Dream Come True
Gina Calanni
The first enchanting novel in Gina Calanni’s Ice Cream Dreams series. Perfect for fans of Jill Shalvis, Robyn Carr and Susan Mallery.If you had the chance to change your life, what would you do?Sahara Smith is leaving her Texas trailer-park upbringing in the dust to take up a job at the famous Blue Ribbon Ice Cream Company. All her dreams are finally coming true and she’s determined to let nothing stand in her way.But on her first day she meets tall, oh-so-sexy Brandon, the kind of guy Sahara knows would never be interested in a girl like her. So why does he seem so intent on getting to know her?Sahara’s dreams of a better life are finally within her grasp – until she discovers something that could bring the whole lot crashing down around her. But she isn’t giving up that easily, not when destiny is calling…Praise for Gina Calanni:‘A delightful and entertaining, romantic story, full of loving and memorable moments.’ – Gilbster (Top 1000 Amazon Reviewer)‘A well-written, fun, romantic story.’ – Jill Loves to Read‘A delightful, light hearted story to escape in.’ – Splashes Into Books‘A cosy read to escape into and put a little smile on your face.’ – Sophie (Top 1000 Amazon Reviewer)‘A fabulous read that will whisk you away from reality and make you smile!’ – Amazon Reviewer
If you had the chance to change your life, what would you do?
Sahara Smith is leaving her Texas trailer-park upbringing in the dust to take up a job at the famous Blue Ribbon Ice Cream Company. All her dreams are finally coming true and she’s determined to let nothing stand in her way.
But on her first day she meets tall, oh-so-sexy Brandon, the kind of guy Sahara knows would never be interested in a girl like her. So why does he seem so intent on getting to know her?
Sahara’s dreams of a better life are finally within her grasp – until she discovers something that could bring the whole lot crashing down around her. But she isn’t giving up that easily, not when destiny is calling…
The first enchanting novel in Gina Calanni’s Ice Cream Dreams series. Perfect for fans of Jill Shalvis, Robyn Carr and Susan Mallery.
Also by Gina Calanni:
Home for the Holidays
How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie
How to Bake the Perfect Christmas Cake
How to Bake the Perfect Apple Pie
How to Bake the Perfect Wedding Cake
Dream Come True
Gina Calanni
Copyright (#u1b87b122-9177-5d6e-8cbe-35cd303bdaa3)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016
Copyright © Gina Calanni 2016
Gina Calanni asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474047494
Version date: 2018-07-23
GINA CALANNI
currently resides where bluebonnets line the highways in the spring, but she prefers the rock flower anemone from under the sea. Above the ocean’s surface Gina likes to bake with her three boys and run like the ground is crumbling beneath her feet while being dragged along by her pooch, Schatzi, Music is the backbone of each one of Gina’s books and her favorite button to press is repeat. At the end of the day Gina’s glass of wine is always half full. You can follow Gina on Twitter: @Gina_Calanni and on Instagram: @gina_calanni
Check out www.ginacalanni.com (http://www.ginacalanni.com) to keep up to date with the latest scoop in her life.
To Ethan, Beck, and Jude – it was so much fun sampling different ice creams with you as I wrote Dream Come True. I loved having you as my ultimate research partners.
To my mom – you’re a sweet treat on a Sunday Funday smothered in whipped cream and a drizzle of strawberry glaze. Thank you for your endless support.
To Katie – you’re a dose of Mexican vanilla ice cream with dollops of peanut butter and scoops of Nutella mixed into an incredible flavor that everyone truly savors. Thank you for always being my Jamison.
To Engy – you’re a unique blend of apple cinnamon slices chopped into butter pecan ice cream with threads of caramel swirled into each bite. Thank you for your love and friendship.
To Mika – you’re a mix of red wine sorbet with little traces of dark chocolate laced through. Thank you for your love and friendship.
To Bethany – you’re an ice cream sundae served with peach champagne sauce. Thank you for your continued support and friendship.
To my Gems – thank you for the laughs, love, and support – y’all are banana split with strawberry, raspberry and blueberry ice cream topped with whipped cream and chopped pecans.
To my HQ Digital Crew – you’re an international combination of toasted hazelnuts, Swiss chocolate, English toffee, Australian Tim Tams, and peanut butter cups blended into the ultimate blizzard enjoyed by all. Thank you for the support, the advice, and the laughs.
To my editor Charlotte – you’re a mixture of Dulce de Leche cheesecake bites layered into a delicious ice cream torte topped with Chambord.
To my glass of wine – thank you for the encouragement, the ability to get past the difficult moments, and the enjoyment with every sip.
And finally last but not least to Schatzi, who if given the chance would love to share a tub of ice cream with me any day of the week. However, since she is a dog, I shall offer a tasty bone and heartfelt thank you for always being at my side and letting me know you care.
To Ethan, Beck, and Jude – every day spent with you is like an extra topping to the joy of each delicious scoop of life that you have brought me.
Contents
Cover (#u140440c7-b728-510d-a138-ccd4f5be91bb)
Blurb (#u1a975716-aa68-5b3a-b1c3-789d71ec8ff5)
Book List (#u7c53df5f-77b4-5f87-a197-247e04091739)
Title Page (#ua6b9221f-ec3c-563b-a45b-698a70bbb76f)
Copyright
Author Bio (#uc94e8bb7-681c-5c69-a9fb-0abc47079dce)
Acknowledgement (#u0ee6a021-46b3-504e-82c6-517ee8082d47)
Dedication (#ufd341fd2-aa2f-5b72-bd50-3ab76da1ac09)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
Chapter One (#u1b87b122-9177-5d6e-8cbe-35cd303bdaa3)
I slap my hand down on the scratched-up kitchen table. I can’t believe it. It actually happened. It happened. It.
I – that’s me, Sahara Smith – just received an email from none other than Blue Ribbon Creamery in Riverton, Texas. From their corporate office. CORPORATE! I blink my eyes a few times. And scan my computer once more before telling my mama. She probably won’t believe me. Shoot, I wouldn’t have believed me if I hadn’t just read it myself. I lick my lips and peak at the screen one more time. There it is, clearer than a sunrise over the parking lot at Wal-Mart.
Dear Ms. Smith,
We would like to offer you a position at Blue Ribbon Creamery as an associate product developer.
Product developer. I’ll have to explain to my mama what this means. I jump up. It’s real. This is finally happening! To me. I run through my kitchen and out the front door. My mama is sitting in her rocking chair on the porch. Her house coat is flapping a bit at her ankles. Even though she’s wearing her house coat, she’s put on her sandals for being on the porch. My mama is one for decorum and always says showing your house shoes in public is downright shameful. She’s got her knitting needles whipping up another afghan for one of her friends, I’m sure.
“Mama, mama.” I rub my lips together.
“Yes, Sahara, what is it, sugar? What’s got you in such a fuss?” She places the needles down in her lap.
“Mama, it happened! It finally happened!” I’m almost afraid to say what it is out loud. Like somehow it won’t be true.
“What, sugar? What happened?” My mama’s green eyes are wide now, like she’s worried I might say something horrible like a pipe under the kitchen sink is sprouting out water and flooding our house. She doesn’t realize that my excitement is a good thing. A great thing. The best thing that’s ever happened to me.
“I’ve been offered a job at Blue Ribbon Creamery.” I do a mini-dance, running around the porch, and come back to where my mama is sitting and grab her hands. I want her to dance with me. My mama doesn’t move. She sits still in her chair and picks up her needles and yarn again.
“What do you mean, a job at Blue Ribbon Creamery? You’ve already got a job at Dairy Queen.” My mama cocks her head to the right and gives me a look of indignation. Like I’ve got rattlesnakes crawling out of my hair.
“Mama, I told you I had creation skills.”
“Now, hush your mouth. Don’t you go talking that blasphemy.” My mama clutches her chest like she is waiting for lightning to strike us both down.
I let out a small laugh. “Mama, I mean flavor-creating skills. Remember how many flavors I created for Dairy Queen?” I say under my breath… for no extra pay. “Well, Blue Ribbon wants my skills and is offering me a job as an associate product developer.”
“Say what? How are you going develop products? That sounds too fancy for you and especially for ice cream. That implies a plural and ice cream is only one thing. How can you create products, plural, about ice cream?” My mama shakes her head in dismay, as if I’ve said I can solve a Rubik’s cube blindfolded.
“Mama, I filled out the questionnaire and listed all the products.” I swallow fast. I’m about to drown in saliva in the back of my mouth. “I put down all of the flavors that I’ve already created for Dairy Queen and Blue Ribbon must have been impressed as they are offering me this job.” I throw my hands up in the air. Why isn’t she happy for me? I press my lips together. Does my mama not think I can do this job?
“Sugar, I don’t know about this.” My mama shakes her head and works her needles back and forth.
“Mama, I’m taking this job.” I stand firm. I’m not going to be persuaded. I’ve been scooping ice cream for too long not to jump at the first opportunity to land a real job. One with benefits and the real possibility of a career. I can do this. I’m talented. I know my flavors. Dairy Queen has accepted every single one of the nineteen flavors I’ve created. Why can’t my mama be happy and supportive of me? This is my ticket. This is my way out of this small-town life.
