Gram’s French toast is the only way to start off the first morning of my adult life. I grab a piece of bacon from a plate on the kitchen counter. Grams hums “You Were Meant for Me” from Singing in the Rain as she cooks. It’s her favorite movie. She knows every word by heart, even when she can’t remember her own name. I kiss her on the cheek with my bacon breath and tell her good morning.
Grams gives a start. “Oh my word,” she breathes, patting her heart, “why aren’t you dressed? School’s in half an hour.”
“Nope, graduated. It’s my first Monday as a free woman.” I pour a glass of orange juice and sit down at the breakfast table. I jut my chin out toward the stove. “What’s the occasion?”
She gives me a hard look. “Ingrid, when you get accepted into a college you should be proud of it. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
I pause with my glass of OJ halfway to my mouth.
A letter sits in the middle of the table. I should’ve hid it better after the last time she found it. “Oh, that—I’m sorry . . . I thought I told you.”
“I’d remember if you’d told me something like that. You’ll be the first North to go to college!” She plops the French toast onto two plates and brings them over to the table. She slides one to me with a smile. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie. Oh! Where’s my head, you need syrup.”
“I’ll get it.” I stand before she has a chance to say no and retrieve the syrup from the pantry.
I had told Grams.
I told her the moment I slit open the envelope. I told her the next day, too, when she found the letter on my nightstand. I told her after the doctor’s appointment, when they said they needed to run more tests and whether I’d be available. It was the weekend I was supposed to catch a flight, all expenses paid, to visit NYU. I told her the day the hospital called to break the news of her disease. The last time I told her was the day I deferred my application.
The worst was, she’s the only one I ever told. I hadn’t even told the gang—Micah, Billie, LD . . . I was going to, but I never found the time. Billie talked so much about going to Iowa University that I didn’t want to rain on his parade, and LD didn’t want to talk about college after what happened at Juilliard . . . and Micah?
Micah didn’t understand why we all wanted to leave Steadfast. Now after seeing him kissing Heather, I understand his allure to stay, because I consoled myself the same way. I didn’t mind staying in Steadfast as long as Micah was here too because . . . well, wasn’t it a match made in heaven? Next-door neighbors becoming sweethearts?
But after Friday night, I was wrong.
Very, very wrong.
After breakfast, I excuse myself to go hide the letter under my mattress. I can’t bear to throw it away, not yet anyway. Keeping it hurt, but it feels hopeful, too. Like the last string on a kite about to blow away. This time, I shove it so far under my mattress it finds the ass end of Narnia.
I have work in thirty minutes, so I fish out a bubble-gum pink apron from the laundry basket in the corner of my room, white slacks, and a “HEY, SWEETEY” T-shirt. I look like a walking gum ball. Wearing the same uniform for five years has actually scarred me in ways I never could have imagined. For instance, I will burn every pair of white slacks I see for the rest of my life.
Micah always jokes that I can come be a receptionist at his dad’s auto place, Perez and Sons Motors, but I'm stubborn. I got my position at Sweetey’s Sweet Shoppe on my own. (The pretentious “-pe” in “Shoppe” has been mysteriously short-circuited on the neon sign above the store for four out of the five years I’ve worked there, and I will take that secret to my grave.) It’s probably the worst job known to mankind, but it’s mine.
Bossman warned me that I’ll get first shift now that I’ve graduated. He knows I don’t do kids. Unluckily for me, neither does Heather, who also works at Sweetey’s because her father, the mayor, is best friends with the Bossman.
Heather Woodard is arranging the Twizzlers by color when I finally get to work. She flips her dark ponytail over her shoulder and gives me one of her scum-of-the-earth looks. “You’re late. Again.”
“Missed me that much?” I dump my backpack in the storeroom and clock in, flubbing my time by fifteen minutes. Bossman never notices.
“As if,” she mutters, shoving a red Twizzler package onto the shelf.
