home. He said I had embarrassed him so deeply that I might very well have cost him his career.”

“He really thought you studying music could have that kind of an impact on his career?”

My eyebrows go up and I shake my head slightly. “In all fairness,” I concede, “he did get a lot of shit from his opponents when word got out. Here he was all ‘We don’t need the arts. The arts take food out of the mouths of starving children.’ and then suddenly his own kid is studying music. Some people accused him of being a hypocrite. Others talked about how it was easy for him to oppose arts education funding and scholarships when his kid didn’t have to worry about who would pay for her education.”

“But, wait—I have to ask this question again, Katherine. If you got into the New York Conservatory, and you were determined to study music regardless of your father’s wishes, why come to Nowhere, North Carolina? Why not just take your acceptance letter and go to New York City?”

Good question. And one that pains me to answer.

“Ah, well, it was the last card my father had to play. I wasn’t eighteen yet, so he declined the admission on my behalf. I tried to undo it when my birthday rolled around a few weeks later, but it was too late by then. They’d given my spot, and my scholarship, to someone else.” I try to sound neutral as I tell him all of this, but there’s still a tinge of sadness to my tone. “I was pretty heartbroken. But, I didn’t have a lot of options. Shepherd was my safety school and I got just enough of a scholarship to cover tuition and books.”

“But not housing or food.”

I shake my head. “No. That’s when I picked up a job working mornings in the North Dining Hall. And that office cleaning job I told you about. That’s not all the time, though. I pick up per diem shifts when things aren’t too crazy at school, like they are now. It’s tight, but if I’m careful, it’s enough.”

He’s silent, but I can feel the anger coming off him. How strange it feels to not have it directed at me for a change.

“He’s not a bad guy, you know. My father,” I hasten to say.

No reply.

“I know it doesn’t look that way from where you’re standing—”

“From where I’m standing? Katherine, how can you not see?” He drops my hand and rakes it through his dark hair, leaving it nicely tousled. “I mean, I thought the guy was an ass because of his politics. But now…”

“Now what?”

“Now I see that he’s abandoned you for not sharing his political views. You! His own daughter! Who does that?”

I consider how best to answer this question and finally decide that honesty is my best tack here.

“Drew, he wasn’t always like this. It was after my mother died. He got so angry. The music…and the way I played it was just a constant, painful reminder of her.”

“Still, to take her death out on you—”

He stops abruptly and I’m indescribably relieved that I won’t have to connect the dots for him. Because, thankfully, he connects them for himself.

“Oh. Oh, fucking hell,” he mutters, closing his eyes and shaking his head at his own hypocrisy.

“Yup.”

“Did I really just say that?”