I don’t want to follow in my mama’s footsteps. I want something more for myself. My mama always said she named me Sahara because I was destined for great things. Well, it’s arrived: the opportunity of a lifetime. It’s going to take me out of this town. Mexia is mighty nice and all that but I can’t stay here any longer. I’ve been itching my palms every day counting down the seconds until this moment. The moment I’ve been offered a ticket out. And I want it so bad. Worse than I’ve ever wanted anything. Well, except having my daddy back. But there’s no time to think about him. Not in a happy moment like this. I’ve got to pack my things and figure out where I’m going to stay. There is so much to do. But it doesn’t matter because I’m leaving! I’ve got a real important job. One that requires skills and talent. Finally, someone – well, not someone, a whole company! – thinks that my ideas, my creations, are good and worthy of payment. I’m so excited.
I do a little skip-da-loo around my mama’s front yard, which doesn’t consist of much. We live in a trailer community so it’s all pretty much open space. But my mama has some sunflowers planted in front of our single wide. I skip over to them and grab a handful and hand them to my mama.
“Sahara, get a hold of yourself. We need to talk about this. And you know I don’t like you picking my sunflowers.” She hands them back to me.
“Yes, mama.” I take them inside with me and find a jar. No sense in letting them go to waste since I’ve already picked them. I fill up the jar with water and stick in the sunflowers. They look so pretty. Too bad my mama doesn’t think so. Well, maybe she does think they’re pretty, just not out of the ground. She probably likes them stuck right where she planted them.
My mama’s sandals squeak against the linoleum of our home. “Now, Sahara, I know you’re real excited and that’s something you’ve always had a problem with.” Her hand grazes against my shoulder like she is going to pat my back or maybe even turn me around for a hug, but that couldn’t possibly be what she means to do. She lets go of my body. “You have to be more realistic about this situation. You have no place to stay. You don’t know anyone there. Why would you want to do this?” She sighs.
Why would I want to do this? I’ve only been doing everything I can – other than steal a car – to get out of this town for years. There is nothing here. Nothing other than a few small shops. No real opportunities. We don’t own a farm. We aren’t old money. We are zero money. My mama has worked every single day of her life and, lord knows, I admire her for it, but this is not the life I want for myself. I want my Saturdays and Sundays off. I want a nine-to-five job. A job with a set schedule. With expectations and guarantees. Like health insurance and a retirement. My mama should be retired but she is still scrubbing toilets for a living. And to me that ain’t no way of living. Well, I mean I know that I will have to clean my own toilets, but I wouldn’t want to be cleaning strangers’ toilets at her age. My chest tightens. I mean my mama no disrespect. She has an honest to goodness hardworking job but that’s not me. I want more. I want a career. I almost feel like Ariel in The Little Mermaid; I want to change my tail for legs so I can run and dance and be something more than confined to the small-town world of Mexia, Texas. There’s nothing here. Not for me.
“Mama, I love you and I loved growing up here. But I’ve grown out of this town. I need more. I need –”
“Now, bite your tongue, little miss. I’ve done raised you better than that. Ain’t nobody but a president going to be too big for this town. Mexia is a nice place. Did you forget we got the Target last year?” She’s got both hands gripping her hips. Not a good sign, but I can’t let this go.
“Yes, mama. But I want more than Target. I want to explore –”
“Well, now, hold on a minute, Sahara Smith. Are you saying you want to go an’ be like Sacajawea and lead an exploration or something?” She wipes some of her strawberry-blonde hair off her face.
I laugh but quickly silence it under my mama’s watchful eye. “No, mama. I’m just saying I want to experience something outside of Mexia.”
“Hmm. Outside of me. Is that it?” Her hands are back on her hips and her chin is jutted out. This is not going to end well.
“No, Mama, I will miss you. I just want to see what’s in the world besides Mexia.”
“Then open up a book or click-clack on that computer of yours. You can see all over the world on that contraption, can’t you now?” She points at my computer. The computer that I just received a great email on, but that’s not being received by my mama in the same way. She’s not opening up her arms to the idea at all but I’ve already decided.
“Yes, but it’s not the same thing. I want to see it for myself. I want to really be there. Not just see it on the screen.”
“I see.” She lets the “e” linger in the air and leaves me alone in our small kitchen that’s only big enough for two people to stand side by side, and now I’m standing all alone.
I’ve never been so alone. And my mama is still in our single wide. But it is so empty. The silence is louder than the sound of a cereal box being opened for the first time. The crunching. The tearing. It’s like my heart is being opened up but no milk-and-sugar-coated treats are being poured out. It’s just pain. Pure pain. It hurts bad. I need my mama. I need her to want this for me, too. Not to be against it or dismissive of it. I want her full-on support. I want her to make an afghan that reads “Go, Sahara, go” and I want her to really mean it. I want to know my mama believes in me. But this is silly, like most of my thoughts. My mama has never been a big supporter of Sahara or her ideas. And I’m sure she has already filed this into a compartment labeled Sahara’s failures. She had probably already rubber-stamped it so even before I began.
I shake my head as if I can shake off this sadness and sudden sensation of failure that is brimming over inside of me. But I’m not going to go there. No. Because I have a plan. Well, I have a semi-plan. I’ve been offered the job but my mama was right. I need a place to stay. I need to figure out if they have housing or maybe a discount for students at the factory. Shoot, I don’t even know. I’d better dig through my paperwork and find some answers. I step into my room and the sounds of my mama on the phone are coming through my wall. Granted, the wall is paper-thin. I can hear when my mama sighs in the next room. To overhear a phone conversation is not unusual. But this one is different. I’m not sure who she is talking to but it doesn’t sound like my mama’s normal voice. She tickers between a sweet tone and a commanding one. It sounds like she is trying to prove a point and win a battle. But she keeps back-peddling and if there is one thing my mama isn’t, it’s a back peddler. Who in all the great state of Texas could she be talking to? I tiptoe out of my room and sure enough her door is a bit cracked. I edge closer to it and it swings open.
“Well, now, Little Miss Career is being a nosey Nan? Sahara Smith, I know by the good Lord above I have raised you better than that.” She taps her foot on the floor. Her hands are pressed hard against her hips. This is my mama’s serious business stance. Shoot. I don’t want to add to the grief she’s already feeling for me. Now she is madder than a hive of bees that just got knocked off a maple tree.
“I’m sorry, Mama, I, um, didn’t realize you were on the phone.” I press my lips together because lord knows if I open my mouth another lie might fall out, and one is enough for a lifetime, especially told to my mama.
“You did not just lie to your mama, did you, Sahara? Shameful, Sahara, downright shameful. I tell you what. Why don’t you go and gather the clothes from the line for us? And then swing on over to Ms. Jenkins and see if she needs her floor scrubbed again?”
“Yes, Mama.” I shuffle outside and take all of our clothes off the line. I’m faster with our undergarments. I can’t believe my mama is still hanging them out here. I’m too old for our neighbors to see what I’ve got on underneath my clothes. That’s just not even right. Not one bit.
After I scrub down Ms. Jenkins’ kitchen, I make my way back to our home. Mama is not on the porch as I would have expected, or in the kitchen. I search the house. Which is not much of a search as the whole trailer is smaller than a public restroom with four stalls.
Mama is in her room, sitting on her bed, flipping through some book.
“Hey, Mama, I’m sorry about before.”
She slams the book shut and glares up at me like she’s seen a real ghost, not like Casper or anything cartooney.
“Hush now, Sahara, we’ve got too much to contend with to live in the past.” In one swift motion she is grabbing some big old suitcase from under her bed. “Now, here, you use this for your clothes. I’ve got you settled up to stay with an old family friend.”
“What? You found me a place to stay?” I clutch my chest hoping my heart doesn’t burst through my skin and hit my mama in the face or something crazy, like in one of those special effects movies. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Did my mama really just say she found me a place to stay?
“Yes, Sahara. Now let’s get you packed up. When does that training class start again?”
“Um… on Monday. Yes, Monday morning at eight a.m.”
“Well, what are you standing still for? You’ve got more things to do than Aunt Biddy on the first day of spring and she’s canning up her vegetables for the winter. Get to it now.”
I take in a deep breath. The blood in my brain is rushing around. Like I just finished a race. But in reality it’s because I’m actually doing this. I’m leaving, and my mama is putting forth an effort to help me.
I skedaddle out of the room with the suitcase in my hand. I dig through my closet and begin filling up the case with all the outfits I think I’ll need – which is basically everything I own. Because I don’t have an armoire full of clothes, or a wardrobe, or anything fancy like that. I head back to my mama’s room. She’s got out her handkerchief and is dabbing under her eye.
“You all right, Mama?”
“Yes, of course. You done packing?”
“I was wondering if I could take the bluebonnet bell with me?” I didn’t get it from the living room where it’s sat my entire life because I didn’t want to jinx it by touching it or moving it.
“The bluebonnet bell?” My mama gasps as if I had asked if I could hitch our trailer to the back of my car and take it with me. It’s just a ceramic bell and, though it isn’t worth much, it’s something I’ve always treasured. It’s something I see like a good luck charm, in a way. Whenever I had a big test at school I would swish by it real fast and blink my eyes and sure enough I always passed my test with flying colors.
“No, Sahara, that stays with the house. If you want a bluebonnet bell you’re going to have to earn that on your own.” My mama shakes her head and pushes past me. We’re still in the same house but it seems like there are already miles and miles between us. What will it be like when I’m really gone?