“Nice; you’ve separated the red from the really red. That’s talent.”
“It’s by sweetness.” She points to the dietetic knockoffs, then to the other side, where the regular Twizzlers are.
“Great job,” I deadpan, snagging a chili-powder lollipop from one of the jars, and hop onto the register counter. Sweetey’s Sweet Shoppe is a joke, but people travel from miles around to browse the petrified sugars. We have candies from every part of the world. Chocolates from Germany, cookie pandas from Japan, chili-powder lollipops from Mexico. I like the lollipops the best. Then again, I just like spicy food. Must be from my dad’s side, but I'll never know.
Heather gives me a dirty look as I suck on the lollipop.
I take it out of my mouth and offer it to her. “Hungry? You must be starving on saltines and children’s souls.”
“Maybe you should try it,” she snaps in reply.
I shrug. The same old jabs, just a different day.
Heather’s the type of girl who’d cut off a guy’s rattail just because it invades her personal bubble on the bus. Oh no, wait—she did. Third grade. Micah’s rattail. Truthfully, I say good riddance to it, but was it really her decision to cut off a very important part of Micah’s life? His rattail was a point of pride ever since his mother first tried to get him to cut it.
But because Heather is, well, Heather, she can get away with anything. As the mayor’s daughter, that’s her right. Like my right is to be picked last for kickball, and Micah’s is to be called on in Spanish class even though he speaks Spanish worse than the rest of us, Billie’s right to be the good old chip off the old block, and LD’s right to be a “troubled youth” who doesn’t understand how good she could have it if she could just be “normal.”
Heather could go to any college she wants, get into any sorority, be accepted by anyone and everyone in the entire world—but she isn’t going anywhere, either.
It’s true what they say about Steadfast, Nebraska—it’s like “Hotel California”: once you check in, you can never leave.
Heather takes out her phone from her apron pocket, and scrolls through her social feed. After a while, she says, “God, this is so annoying.”
I can’t help myself. “What is?”
“There’s some stupid punk-rock singer coming to Omaha in a few weeks, and like everyone wants to go. Why do we get freaks and not, like, Justin Timberlake?”
“Jason Dallas?”
“Yeah, whoever that is.”
Seriously? She knows Justin Timberlake but not Jason Dallas? “You know, the guy whose bitter rivals with Roman Montgomery from Roman Holiday?”
She gasps. Oh, so she knows Roman Holiday, but not the Prince of Punk? Someone seriously needs to intervene before her music library turns turdy. “Ohmygod! That loser? I thought he looked familiar. Ugh, ew. Definitely not going now. He’s just so gross and overstated. I mean, does he have to wear all that leather and . . .
I think she’s still talking to me, but I tune her out and pull out my phone, bringing up LD’s number.
—Ingrid 10:03 a.m.
Someone kill me. The Evil Queen doesn't know who Jason Dallas is.
—LD 10:04 a.m.
Srsyly??! Bless her poor unfortunate soul.
—Ingrid 10:05 a.m.
So sad, so true.
“Are you even listening?” Heather snaps her fingers at me and rolls her eyes. “Whatever; it’s not like it matters anyway. All the tickets are sold out.”
“Of course they are,” I quip. “He’s Jason Dallas.”
“Whatever.”
—Ingrid 10:07 a.m.
Seriously, why aren’t you stuck on
first shift with her? You graduated, too.
—LD 10:08 a.m.
I have perfected the art of scapegoating. : )
—Ingrid 10:09 a.m.
Teach me your ways, master
—LD 10:09 a.m.
These are not the sweets you’re looking for.
BTW, I don't think I’m coming to the diner today.
—Ingrid 10:10 a.m.
No you HAVE to. You’re my wing woman!
You can’t leave me with those two : (
Please?
—LD 10:11 a.m.
Fine, fine.
I’ll be a little late though.
—Ingrid 10:12 a.m.
As long as you're there. <3