Zelda’s feet had been aching for five blocks, but still she kept walking, determined to put as much distance between herself and her parents as possible.
“I’ll show them who’s wasting their life,” she muttered, resentment tingling through her as her mind circled around to the argument that had prompted her seemingly endless walk.
The question of just how she would show her parents remained nebulous in her mind; Zelda hadn’t thought past the flash of fury and indignation that her parents’ comments had prompted. In point of fact, when she’d left the house, she hadn’t managed to take more than a backpack of clothes, her phone and wallet, and a few toiletries with her. It was certainly not the best thought-out exit of her life, but the thought of going back and retrieving any of her other possessions before she figured out a way to turn her defeat into a victory was more painful than the blisters she could feel forming on her toes.
She had left the house with little idea of where she wanted to end up, so when Zelda saw the signs for the Miami Beach Marina, she started to pick up her sluggish pace once more. Even if it wasn’t a very scenic destination, she might at least get some idea of what to with herself next if she wandered the area for long enough.
There aren’t any cruise ships around here—or at least there shouldn’t be, she thought as she slipped past a guard explaining something to a wealthy-looking couple in classic South Beach white linen resort wear. Most of them leave from Port of Miami, but there might be something, someone looking for a new employee. Maybe there was a dinner cruise moored and ready to leave; or perhaps she’d find one of the vendors on site advertising for staff.
Zelda had to admit to herself that a job as a barmaid at that marina was something of a comedown from the prospect she’d once had of becoming a chef-caterer, but it would be enough to live on—hopefully—while she planned her next move.
She looked around her, taking in the sight of luxury yachts and smaller, but still undeniably expensive, sport boats at anchor all over the marina. She forgot about the pain in her feet entirely as she dreamed vague fantasies of talking her way onto a small cruise liner, staying out to sea for a few days, safely out of her parents’ reach. She’d return to tell them that she’d made enough on her first outing at sea to be able to afford to move out, and that she was going to keep working that job, and they could take all their threats of refusing to support her financially and sit on them.
She replayed the argument in her mind once more as she wandered past the boats, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. The problem had started when she’d told her parents that she had dropped out of the program at Le Cordon Bleu.
They hadn’t been all that thrilled with her choosing that option to begin with; both her mother and her father had hoped that she would live up to their example and not only complete her B.A. in Literature, but go on to a master’s degree, and maybe even a Ph.D. But Zelda had come to the conclusion two years into the English Literature program at UCF that she didn’t have the intellectual stamina to spend the next four or six years working away on studies that weren’t likely to get her a job other than as a teacher or professor.
They’d been bitterly disappointed with her steadfast refusal to consider switching majors at UCF, or maybe simply taking a year off to “find herself” before returning to the university. Both of her parents had certainly instilled a love of learning in Zelda: her English professor mother had let her read F. Scott Fitzgerald at the youngest permissible age so that she could understand the inspiration for her name, and her Doctor of History father had spent her entire childhood encouraging her to question the common historical narrative, teaching her to think critically. They had thought that she would follow in their footsteps in some way, and continue the family tradition of erudition and prestige. Instead, Zelda had come home at the end of her fourth semester, after sitting her exams, and announced that she had no intention of ever going back.
Instead, she had opted to pursue catering; Zelda had always loved food, and her mother had always said that she had “a knack” for developing recipes and tweaking ones that already existed.
Zelda’s goal had been to open her own business as soon as she finished her studies at Le Cordon Bleu, but it had quickly become obvious to her that most of her classroom time would be spent in repetitive drills: chopping vegetables, making stocks that she’d made five times before, replicating existing recipes down to the last detail. She had learned how to make Lobster Thermidor, how to create five different types of stock, and how to make perfectly clear consommé. But the sheer boredom of so much repetition, so many drills, and the frustration of not being able to deviate even for a moment from the school-developed recipes had eventually gotten to her, and Zelda had decided that culinary school was not for her any more than university had been.
Her parents had started out understanding. “I can understand why so much of same-drill-different-day would put you off, sweetheart,” her mother had said. “But there is a reason for them putting you through all of this, you know.”
“They expect most of us to end up as line chefs,” Zelda had told her mother. “Do you really blame me for not wanting that for myself? How am I supposed to innovate if I’m not allowed?”
“Can’t you wait until you’ve finished the training and innovate then?”
When Zelda had insisted that she was every bit as dissatisfied with culinary school as she had been with UCF, the tone of her parents’ voices had started to sharpen. They had accused her of wasting her time, and of getting them involved in one money-wasting scheme after another.
“What are you going to do next? Decide that cosmetology school is the only thing you want to do?” Her mother had shaken her head. “Well I can tell you this, kiddo: if you want to take another whack at a totally different line of study, you’re going to have to find a way to fund it yourself.”
“What? Why?”
“We sank our money into you going to UCF and you dropped out after two years,” her father had said. “Then you swore to us that you were going to be a star of the catering world and we sunk more money into culinary school, without the benefit of any discounts or waivers that we got with UCF because Le Cordon Bleu doesn’t care if we’re professors at another university in the state.” Both of her parents had begun shaking their heads at that point. “Your mother and I are not cash cows, Zelda, and we’re not going to fund every last whim you have on the off-chance that this time you’ll actually get serious.”
Then had come the comments about her lack of commitment, her inability to focus, her failures of strength, character, and academic interest, and Zelda had found herself becoming angrier and angrier. It had been the same litany she’d heard when she’d dropped out of UCF, and it hadn’t aged well in the months since her parents had last delivered it.
“We can’t keep funding you indefinitely, Zelda,” her mother had said, shaking her head.
“You’re the one who named me after a 1920s party girl,” Zelda had retorted. “What did you expect? That I’d grow up to become some stable, secure, wonderful contributing member of society?”
“We expected at least that you’d be smart enough to know when to keep at something long enough to accomplish at least one goal in it,” her father had said. “We expected that a young woman as bright and talented as you are could cobble together enough focus to do something with herself.”
“So after two tries—two measly tries—you’re cutting me off?” Zelda had been shaking with anger at that point, her voice cracking with it. While her parents weren’t exactly wealthy, they’d managed to get tenure, and had put away enough money over the years to manage a generous retirement fund, and speaking engagements and publishing contracts had given them wiggle room to f
und her. The fact that they’d decided to cut her off, when Zelda knew as a certainty that there was still money in her college fund, enraged her.
“Two measly tries? Zelda, we’ve sunk thousands into your education, and you’re telling us after a few short weeks at culinary school that it’s not for you. It was supposed to be your practical goal, and something that you couldn’t possibly fail at,” her mother had told her.
“We’d almost be less upset if you’d genuinely failed, rather than giving up on it like you are now,” her father had added.