Ms. Fish, that’s my manager at Dairy Queen – well, my former manager’s name – is not exactly excited to see me say goodbye. She pretends to ignore me for the first part of our conversation and then goes into the freezer and hits the sides of the ice-cream containers for at least two minutes. When she returns she takes in a deep breath and plasters a smile across her face. I nod in response, not knowing exactly what I should do except get on with this moment.
It always seemed odd to have the name Fish in an ice-cream place but she usually joked it off, saying she was a cold fish about everything except being successful. Ms. Fish would make sure a Blizzard was offered to every single customer or you would be on her Space List. She always said you could be on two lists at her store: the Fish List where you were doing everything right and were invited to the weekly fish fry (this happened on Saturday nights at her house), or the Space List. Her first name is Hailey. Of course, I would never call her by that out of respect, but it leads to her Space List like Hailey’s Comet. Every so often she would explain about Hailey’s Comet and how often it appeared and why it wasn’t the list you would want to be on. If you were on her Space List this meant you were not invited to the fish fry and the only type of annual bonus you would receive was an extra dollop of whatever you chose during our yearly meeting. Whenever she explained this to newbies, she would laugh and say that just because she spent all day in a freezer didn’t mean she was without a warm heart.
After I say goodbye to everyone at Dairy Queen I head back home to face another freezer. My mama. She has been frosty ever since I told her my news. I make my way through the house and eye my suitcase. Everything I own has been stuffed into the suitcase my mama offered to me. It had seemed so big at first and then very, very small as I zipped it up. My entire life being pushed into this vinyl case. Clothes, a few books, and zero trinkets. Not a one. I’m still bothered my mama wouldn’t let me take the bluebonnet bell. But it is what it is. There is no going back.
“Oh, well, for Pete’s sake, Sahara, that is not how you pack a suitcase. Haven’t you learned anything from me?” My mama tsks and begins dumping out my clothes and rolling them up and repacking everything. To be fair, this is the first suitcase I’ve ever packed, given that I’ve never been anywhere other than to spend the night at my friend Rachel’s house. And that was for only one night and I used my school book bag.
“All right now, there, you’re officially packed. So off you go. You best get a move on. You don’t want to be late for dinner or be driving in the dark. Heaven forbid you might get one of them flat tires or some other issues with that ridiculous contraption out front.” My mama shakes her head and taps her foot.
Poor Rontu would not appreciate these words from my mama. I know he is only a car and all, but still, it seems like he is more than a car to me. We’ve been through a lot together. He afforded me some independence to stretch my wings and make it to Dairy Queen on my own without asking anyone for a ride. Now he’s taking me out of this small town and out of the reach of my mama. My chest tightens. There is a tiny part of me that doesn’t want to leave my mama. But it’s not like I’m crossing state borders. Just a few hours’ drive away. We’ll still be under the same stars. But I’d best do like my mama says and get a move on as I don’t want to have a car failure on a long stretch of open Texas highway at night. The roads I’ll be traveling are barren. I know this for sure. There isn’t much between Mexia and Riverton. I’ve got to go.
“All right, Mama. I suppose this is goodbye for now.” I open my arms, expecting a hug in return but my mama pushes past me.
“Let me get the door for you. I suppose you’re looking for that kind of life where people open the doors for you. So let me go ahead and give you a taste of that.” My mama opens the door to our trailer and the Texas sun does not warm up the room. It’s cold. Colder than an ice-cream freezer. I rub my arms for a second, to give myself the courage to take the next step and move forward. This is it. I’m leaving. My mama wants me to go… without a hug. A lump forms in the back of my throat like a big iceberg that is cutting against my air tubes. I’m trying to breathe and move forward and hold back any kind of tears as I pass through our home. My home. But I’m moving on. I’m moving forward. I am. Onward and upward. I’m not going to cry. I need to be strong and show my mama that I can do this. I pass by her and our eyes meet. She presses her lips together and nods toward the car.
“All right, I’ll call you when I get there.”
“I might not be home. Got some appointments of my own to tend to tonight. But I suppose you can leave a message on that contraption you bought. If it’s even working.” She shrugs.
“I can go check and make sure.” I stop and put my suitcase down on the porch.
“No, Sahara. That won’t be necessary.” My mama shakes her head at me and I pick the suitcase back up and put it in the back seat. I stop once more and stare back at my mama. Her arms are crossed over her chest. She has on her nicest house coat. It’s hanging just above her calves. It doesn’t sway with the light breeze. It stands still just like my mama. No emotion. No sadness, no sorrow. No nothing.
I slide into the seat. It’s almost as though Rontu wants to hug me and tell me it’s okay. Tell me I’m going to be okay and to go ahead and start the engine and this trip up. I glance in the rearview mirror. My mama is nowhere in sight. She is gone. Not even going to watch me drive away from the porch.
The sun isn’t setting in the distance but it sure is setting on the park – not like a playground park; I mean the trailer park – as I edge off the gravel and little chunks flick up behind Rontu. We make it onto paved road and I’m steering us further down the road. We’re leaving Mexia. I’m leaving. I’m leaving my mama and everything I’ve ever known. I’m driving past trees and fields and things I’ve never seen before because I’ve never left the city limits before. There was never a reason to, especially not after the Target was built, but now I’m past the county line. The further I travel, a bit more of the sadness lifts off my skin. I wish my mama would have given me a proper goodbye but maybe that’s just not the way to handle things. Maybe the way she did it is how it’s supposed to be. Maybe she’s right. But if I were in her place I think I would break those rules and give my daughter a real hug goodbye. A little tear slips from my eye. Nope, don’t do it, Sahara. You’re about to be a professional. Showing up at Ms. Myra’s house has got to be a hundred percent professional. No tears. No silly emotions. Be a straight shooter, a yes mam, and get things done.
Yes, this is the new Sahara. The one that takes care of things. The one that reaches for the stars and builds the space ship to make it happen. I did it. I found out about Eagle Online. Listened to the fancy commercial and filled out all the forms online. I did that. No one else. And now look at me, en route to my new career. My new life. My new everything.
Chapter Two (#u1b87b122-9177-5d6e-8cbe-35cd303bdaa3)
I check my instructions once more to make sure this is the right spot. The house is bigger than our trailer. It looks like one of those storybook kinds of houses with some pretty green bushes out front and a tree plonked right dead gum center in the yard. There are little colorful flowers peeking out from every nook and cranny. This sure does look like a nice place to live. I hope Ms. Myra is okay about my being here. Given it was last minute and all.
I knock on the door and it swings wide open. The lady in the doorway has a grin bigger than the one my daddy used to wear on payday. Her hair is parted to the side and it reminds me of a sunset at the end of summer when I was wanting to stay out later and wait for the fireflies to pop up. But I wouldn’t even need to wait for the fireflies to pop up here. Ms. Myra’s eyes are sparkling like firecrackers.
“Hi, Ms. Myra?” I reach out my hand to shake and she pulls me in and hugs me into a deep embrace. And my heart flips over inside of my body. Wow. Little butterflies of happiness sail around in my arms. This woman sure does know how to hug and we haven’t even met before.
She pats down my hair. “Well, Sahara. You have grown into such a beautiful young woman.” Her smile softens for a second. “I mean, well, your mama would send me a school photo from time to time.” Ms. Myra focuses on the ends of my hair. “It’s just been a while since I’ve gotten one.”
“Oh, wow. That’s nice to hear.” I feel sillier than the day I showed up to school with my pajama bottoms on instead of pants like everyone else. I made it all the way to school without realizing I had my gingerbread cookie pj’s on. It only took another silly Sahara move a few months later to replace the name of Sahara Cookie to Sahara Sundae.
“Yes, well, come on in now. Let’s get you settled.” Ms. Myra reaches for my bag but I don’t release it. I know manners are manners but I’m younger. I should be carrying my own bags.
“Thank you, Ms. Myra. I can carry it.”
“I suppose my hands aren’t what they used to be.” She waves me into her house and takes a deep breath. “So this is the living room area. Your room is right this way.”
I follow behind her down a small hallway and take a right into a bedroom comparable to the one I had back at home. A single bed is laid out with a purple bedspread and some sort of crochet or yarn blanket over the end of it. Along with fluffy pink pillows held together by a big lacey bow. It’s so pretty.
“This is really nice. Thank you for taking me in. With the short notice and all.” I lay my suitcase down on the bed and take in Ms. Myra. She appears a bit older than my mama but much thinner. Not in a work-out-too-much way. But in a frailness way, like she might blow away if even a hint of a strong Texas wind came through.
“You bet. Now, we must go over some rules. Weekday curfew is eleven p.m. And Friday and Saturday nights you can stay out till midnight but not later. I talked to your mama about a chore list. So I made one up for you. It’s there on your dresser.” Ms. Myra points to a piece of white, lined paper.
“Yes, ma’am, and I’m happy to help with the cooking, too. I can’t make anything fancy. But it’s edible. At least that’s what my mama always says.” I let out a slight laugh. A bit of nervousness really, and I’m hopeful that she doesn’t think that was disrespectful to say.
