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“Where, Mom?” I ask, exasperated. “Who is going to hire a 21-year-old nobody with no formal pastry training? The best I could get anywhere else is a dishwasher, or if I’m lucky, a kitchen porter. That would be almost a fifty percent pay cut.
“And it’s not like I can go back to school full-time. Even if I could afford it or get a scholarship, I would have bills to pay that wouldn’t be covered by that. Sure, I could do part-time, but what about Leo? I’d never see him between work and night or weekend classes. I know you’d help, so don’t give me that look, but he’s my son and I want to be present for him like you were for me when I was that little.”
“You could move back in here and sell your condo,” she suggests. “We have plenty of room, and that would give you the funding you need for school.”
“I can’t.” I repress a shudder. “This is the first place he’d look for me, and you know that. He has no idea where I live now, and I want to keep it that way. So unless you can find me a part-time, accelerated program that’ll give me a full ride and won’t take up every evening of my life, I’m stuck where I am until he’s old enough for kindergarten.”
Mom squeezes my hand sympathetically. The small comfort soothes me, and a little of the tension in my shoulders melts away. I even manage a small smile.
“It’s funny you should say that. Gale was in my chair the other day getting her roots touched up, and she was telling me that she sent her son to this place called Age Gap Academy to learn… what do you kids call it now? Adulting. That’s it. He’s learning how to ‘do adulting’ there. In my day, it was basic Home Ec, but,” she says, sighing, “at least he’s learning it somewhere.”
I cock my head, confused.
“But I already know how to sew a button and do basic budgeting. What good will that be to me?”
“I was getting there, Sassy Pants,” she says, making a face at me. “They offer everything from basic life skills to specialized job training. I even checked it out the other day, but I’d forgotten to tell you about it with how busy things were. They have pastry chef certification, business, organic gardening, marketing, you name it. They’re an experimental university that adopted a mentorship program instead of large classes, and the people who get certificates from there… Well, from the way Gale was going on about it, the possibilities are endless for alumni.”
“But isn’t Gale like a millionaire or something because her husband steals money for a living? How am I supposed to afford something like that?”
“He’s an investment banker and you know that, Avery Jean.”
“Same thing,” I scoff.
“Anyway,” she says with a glare, “they offer scholarships to promising students, two full rides and four partial scholarships. Here, take a look.”
I take her phone and scroll through their webpage. They’re highly accredited, they work around their students’ existing schedules, and their alumni page… Damn, Gale wasn’t exaggerating. It’s like the Hollywood Walk of Fame but for academia. If I could manage to get in, I’d be set for life.
If I’m good enough to get in.
“It certainly seems ideal, but why would they ever want someone like me?” I ask dejectedly.
Her face lights up as she clasps my hands in hers. I can feel the warm hope radiating off her like sunshine.
“Honey, you’re exceptional. You’ve got that online following, and you’re pure, natural talent. I just know you could get a full ride if you put together a portfolio and applied. I’m so sure of it, I’ll eat my blow dryer if you don’t get it.”
Mom’s confidence in me makes me feel like I could do anything in the world.
I wonder how much more I would be able to do with my life if I could feel like this all the time.
Maybe someday, I’ll get to know what that’s like.
“So, are you going to do it?” she asks hopefully.
“I’ll think about it.”
2
WESLEY
Reginald Willard III is the absolute last person I want to deal with right now.
Unfortunately, he’s not someone I can ignore.
Everything you need to know about this man can be found in his office. The right-hand wall is all books with a few gaudy knick-knacks mixed in to break up the monotony of the gilded first-edition showpiece books. They’re in such pristine condition, I’m willing to bet that my quitting my job and becoming a stripper is more likely than his ever having read any of them.
Tastefully arranged photos of himself—done by a decorator, no doubt—dot the walls, him grinning with the governor and a buck in front of his country house, gripping the mast of his sailboat with his hair artfully flowing in the breeze (probably from a fan because anyone who actually knows how to sail would be able to tell the boat is stationary), holding a fish outside his yacht club, lounging in the driver’s seat of his classic muscle car, and at the golf club mid-round with every high-ranking person in the state government.
Then there’s the desk. I can’t even begin to explain how much I despise that desk. It’s the most expensive, cheap-looking copy of the Resolute Desk I’ve ever seen. How do I know it’s expensive?
