Free Finding Abbey Road by Kevin Emerson

time for things like this: band shows, impromptu trips to Europe. Or who knows, maybe even as a graduation present. Cat . . . I think you just . . . you have to see the bigger picture here.”
    I can hear the no between every word and it’s tearing me apart. “Mom, my twenties are forever from now! And besides, this is the bigger picture. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to do something amazing, and it’s right there for the taking. Let me go to London and I’ll go to Stanford like a good girl—” Where are these words coming from? Desperate. Am I even serious? Or just spinning more lies— “And I won’t even fuss about it.”
    â€œSee? That kind of talk, right there,” says Dad, his voice rising. “It’s not being a good little girl to go to college. It seems like ever since you started dating this boy, you—This just isn’t the Cat we know.”
    â€œThat’s my point!” I say. “Maybe I’m not the little Cat you think you know. But that doesn’t have anything to do with Caleb. It’s what I’m trying to tell you—”
    But Dad isn’t hearing me. “How can you expect us to believe you after last week? How can we trust you? If we let you do this, you’re just more likely to . . .” He throws up his hands. “You’ll want to go on tour all summer, miss college, or worse, start college and drop out and ruin your futurechances. Where is it going to end?”
    â€œDad, that’s not how it’s going to be!”
    But Dad shakes his head like he’s made up his mind. “I think you’re in over your head here, Cat. This world of music and musicians is clearly messing with your thinking in some unhelpful ways. I mean, we are talking about tapes left by a drug addict who killed himself and abandoned his family! He is no hero.”
    It takes all my will not to respond. I bite my lip hard as the tears come.
    â€œI know you love working with this band,” says Dad, “but . . . you’re not even in the band.”
    â€œWow,” I mutter.
    â€œThat’s not—” says Dad. “What I mean is you’re a girl on a trajectory , a high achiever, college-bound, and I’m sorry but we’re just not going to let this band preoccupation derail your potential. It has to stop.”
    â€œDad, it’s not a preoccupation ,” I say, my voice tight, trying not to sob. “It’s a passion!”
    â€œThen maybe you need to find another passion!” Dad balls his fist and I see him shake off a surge of anger. “I’m sorry, Cat, but, man! You have academics. You had volleyball . . . We’ve stood by and let you shun so many other possibilities in school, things like student government . . . Honestly you’re lucky, damn lucky, to still be getting considered for a school like Stanford with all the time you waste on these bands! It is a privilege to have what you have, and to listen to you takeit for granted, and to ask for these silly things is . . . I’ve had enough! Taking that phone call from Andre, having to fly you home, watching you slouch around that scummy practice space . . . it’s not you, Catherine! It’s not you.”
    I’m crying now. Full-on.
    But I’m not going to yell anymore.
    The cards are finally on the table.
    â€œIt is me,” I say quietly.
    My tears have the predictable effect of bringing Dad down a notch. I sort of hate that, the power of my weakness. No cheat codes. But I can’t help crying.
    â€œLook, I’m sorry to get so angry . . .” But he doesn’t finish.
    Mom sighs. “I agree with your father. I know it may be hard to understand where we’re coming from—”
    â€œNo,” I say, still crying, but firm. “No, I get it. I totally get it.”
    We stand there silent. Mom rearranges the pie plates, but doesn’t ask us if we want any. There will be no