“We can take turns. Now, I’ll let you get settled.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Me, too,” falls from my lips and, as the words make it to my ears, I begin to appreciate this is actually true. Being in this house is nice and different. Ms. Myra leaves me alone in the room. My room. Temporarily. But yet it seems like something more than a temporary situation. The hug from Ms. Myra is still doing me in over all the emotions of leaving my house and my mama. And forcing myself not to cry. It’s best I take a shower and clean everything from me. Maybe washing away some of these emotions will help.
Ms. Myra is up before me and has a nice breakfast laid out. I do my best to eat as quickly as I can as I don’t want to be late on my first day. Then I hustle myself to the creamery and try dialing my mama a few times. It is possible that she hasn’t left for work yet herself. The phone rings and rings on an endless loop of “I’m not going to pick up for you, Sahara.”
I put my phone back into my purse and scurry my way into the building. My shoulders slump and I raise them up. She probably thinks there is nothing to talk about. Definitely, there’s nothing my mama could say that would change my mind. I’m here. And I’ve had a warm welcome and everything. I don’t know why I’ve never heard of Ms. Myra but it seems to me she knows a lot more about me than I do about her. Which is really about as much as a mosquito knows after they taste their first bit of blood and then die.
Course, my mama wouldn’t want me pondering about mosquitoes, or as she would say, Sahara, you just got to smack them skeeters and keep going. Ain’t nothing the matter with leaving the screen up on the windows. You just have to go to sleep. And then I’d wake up itching and scratching. There is a different kind of itch inside me now. The one to succeed. I want to be better than the little girl waking up in the middle of the night itching the bites. I want to take a bite out of this world and be somebody. I’m ready for this. I love my mama with all my heart. But I can’t scoop ice cream for another day in my life, at least not for a job. No, my path is being paved with flavors and samples, no more scooping for the masses.
Or so I thought. I stare up at Mr. Flints. He’s an average height guy, missing most of his hair, and he’s got a pair of glasses on with a mustache underneath his nose that makes it all look like a costume for Halloween or something. Even though I’m sure it’s not. I don’t think Blue Ribbon Creamery would allow their managers to wear costumes every day.
I’m ready to take down notes on whatever wisdom about Blue Ribbon Creamery he is going to tell us. I heard from a few other girls in the ladies’ room that he has worked here for longer than he can probably remember. I giggle for a moment. Shoot, I don’t want him to think I’m not taking this training seriously. I most definitely am. This is the most important class of my life. Even more important than my high-school education, as this one is going to land me with a job as an associate product developer. I imagine the flavor-developing spot is filled with baskets of fruits, nuts, cakes and candies.
“Now, new recruits, everyone that works for Blue Ribbon has to go through six weeks of our intensive training course in order to move on to the position you were hired for.” Mr. Flints taps on his paper. “The first thing you will learn is how to properly scoop ice cream.”
I scrunch up my eyes. Sure, I thought I was done scooping ice cream when I was offered a position as a product developer, but now I have to learn how to scoop properly? What does that even mean? I’ve been scooping ice cream at Dairy Queen for the past six years. I’m sure if anybody in this room knows how to scoop ice cream properly it’s me.
“Miss.” Mr. Flints is staring at me. Oh shoot, I hope it didn’t seem like I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t want to get in trouble on my first day.
“Yes, sir?” I raise my eyebrows at him. I’m sure now I appear to be paying full attention.
“It says here on your resume that you have worked at Dairy Queen for the past several years. Why don’t you come up here and show us how they scoop ice cream at Dairy Queen?” Mr. Flints’ voice changes a bit when he says Dairy Queen, almost as if saying those two words makes him sicker than a dog after digging through a dumpster. I don’t know why that would be; Dairy Queen is a nice establishment with good food. Ha, well, good-tasting food. That’s what my mama always says. Not everything you eat has to be healthy, Sahara. I sure do miss her. I hope she’s okay. When I left it didn’t go over as I had hoped it would. She barely put her knitting needles down long enough to let me hug her goodbye.
“Miss?”
Uh oh, Mr. Flints is waiting on my response. I stand up. My hands are a little shaky. I need to remedy that before I begin scooping. I stroll my way to the front of the class like I’m all alone walking in a field of bluebonnets.
“Yes, sir.” I stand next to him in front of the class. There are about thirty other recruits in the room. And all sixty eyes are on me. Me, Mr. Flints, and the ice cream. A stack of bowls is next to the ice cream and several white plastic spoons. I figure I’m supposed to dish up ice cream for the class.
I bet my friend Sally Jane would be in a hysterical fit of giggles right now, knowing I left Dairy Queen because I didn’t want to scoop ice cream anymore only to show up on my first day at Blue Ribbon and have to scoop up ice cream.
“All right, here is the ice-cream scoop. Show us how you folks do it at Dairy Queen.” Mr. Flints nods at me.
“Yes, sir, will do.” I pick up the metal scooper and lift off the ice-cream lid. I try and think of some fancy way to impress Mr. Flints and the class, but my mind, as usual, is empty.
I dig into the ice cream and round the vanilla as best I can before dropping it into the Styrofoam bowl.
Mr. Flints nods. “Exactly. This is the wrong way to scoop ice cream. Thank you, miss…”
“Sahara, sir, my name is Sahara Smith.” I offer my hand.
He shakes it. “Sahara, hmm, that’s an interesting name.” He squints his eyes at me, like he’s trying to figure out why my name is Sahara. I’ve seen this look only every other day in my life.
“Please take your seat, Sahara.”
“Yes, sir.” I make my way back to my seat and notice all eyes are back on Mr. Flints, except one pair of sky blues. Those dreamy blues are watching me walk all the way to my seat. My cheeks flush and I sit down as quick as I can. I pick up my pen ready to jot down whatever special way Mr. Flints is going to instruct the class, as I obviously have failed in my first chance to impress him. I blow out through my lips.
Mr. Flints pulls out a sharp shiny knife from his white coat pocket. “Now, class, what I have here is a sharp knife. Before class I heated some water.” He lifts the cup in front of him and then sticks the knife into the water. He shakes it off and then picks up the ice-cream container. “What I’m doing is cutting a grid into the ice cream with my knife.” He slices squares into the ice-cream container and then places the knife on the table. Mr. Flints picks up the ice-cream scooper, dips it in the cup, shakes it off and scoops up a rounded dollop of ice cream.
“You there, front row.”
A bouncy, brown-haired girl pops up out of her seat. “Yes, Mr. Flints?”
“Here, pass out ice cream to the class, and Sahara you can come and help. Maybe Dairy Queen has shown you the proper way to offer ice cream to a customer… hmm?”
“Yes, sir.” I nod. Maybe putting Dairy Queen on my resume had been a bad idea. I sure thought it would show I had relevant work experience, but it seems like maybe it’s giving me a ding or a black mark, like I’m the spotted egg at the Farmer’s Market. I shake my head and scrape my chair back.
Great, I get to walk up in front of the entire class again and come face to face with each class mate after I’ve already failed once. Shoot. This is not going well. I scoot my way up to his desk and pick up as many ice-cream bowls as I can and pass them out while trying to avoid eye contact as I loop each aisle. Bouncy, brown-haired girl is fast and there are only two more cups, one for me and one for… oh… dreamy blue eyes staring at me. I check out his desk and it’s empty. Bouncy, brown-haired girl has already taken her seat. I take the last two bowls of ice cream and try my best not to stumble over my two feet as I get within steps of Dreamy’s desk. I place the bowl on his desk with the spoon and he reaches for it and grazes my hand with his own. I peek at him and he smiles.
I’m warmer than my Aunt Nanny’s house in the dead heat of August, bless her heart. She’s only got a window unit and it’s always on the fritz. I blow air over my face as I sit down in my seat. Good thing we’re eating ice cream, as I need to cool down.
Mr. Flints pulls down a white screen from the wall and flips on the projector thing on his desk. I remember seeing slides in grade school. The first slide that pops up is the logo for Blue Ribbon Creamery – I suppose this is to remind us where we are. I glance around. I can’t imagine anyone not knowing where they are. The next slide is about Blue Ribbon’s company rules. I pick up my pen and write out as many as I can before the screen changes. I’m not sure why Blue Ribbon doesn’t just have a manual for us to read, but it seems like Mr. Flints is inside my head, responding that it makes more sense for us to write it down because then we might actually remember it. I suppose he might be right. But my hand is starting to cramp. I haven’t had to do this much writing since I don’t know when. I scan the room and the majority of the class have their own laptops. I don’t own one. I brought my computer with me, but it’s not a laptop. I hope to buy one with my first paycheck, that is, if I’m making decent money. I still don’t know what the pay rate is for the training. I know it’s not the same as it will be when I start my product developer position. Exactly how much less I probably should have found out, but I was so dadgum excited I just said yes. I probably would have signed my life away that day I was in such a daze.
Mr. Flints must have dismissed class as everyone is standing and heading toward the exit. I stick all my notebooks and pens in my bag and hustle after them. I don’t want to be left alone in the room with Mr. Flints. Who knows what else he might want to quiz me on.
I exit the room without any further words from Mr. Flints. I let out a sigh.
“Hey there, you want to grab lunch together?” Dreamy blue eyes is speaking to me. Me. Sahara Smith, the girl that just messed up on how to scoop ice cream. He must think I’m a charity case.
“That’s all right, you’d probably be better off joining someone else.” I step on ahead. I’m not going to be somebody’s good deed. No sirree, my mama did not raise anybody looking for a handout. Nope.
