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This is what I was thinking tonight, as I swung on the hammock in the backyard. The only light came from swirls of tiny fireflies switching themselves on and off and on again.

“Jessie!” my mom's voice called. “Is that you out there?”

She flicked on the floodlights, blinding me, the world, with the obnoxious glow of a bizillion artificial suns.

“Come inside,” she said. “We need to talk.”

I knew better than to resist. And with the lights on, the yard had lost its appeal anyway, so I pushed myself out of the hammock and followed her inside.

Mom was sitting at the kitchen table. My father was actually sitting next to her. This was not a good sign for me.

“Your father and I are concerned about your disappointing work ethic,” she said.

“What? I've been busting my ass at school!” It was true. I had never studied harder in my life.

“I'm not talking about your classes,” she continued.

“We're very proud of your grades,” my dad added.

“Very,” my mom said emphatically. “But I'm referring to how you complain about not getting enough money from us, and yet you don't find it necessary to hold up your end of the financial bargain. This is your second summer of unemployment!”

“I had the internship last summer! For my résumé!”

“What about now?”

“I haven't been feeling well,” I replied meekly.

“You were fine enough to go running this morning,” my dad argued.

“I thought the fresh air would do me good,” I replied.

“You were fine enough to go out with your friends.”

“Studies have proven that an active social life boosts the immune system.”

“Is that so?” my mom asked with a moderate, passing interest. “Well, at any rate, it seems like you feel like you don't need to make any of your own money, when we warned you when you picked Columbia that you would have to contribute to its costs.”

“I worked all last month,” I said lamely.

“But what about this month? You left your job, which was bad enough. But then you didn't even bother finding a new one at home,” she said.

“I'm going back to my job at school . . .” My energy was waning by the second.

“When?”

“Uh . . . soon?”

My parents made a sound that I can only describe as harrumphing, a word I have never used before that describes the noise perfectly.

“You need to start earning money as soon as you can,” my mother said. “Because once we take on the new mortgage, we won't be able to help you anymore.”

I rattled my head, unsure I'd heard correctly.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“We can't give you any more money.”

“But I'm almost out of Gladdie's inheritance. And I've already got a full course load and work study and student loans . . .”

“Which is why your laziness for the past two summers has been so upsetting to us,” my mother interrupted.

“How can you do this to me? For a house?”

“We're doing it for you, honey,” my mom said. “Waterfront property will only increase in value over the years. It's your inheritance!”

“But I need the money now, Mom,” I said. “Not thirty years from now when you're . . .”

“Dead,” my dad said bluntly.

I turned my attention to him, as the saner of the two. “Dad? Are you for this?”

He rubbed the top of his head like a worry stone. “You made this choice,” he said. “You chose Columbia over a full scholarship to Piedmont. You chose to accept certain financial responsibilities. . . .”

I usually zoned out when my parents launched into this particular spiel, but this time every “You” hit like a bullet to the chest. Was I being selfish and lazy? Was I taking them for granted? Despite my bitching, my parents had been throwing a few thousand bones my way each semester. It wasn't enough to forgo student loans or work study, but it did take the edge off. But that's all irrelevant now that I'm right back on the edge, staring into the fiscal abyss.

“You have been lucky to benefit from our assistance up to this point . . .”

“Stop,” I whimpered, resting my forehead on the kitchen table. “Just stop. I can't take any more.”

Having run out of ways to ruin my life for the time being, my parents left the room. I looked down at the pile of mail on the table.