“I doubt that.” Dreamy Blues is at my side. He’s got to be at least a foot taller than me. And I’m no shrinking violet or however that phrase is supposed to go. What I mean is I’m not short or dainty. My daddy was tall, at least that’s what my mama always said. I hardly remember what he looks like as he left when I was little. I was ten, just turned into double digits. I had been looking forward to crossing over from single digits to doubles for, shoot, as long as I could remember. But, things didn’t turn out as I had imagined and that was the year my daddy decided to leave before it was time for me to blow out the ten candles on my cake. My mama tried to make an excuse at the party about him being called in to work, but everybody knew he hadn’t been to work in weeks.
It’s lunch time and I didn’t pack my lunch as I left Ms. Myra’s in a rush this morning, not wanting to be late on my first day. Ms. Myra is definitely older than my mama by a few years but the way she moves makes her seem much frailer than her years give away. Her frame is thinner than a popsicle stick and easily blown away but that didn’t stop her last night from wanting to be firm with me. She was like a teacher wanting to establish ground rules on the first day of class. She talked about weekday and weekend curfews and such, which seems a bit strict as I am over twenty-two years of age. I could buy a can of beer if I wanted to, though I never have. The smell of it makes me sick. Reminds me of my dad. I shake off that thought.
Blue eyes is holding on to my arm. “Are you okay?”
I eye his hand. It’s large and holding on to my arm. I follow his knuckles, which are grasping my turquoise buttoned shirt, along his arm and up to his big shoulders. My mama would call them farming shoulders, square and huge, good for hauling in hay barrels and the like. On the side of his neck, a vein is popping wildly like it’s trying to send me a Morse code message or something. His jaw is big, too, and chiseled, clean-shaven; that’s a good thing, I suppose. Not that I care. I’m not here for a romance or anything like that. I’m here to better myself and have a real career. Nonetheless, my eyes make their way up his face until our eyes are staring directly into each other’s. I gasp.
I must look like an idiot. I can’t help it. This guy looks like one of those commercial models for a cologne or something.
“Are you okay? Sahara, right?”
I blink my eyes. “Yes, I’m fine.” I glance down at his hand again. It’s still holding on to my arm.
“Oh, sorry. You just seemed like you were upset.” Blue Eyes releases my arm.
“No, not upset at all.” Crap, now not only do I look like an idiot, I sound like one, too. I probably should try and be nice to this guy. Besides him being beautiful to look at, he’s the only person at Blue Ribbon that has spoken to me other than Mr. Flints, and that did not go over well.
“Hi, yes, my name is Sahara. What’s yours?” I offer my hand.
He takes my hand in his and shakes it nicely, nicer than I can ever remember my hand being shaken before. His hand is warm and heavy. Kind of reminds me of my teddy bear; I’ve had it forever and slobbered on it in my sleep so it’s a bit rough in parts, but still my Mr. Bear is my favorite and I’m not ever going to let him go.
“Brandon B-Rollins. Nice to meet you.”
I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at his pronunciation of his name. Is he nervous? Or maybe he’s got a speech impediment or something. That would explain why he would want to talk to me; he probably realizes we are similar. I certainly don’t look like the rest of the class. I did put on my most professional outfit for today, which consists of my nice buttoned-down blouse and grey slacks; I don’t own a blazer but I suppose it’s not necessary for training anyways. Maybe after I get my first paycheck I will buy one. Mexia isn’t exactly the mecca of fine clothing! It was only last year that we got a Target; this outfit is from the Mossimo collection and I think it looks nice. But compared to the rest of the class, I think it’s pretty clear who got their outfit at Target and who didn’t.
“Nice to meet you. Where are you from?” I’m going to let the B-Rollins pass. I don’t want to embarrass him, especially if he has an actual speech problem.
“I, uh, grew up pretty close to here. What about you?”
“Mexia – you know, like Anna Nicole Smith?” I probably shouldn’t have mentioned her. Her life was full of scandal and sorrow, nothing that I would want. I mean, I like that she moved away from Mexia but her life wasn’t exactly one I would want to mirror, especially the stripping part, no sirrree. I’d rather scoop buckets of turd for the rest of my life than strip down for a bunch of dirty old men. Yuck.
Brandon laughs. “Anna Nicole Smith? Didn’t she die a few years ago?”
I’m not sure why he would be laughing about somebody’s death. Maybe he is just awkward. “Yes, she did, very tragically, bless her heart.” I stop in front of the cafeteria. Through the glass windows I can see rows of tables filled with businesslike-looking people with their suits and ties and nice skirts, and then there is a table of some of my classmates. I swallow – kind of reminds me of high school. I was never fond of the cafeteria. Even in Mexia there were cliques. I’m hesitant to revisit those memories. Maybe I ought to skip lunch today and wait outside in the courtyard or something.
“Come on, aren’t you going to get some lunch?” Brandon pushes open the door and waves me in. My hesitation is diminished by viewing his large arm and his welcoming me into the lunchroom. I guess it might be okay if I were to eat with him, if this is an invitation for that.
“Yes, I suppose I will.” I push past him and make my way toward the cafeteria line. I’m not a fan of cafeteria food. But now that I’ve already said I’ll have lunch I have to decide which pig slop I’m going to shovel down my throat.
Pale – obviously canned – green beans, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes and fried chicken sit in rectangular silver dishes. I’m no gourmet food person, but I can tell the difference between canned and frozen beans. My mama always switched to canned food toward the end of the month. I always knew funds were getting tight, as she would say, when the can opener became a daily utensil in our house. My mama supported us on her cleaning job and making blankets for all her friends and their babies. But even with the extra blanket money, one thing or another would come up and we’d be eating canned food again. Canned beans aren’t bad, but the green vegetables… no thank you. I slide my tray past all of the pre-packaged, preservative-stuffed food and opt for the salad bar. At least there I can mix and match some of the fresh vegetables and add some of my favorite sunflower seeds. Brandon is at my heels except he’s managed to fill up his tray with almost every item being offered. I understand a man of his size might need more to eat than me, but, shoot, he looks like he thinks he is a camel and not going to see food for months.
I finish sorting through the veggies and head for the register. I pull my wallet out of my purse and Brandon tries to offer the cashier a twenty-dollar bill for our food.
“Now, hold on a second, you can’t pay for my meal.” I wave his money away. “I’m sorry about that. Here is my money for my lunch.” I give the cashier a ten-dollar bill and she hands me the change with a discerning look. Did she expect me to let him pay for my food? I only met him two shakes of a lamb’s tail ago.
I scan the cafeteria seating options and Brandon nods toward an empty table. I follow behind him, admiring his build; if thoughts were sins, I would be needing to do some serious penance right now. Brandon sits down at the white and metal table and I take the seat in front of him.
“So, do you always try and pay for strangers’ meals?” I raise an eyebrow at him as I take a bite of my salad. It’s crunchy, but for a salad this is a good thing. I can’t stand when my salad is wilted. What’s the point in eating rotten food?
“Sorry about that; I just usually pay if I’m with a lady.” Brandon shovels some mashed potatoes into his mouth. His eyes are inspecting my face, like I’m a map and he’s figuring out how to get from point A to point B.
I laugh. “But Brandon, you just met me a minute ago and we aren’t really together. I mean, we are together physically, but we’re classmates. Would you pay for all your female classmates’ food?”
The sides of Brandon’s mouth pull up and his teeth are showing: big, white, healthy teeth. My mama would declare that this man comes from good stock after eyeing those chompers.
“If we had walked in together like you and I did, then, yes, I would offer to pay. I’m sorry if that bothered you; it’s how I was raised.” Brandon winks at me.
I’m going to melt in my chair. And it is really tepid in here, reminds me of working at Dairy Queen; they always keep the temperature at seventy degrees so as to keep the ice cream from forming big puddles in the buckets. Nobody likes drippy ice cream.
“Well, that solves that, thank you. What position are you looking to be hired for after the training is up?”
“Not sure, that’s still up in the air. I want to try all of the positions so that I can really get a good feel for the organization. I know that when Richard Blue started the company, he worked every position and requires this of all of his executive staff.” He pauses and stares into my eyes, like he’s thinking about whether or not to share something with me. “I will be following in his path.” Brandon takes another large bite of his fried chicken.
I try and swallow all the information he’s given. He’s headed for the executive path? I know Blue Ribbon says they require all employees to go through the training program, but I didn’t think this applied to the executive staff.
“Where did you go to school?” I let my curiosity jump out from underneath me. I wish I could pull that question back in and try to say it softer… but too late, it’s already out there. I know he must have gone to school somewhere because there is no way he thinks he can be an executive for Blue Ribbon if he doesn’t have a degree. I know this because I had to have a degree in order to advance to the next level of product development, which is by no means equal to the executive level.
“East of here, how about you?” Brandon takes a big bite of his buttery roll. I wish I had grabbed a buttery roll, but that wasn’t an option with the salad, just those darn white flakey crackers, which probably aren’t meant for the salad but for the soup.
“I got my degree with Eagle Online.” I’m still proud of that degree. Of course, it’s only been a month since I finished all of my courses. I could have driven to the graduation ceremony but that would have cost a pretty penny. So I just watched the video presentation; they said they would read all the students’ names even if they weren’t there. And sure enough they read my name… wrong. Sarah, my name is not Sarah. It’s Sahara… I don’t understand how a college person would get the pronunciation wrong, as if they couldn’t read each letter. I suppose they read over what letters are there and autocorrect them in their brain.
Brandon nods at me. “Isn’t that the place that says: accreditation is just a word?”
I pull back my head for second. “I think that’s the saying, why?”
Brandon shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone who went there.”
I look at Brandon closely, trying to work out if he’s looking down on me, on account of his own fancy college education.
He catches my look and says, “I just didn’t know it was a real university.”
I nod. But I’m anything but agreeing with him or the situation. Shoot. What have I got myself into? Here I am in front of Mr. Blue-eyed Dreamboat and he swipes the carpet from beneath me. Is he saying that my degree isn’t real because it didn’t come from a college like his? All the hours I spent studying and the money I paid for it tells me everything I need to know. They have a TV commercial and everything. Maybe he is wrong or maybe he is just cynical; yeah, he is probably just a spoilsport. Given his looks and all he has, he’s probably never had to struggle and just views the world and regular people’s lives as a joke or something. That must be it.
“It’s, uh, my degree is in business. After the training program is up I’ll be a product development associate here at the creamery.” I raise my shoulders and let out a deep breath. “Of course, that’s if I pass… which is unlikely given I already messed up scooping ice cream.” No degree, from Eagle Online or otherwise, can make up for this morning’s embarrassment. I bat my eyelashes – I can’t believe I messed that one up. I bet Sally Jane would be laughing up a storm about it if she ever found out, which hopefully she won’t.
Brandon’s eyebrows wiggle together. “I’m sure you’ll pass. Don’t worry about Mr. Flints… he’s worked here for ages and likes to give the newbies a tough time. Especially, given… well, I wouldn’t mention Eagle Online in front of him.”
What the what? Now, I need to be hiding my degree and school from our instructor? I’m proud of getting my degree. I worked hard for it, and I’m still paying off the loan I had to take out. And now this rich kid who’s probably had an easy life is telling me I should be ashamed of what I’ve achieved? I should put him in his place, but my mama raised me better than that, so I keep my mouth shut.
But maybe he knows something I don’t. He seems to know a heck of a lot more about Blue Ribbon Creamery than I do, and he is on the executive path. I start to feel a chill down my spine like a bunch of night critters are making a meal out of me. I won’t let him see that he’s got to me, though. “Huh… how long you reckon Mr. Flints has worked here?”
Brandon casts his dreamy blues up to the ceiling, which is covered by bright fluorescent lights. I jerk my head back and blink. Ouch.
“Hmm, he must have worked here for at least twenty years, I remember… er, I think someone mentioned earlier that he had been here for a long time.” He nods. “Anyways, who really cares, right? This isn’t exactly the crème de la crème of factories… at least not given the owner.” He clears his throat.
“It’s the best creamery in the US… even if you count the place in Vermont.” Not that this matters. I need to focus his attention away from me and my degree at Eagle Online. “Twenty years, he must be nearing retirement then, right?” Please, let this be the case. Surely, if the deep dagger of a reality check that is piercing my side and causing spots behind my eyes brighter than a blue light special at K-Mart is trying to alert me to the fact that Brandon is right about my degree, then I have messed up bigger than the time I couldn’t figure out how to turn off the swirl ice-cream machine on my first day at Dairy Queen. It just kept spinning vanilla and chocolate swirls onto the floor and filling every container I held up until it finally ran out and our floor was covered in melted ice-cream mess. Dorothy almost tripped, which would have been her fourth worker’s comp claim in the past year, and I ended up in more hot water than the laundry mat on payday.
“Oh I’ll bet he’ll be teaching classes until he takes his last breath. He’s been a pillar of Blue Ribbon since the beginning and I think he’s in good with the Blue family or something. Has to be the only reason they keep him around, right?” Brandon laughs.
I let out a polite laugh. I don’t want to sit dead pan for Brandon’s attempt at a joke, but I’m definitely not going to be gossiping about other employees and the Blue family. Shoot, no. I know lines and when not to cross them. I dig in my purse for my phone and check out the time. I want to dash off and look up Eagle Online on the internet but there is a part of me that wants to bury my head in a pile of chocolate chips and pretend that I’ve drowned. Because death by chocolate seems like a nice way to go and you don’t really need water to feel like you’re drowning. I couldn’t be anymore drowning than in this moment. I’ve got to get out of here.
“We have to be back in class in five minutes.” I stand up.
“It’s only around the corner.” Brandon jerks his back.
“I need to visit the ladies’. It was nice chatting with you.”
I don’t wait for him to say the same. I’ve got to make it to the ladies’ and back to the classroom in less than five minutes and I wouldn’t be surprised if there is a line. Lord knows there are lots of ladies who work here.
I rush through the cafeteria and out the door. The restrooms are at the end of the hall. If this wasn’t my first day on the job and I was alone, I would run, but like my mama always says, have decorum, Sahara, know your manners. I push the door open and hike my way through the room to find an empty stall.
“Hey there, new girl?”
I jerk my head back. Is this voice talking to me? I ignore it and go about my business, flush and stalk my way to the sink. An older woman is washing her hands next to me.
“Listen here, new girl, you be careful around that boy.”
“Ma’am?” I don’t mean her any disrespect but I’ve got to make it to class and I’m not sure why she is telling me to be careful around… Brandon.
“Just be careful.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I nod and hike out of the ladies’ as fast as I can without running. I could probably qualify for the walking event in the Olympics. I’m sure I look ridiculous swinging my arms up and down but I’ve got to make it to room 771 in less than a minute. I slide in through the closing door.
Mr. Flints is at the front of the class with some odd-looking metal contraption and his eyes are on me. I sure hope he hasn’t been looking over my resume. Good grief, Sahara, what have you gotten yourself into? I slide my way to the back of the class but as I pass Brandon’s desk he hands me a small piece of white paper. Is he passing me a note in class? Does he want me to get in trouble? I sure hope Mr. Flints didn’t pick up on that. I grab it and stick it in my pocket as I sit down. The note is like a fire blazing on a hot July night and I’m fanning myself in the back of the class trying not to sweat. I slowly retrieve the note and open it up. Written are two words and ten numbers that flicker through my chest like a swarm of bees buzzing at a hive. Call me.
Chapter Three (#ulink_b5b71cdc-e4b8-5b81-86aa-025bb35c8925)
After class I scramble to my car and hop in. I saved up for three whole summers to buy Rontu. I thought that was the right name for my brown Chevette. It reminded me of the dog in Island of the Blue Dolphins. I just knew when I laid eyes on it at the flea market that Rontu and I would go on great adventures. Sure, most folks don’t think Chevettes are great cars, but I knew it would be solid and make for great companionship. Shoot, look at us now. Sitting in the parking lot of Blue Ribbon Creamery. First day of training was, I guess, a fifty-fifty. I didn’t scoop ice cream right… but I did meet somebody really nice. My chest tightens. I glance out into the parking lot; most of the cars are gone. Brandon is hustling toward me. I swallow. What am I going to say? What is he going to say?
His face lights up like the first day of spring and everybody is headed to Dairy Queen for their free scoop of ice cream.
“Hey there.” He leans into my car window. His body is so large I have to back up or else our faces would be touching. And by our faces I mean our lips. They are so close. The lump in the back of my throat grows bigger, like it’s one of those ridiculous-size jawbreakers that nobody could even fit in their mouth – well, except Suzie T, but that’s not nice to say; I can almost hear my mama clearing her throat in disapproval.
“Hey.” I kick my own foot. Hey? Why can’t I ever think of something clever? Well, I suppose that’s because I’m Sahara… and unfortunately Sahara is not clever. Especially with her degree that’s not good enough for the creamery. I frown.
Brandon squints his eyes at me. “Do you want to grab something to eat?”
I laugh. “Are you trying to come up with another way of buying me a meal?”
Brandon flashes his healthy chompers at me again. “It wasn’t going to be as fancy as the cafeteria but I have a couple of bucks in my wallet and the dollar menu sounds like a good idea. What do you say?”
My eyebrows push together. Is he serious? I’m too embarrassed to ask. “Maybe another time. I’ve got to get home and study.”
Brandon jerks his head back at me. “Study for what?’
“For this class we’re in. Aren’t you going to?”
His knuckles brush against his chin like he’s thinking of something. “How about we study together?” His dreamy blues stare down into my eyes and my chest tightens like a rattlesnake is cutting off my air supply. “Starbucks and study time, yes?”
“All right.” I can’t imagine Brandon’s ever heard the word no. He’s so confident and those eyes of his are about the prettiest things I’ve ever seen.
“Do you want to ride with me?” He raises an eyebrow at me.
“No, I’ll follow in my car.”
He nods and strolls to a big silver truck. I’m sure that thing cost a fortune. It’s so fancy-looking. Here I am in my beat-up…
“I’m sorry, Rontu.” I know I didn’t say it out loud but it’s like Rontu and I are connected somehow and, even though he’s a car, it just didn’t seem the right thing to say or think. He has really been a worthwhile investment for me.
I follow behind Brandon’s pricey truck and flip on some tunes to ease my nerves. That guy makes my insides dance around like a bunch of Mexican jumping beans. As the twang of the guitar slides through my speakers, I’m immediately at ease. I sure do like Patsy Cline and “Walking After Midnight” is one of my favorite songs. I know it’s sad but it reminds me of my daddy. Like maybe somehow his leaving was not on purpose. I wonder sometimes if he got lost and is still trying to find his way back to our home. To me and my mama. Though I don’t know if my mama would welcome him back in as it’s been twelve years since he left.
As I park my car I glance at Brandon’s truck. It’s so sparkly and nice, just like Brandon. Why is something that shiny acting interested in me? My stomach clenches and I hop out of my car.
Brandon holds open the door for me and we make our way to the register. I scan the different options and decide to order one of their tiramisu lattes. Whipped cream in the afternoon, is there anything better? I think not.
I reach into my purse to take out my card and Brandon pushes my hand back in my purse.
“Come on now, it’s only coffee.” His dreamy blues make my knees all wobbly.
I sigh. “Okay. Thank you. I’d like a tiramisu latte.”
“Whoa… I said coffee not the works.” Brandon laughs.
I reach back in my purse.
“Sahara, I’m kidding.” He shakes his head at me. “Two tiramisus, please.”
The cashier takes our names and rings us up. We step to the side while they make our drinks.
“You’re something else.” Brandon tugs on my hair.
“I could say the same about you.” I poke his side.
“Sarah and Brandon.” The employee shouts.
We both laugh as if we knew it would be Sarah and not Sahara. Brandon grabs our drinks and I follow behind him to the back of the café. We sit down, me with my notes and Brandon with his laptop.
“I bet you get that all the time, huh?”
I laugh. “More times than I can count.”
“It is an interesting name, though. Are your parents big travelers?”
I laugh even harder now. Brandon is staring at me like I’ve got a clown wig on or something.
“I’m sorry. It’s just the idea of my parents as travelers… well, that’s just funny. I guess, I mean my daddy might be. He left on my tenth birthday, so who knows what he’s up to; maybe he is a big traveler.”
“Oh, gosh, that must have been really difficult.”
“I suppose, but there’s no going back and changing things, so…” I take a sip of my drink.
The sides of Brandon’s mouth pull up higher than the sunrise at noon. I’m not sure why he thinks my daddy leaving is funny. I’m about to stand up and leave as he leans in to me and wipes my nose.
“Sorry, you had some whipped cream on your nose.” His eyes twinkle at me.
My face heats up and I’m not sure which is worse: that I had whipped cream on my nose or that Brandon thought it was funny. Does he think I’m a fool? My shoulders slump to the floor.
“Hey, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Do you know how cute you look when you’re pouting?” Brandon squeezes my hand. His fingers are a little rough but the warmth of his skin makes me all sensitive inside. How is he causing all these emotions when I only just met him?
I stare back into his eyes. “I’m not pouting.”
“Okay.” Brandon grins. “So tell me about your name. I’m curious.”
I sigh. I really don’t want to share this with Brandon. I’m afraid he’ll think it’s silly or think less of my family.
“My mama said she named me Sahara because I was going to be something special, like the desert.” Brandon’s eyes are sparkling at me. I hesitate for a second. “But when my daddy left he said that my mama lied and that she had just misspelled Sarah because she was too doped up on hospital drugs when she filled out the form.” I swallow hard but the lump in the back of my throat doesn’t move.
“Wow.” Brandon shakes his head. “Your dad.” He stops speaking for a moment, almost as if he’s remembering an unwritten rule about talking badly about somebody else’s family. He lets out a sigh. “I like your name and think it suits you well.”
“Thank you. Now enough about me. We’re supposed to be studying here.” I tap on my papers. They look so lame compared to Brandon’s laptop. I’m still not sure why he is sitting here next to me. We are like the dry cleaner’s and the laundromat. Obviously from two different worlds. I’m sure his family life is probably as nice as his truck.
“How about I quiz you?” Brandon winks at me.
“Okay and then I’ll quiz you.” I skim my notes as quickly as I can before Brandon can ask me the first question.
“I didn’t take you for the cheating type.” Brandon tugs the papers away from me.
“I wasn’t. I was just checking out my notes one last time.”
“Tell it to the judge.” Brandon laughs and shuffles the papers. “All right. What is Blue Ribbon’s number-one rule?”
I stare up at the ceiling. I know the answer is not going to be printed up there but for some reason it just seems like the right thing to do. Shoot. I can’t think of what the number-one rule is. Is it about safety? Or more about sales. I glance back at Brandon; he’s watching me with a big smile plastered across his face. I can’t help but smile back even though my insides are twisting together. I do not know the answer to his question.
“I’ll give you a hint.” Brandon’s eyes twinkle and his smile is brighter than the reflection of sundown on the tin foil over my Aunt Betty’s famous apple pie. I’m still stumped. I have no idea.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“A smile can go a long way.” Brandon lets out a small laugh.
“Ah, yeah, I suppose I forgot about that one. It’s the company tagline, right?” Gosh, I couldn’t feel worse right about now. I didn’t remember the company tagline; how am I supposed to pass any of the tests when I don’t even know the tagline? My insides feel shredded. I glance at my phone. It’s five after six.
“Yes, it is. All right, next question.” Brandon scans over my notes. A vibrating sound comes from underneath the table. He eyes his phone and holds up one finger to me.
“Hello… yes, this is Brandon. Yes, I’m working on… training just began. Yes, I will. All right. Bye.” His mind seems to be elsewhere as he stuffs his phone back in his pocket. What was that about? It’s not anything for me to worry about, that’s for sure.
I clear my throat and pick up my notes. “Actually, I’ve got to go. I promised Ms. Myra I’d eat dinner with her tonight and now I’m going to be late.” I stand up. Brandon’s eyes are wide. Does he think I’m dumber than a fruit fly? I sure wish I had wings right about now and I would flap them so fast and exit this shop before Brandon noticed I was gone.
“Oh, okay.” Brandon stands as well.
“Thanks for the latte.” I nod at him and hightail it out of there. My whole drive home I try not to slam my head onto my steering wheel. The only thing that prevents me from doing so is, one, Rontu wouldn’t appreciate it and, two, I might cause an accident. Other than that it seems like a great idea.
I scoot my way up the driveway and run to Ms. Myra’s front door. The kitchen light is on. I sure hope I haven’t ruined dinner. This would be our very first one together. I open the door and take a right to the kitchen. Ms. Myra’s house is what one might describe as quaint. It’s got three bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and only one bathroom. The bathroom part might be a problem for some folks but I’ve been sharing one with my mama since I was born. Ha, I mean once I was out of diapers.
“Hi, Ms. Myra. I hope I’m not late, I was studying.”
Ms. Myra has her back to me as she’s stirring a big pot of something on the stove. She slowly turns around and her smile tells me she isn’t mad.
“Not at all, dear. Now have a seat and tell me all about your day. How did you like Blue Ribbon?
“Yes, ma’am. I liked it a lot. Except I need to do some major studying as apparently I don’t know the proper way to scoop ice cream and I forgot about the number-one rule of the creamery.” I slide onto the vinyl green chair and then immediately hop up. “Can I help with something, Ms. Myra?”
“No, dear, tonight is my turn. You can take a turn another time.” Ms. Myra nods at me to take a seat. I reluctantly sit back down. It seems backwards for me to be sitting while she serves me. After her allowing me to stay with her an’ all.
“What’s the proper way to scoop ice cream? I would have thought someone from Dairy Queen would know.”
I laugh. “I would have thought that, too, but Mr. Flints seems to think not too kindly of Dairy Queen. Anyways, he said the proper way is to cut the ice cream with a warm knife first, like a grid.”
Ms. Myra brings the pot to the table and sloshes some of the chili onto the floor. “Oh, darn it.” She slides the pot on the table and reaches for a towel. Her legs slip a bit and she braces herself on the counter.
“Are you all right?” I jump to her side.
“Yes, dear. I’m just getting old, that’s all.”
I take the towel from her and clean up the mess.
She is still holding on to the sides of the counter like she might fall. I’m afraid to ask her if I can help. I don’t want to embarrass her. I pretend to clean the towel for longer than what would seem necessary at the sink until she lets go of the sides of the counter and slowly makes her way to the table like an inchworm. This is not the kind of movement I would expect of someone her age. If I had to guess I would say she’s got to be a few years older than my mama, but that would still make her under sixty.
I sit down at the seat in front of her and smile. “Thanks for making dinner. It smells delicious.”
“Oh, thank you, Sahara – that’s very kind of you.” She grins back at me.
My heart is warming all over. There is something about her that makes me want to rush to her side and hug her. Like I’ve known her my whole life or something.
“Tell me about the rest of your day. Did you meet any new friends?” She takes a scoop of the chili. I notice the cornbread is sitting on the counter and I step up and grab it along with the butter.
“Good call.” She nods at the cornbread. “Now, quit stalling. Did you meet a boy?”
I laugh. “Yes, ma’am, there are males and females in the class.” I take a big bite of the cornbread. I’m sure Ms. Myra won’t like me talking with food in my mouth.
Her eyes are on me as I chew. I can’t help but want to laugh, but then cornbread would be all over the table and that would be really gross. I swallow and take a sip of my tea. It is much too sweet but I would never mention this to Ms. Myra.
“Yes, ma’am. I met a guy called Brandon.” I take a bite of chili; it is delicious. I bet Ms. Myra’s been cooking this all day long. It’s got those savory flavors from having been simmering for hours.
“Brandon… what’s his last name?”
“Rollins. We studied together at Starbucks.”
“Oh my, that sounds nice.” She winks at me.
My cheeks are warmer than a hot cookie from the oven. I take a gulp of the too-sweet tea.
“Sahara Smith, you like this boy, don’t you?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I sure don’t want to tell Ms. Myra a fib. But it’s a bit embarrassing to be sharing how I feel about Brandon when I just met him. It seems a little soon and I just met Ms. Myra, too, even though it feels like this isn’t the case.
“I just met him.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean anything. Was he sweet to you?”
“Yes, ma’am. He tried to buy my lunch, then he asked me to dinner but I said I couldn’t, that I had to study and of course I had already planned on having dinner with you. So finally he asked if I would study with him at Starbucks and he bought my latte.” I take a deep breath.
“Sounds like this boy has some good manners. I like that.” She takes a small bite of her chili. Her bowl is as full as when we sat down. Here, I’ve been doing most of the talking and she has hardly touched her food.
“Yes, ma’am.” I can’t help wondering if he likes me, too, or if he had liked me until I ruined it by not answering that question right. I scrape up the last of my meal and stand up. “I’d better get to studying so I don’t mess up tomorrow in class.” I rinse off my plate and put it in the dishwasher. “Thank you for dinner; it was real tasty.”
“You’re welcome, Sahara. I’m so glad you’re here.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. My whole body is warm, like I’m swirling around in a forest of good feelings. I squeeze it back and make my way to my room and hop on my bed. I’ve got to get today’s lessons down – who knows what the class for tomorrow will bring.
I head back to my new room and suddenly it hits me: I might be shipped out before I even get settled in. “Accreditation is just a word” has been on repeat in my mind today, ever since Brandon said it. I have done my best to silence it but now I’ve got to check it out – does that really mean that my degree isn’t real? I need to see if I’m as big a fool as I suspect I might be. Did I fall for some big scam? I log on to my computer; thankfully, Ms. Myra has internet service. Clickety clack and I’m all set to search every which way I can about Eagle Online. But there is no need for any hooping hollering of a search. All I have to do is type in Eagle Online and underneath their website reads a list of other sites which all talk about it being a scam, fake school, do not go, not real, fake degrees, accreditation is more than a word and Eagle Online knows this. Shoot, and darn it! If only Sahara Smith had known this before she signed over a bunch of money and the idea that she could be something. I shut my computer down and climb into bed to shut myself down, too. This day, this realization, is more than I can handle and I know when it’s time to fold.
***
I blare down the hallway and in through the kitchen with my spiral notepad in hand. Ms. Myra has put the coffee on and I’m taking it upon myself to use one of her to-go cups. I pour a half-cup and nearly drop it from my hand. Ms. Myra is in the doorway with her eyes on me.
“Good morning. I was just going to take some of this coffee for the road, if that’s all right?”
Ms. Myra adjusts her robe. “Of course it’s all right, but don’t you want to sit down and have a proper breakfast?” She passes through the kitchen and pulls out a frying pan and it’s like the kitchen got hotter without her even turning on the burner. “I suppose you might like your eggs sunny side up, yes?”
I swallow. I haven’t had sunny side up eggs since my daddy left. It was the one thing he made food-wise. Sunny side eggs, the whitest eggs with a bit of sunshine in the middle. My mama never made them and I can’t imagine she even considered it after my daddy left.
“I haven’t had sunny side eggs in, gosh, forever.”
“Well then, sit down. You’ve got time, don’t you? Class doesn’t begin for another hour, right?” Ms. Myra bustles to the stove and takes out a frying pan. I suppose I’ll be in the frying pan if I don’t sit down and partake in her offering. I can’t say I’m not a bit put off about having the eggs, and how did she know? Did my mama mention something to her? This seems so out of character, like if she were to wear her gardening culottes to church, just something that she wouldn’t do. I shake my head. But then again, how did we get here? Where I’m getting to know this woman who seems to know bits and pieces about me, but I only know what I’m seeing here in the house about her.
“Can I help with anything?” I take a side step as I can’t help but be uncomfortable sitting while she prepares me breakfast.
“Yes, sweetie, why don’t you tell me about the last time you had sunny side up eggs?” Ms. Myra casts her eyes back at me and I let our stares meet for a second longer than is comfortable before I swipe my coffee up like it’s a life raft in the ocean and the Titanic is going under. This is the only thing running through my mind, sinking into freezing water: I don’t discuss my daddy with anyone, not even my mama. Well, that much is her doing. But we just don’t speak of him. Ever.
“Um, well, my daddy used to make them for me.” There, not hard. I spoke the truth and not a thing more.
“That’s right and did he make them good for you? I remember sometimes – well, in his earlier years – he was always worried about the runniness of the eggs.” She cracks the egg on the side of the counter.
My eyes are bigger than the egg yolks, I’m sure. How does Ms. Myra know that my daddy likes to make sunny side up eggs, and better yet that he worried about them?
“Yes, ma’am, they were always good.” I swallow my question. I want to ask how she knows my daddy but I can’t; it doesn’t seem proper. Like a question that I should know the answer to, and if I don’t then there is probably a reason for that so I can’t poke and ask. I need to let it settle down in my tummy and try not to focus on it.
“Well, that’s good to hear. At least he got something right.” Ms. Myra scoops some of the prettiest sunny side eggs onto a light-blue plate and I do my best not to shed a tear. Not about my daddy, no. Lord knows I haven’t cried about that man for a decade. But this moment. Ms. Myra going out of her way to make me breakfast. I haven’t had someone make breakfast for me since, well, since my daddy left. That was always his thing. My mama handled dinner until I turned eight, then that was my job, as she was always picking up extra cleaning shifts and said it was high time I learned how to use a kitchen properly and not just for running around in. Though I was never much of a runner in the kitchen, I suppose this was just one of her sayings.
I scoop up a bit of the center and a slice of the white and let the flavors do a little jig in my mouth. Shucks corn, that’s a tasty egg. The perfect seasoning too. “Wow, Ms. Myra, these are delicious. Thank you.” I fork up another biteful and practically devour the eggs before she responds.
“Well, sugar, that’s good to hear. Thank you for being here. It’s nice having you. Now, you best get on to your class. Don’t you worry about this mess. I’ll take care of it.” She reaches for my plate.
I glance at the big green clock with an apple center that hangs on the wall. “I could clean them up over my lunch break or when I get home?”
“Hush now with that nonsense. Scoot on to class and we’ll catch up later over dinner.” She nods at me. And I know this type of head move. It means go on and get what you’re supposed to do done. And I plan on doing just that.
I’ve got to settle up the situation with Eagle Online. I only tossed and turned about a thousand times last night. Took a zillion gasps for air. I suppose what they say is true: you don’t have to have water to drown, and boy am I drowning. Drowning in debt and in utter failure. I wasted a bunch of time at a fake school. I still can’t believe this is true or possible. I’m going to make some phone calls over my lunch break and see if I can find some answers and maybe, just maybe, I’m wrong. Maybe all those sites online weren’t real. Maybe they are the ones that are fake.
Chapter Four (#ulink_01bafa39-6fb8-590b-9b33-9f3c9f58b26c)
The sound of a dial tone slams against my ear. Really? Forty-two minutes on hold only to be passed to a representative – which I know happened because I heard the click of them picking up, and then the sound of their breath. Yes, their breath – I gosh darn heard it. It was soft but it was there. And then came the machine of death. Letting me know I’d been hung up on. Hung up on after forty-two minutes of being on hold? What in the world type of institution am I dealing with? I am so strung out over the idea of my growing debt, side-saddled by the possibility – and I’m still saying possibility as I haven’t had a confirmation yet – that the school is a fake. That my degree isn’t real. That I’m here at Blue Ribbon Creamery under false pretenses. What if they find out? I’ll probably be thrown off the program, and lose my associate product developer job. And then it’ll be back to Mexia and Dairy Queen for me, with my tail between my legs.
And here it is, the end of the week, and I’m boots-deep in despair, and this is without my normal fretting about studying for this week’s lessons. I’m worried about all the training material we’ve covered. We’ve learned everything from the homogenization process to the exact temperature to freeze ice cream. All these degrees and pressures to remember is making me feel like I’m in over my head. It’s like I’m a dog with my head out the window and I’m taking in the sights but my hair is whipping around in front of my face and I know I’m missing something.
Today is the last day of week one, and if we don’t pass this morning’s test then we are out. Out, as in no more big, important job for Sahara. No need to worry about Eagle Online and if they are real or not, as I will be out on my ear with the bucket of debt I’m accumulating. I’ll have to let go of any type of embarrassment because I’ll be too busy trying to fix things. There aren’t any special sprinkle toppings that can make this vanilla cone a special one-of-a-kind sundae. I passed every time Brandon asked if I wanted to get together this week. I didn’t want to tell him that I would prefer never to study with him as the last time we tried to study together I was only asked one question and I got it wrong. No siree. I don’t want to embarrass myself again. I need to focus on this class and getting good grades, that’s why I’m here. No other reason or dreamy, blue-eyed guy is going to stand in my way. I place my scantron in the box and make my way out of the class.
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