by Whitney G.
She laughed, and I heard a light knock at the door.
“Hold on a second.” I held the phone to my chest and walked to the front door, hoping it wasn’t Emily.
It wasn’t.
It was Ari, puffy red eyes and all.
“Can I spend the night on your couch, since Emily left?” she asked, stepping inside. “It doesn’t make sense for me to go all the way back home at this hour, and I’m sort of offended that you didn’t at least offer me a ride, since I clearly said Scott kicked me out. You know his apartment isn’t that far from here.”
“I was actually getting ready to come get you.” I ended our call.
“Sure, you were.” Her eyes veered to my arm. “You got another tattoo?” She touched my sleeve, tracing the latest addition—another branch of Latin phrases on my overgrown cypress tree. “When was this?”
“Last week. I told you I was considering it.”
“Considering, not actually getting.” She traced it again. “I like it. Although, you’re definitely going to have to wear suits for most of your professional life. No one wants to hire a lawyer with a sleeve full of tattoos.”
“So you say.” I grabbed a blanket from the hallway closet and handed it to her. “You can take my room. I’ll sleep out here. I need to think.”
“About how to break up with Emily?”
“No, that’s already done. She overheard our conversation and dumped me right before you called.”
“Wow. What a suck-fest day for the both of us.” She frowned, but then she quickly snapped back into her usual upbeat self. “You want to grab a late breakfast this Saturday at Gayle’s?”
“Sure. Noon?”
“Actually, could we do one o’clock?” She started walking to my room. “I have a bikini wax appointment at noon.”
“Why are you waxing the one part of your body that no one ever sees?”
“I see it.”
“Hmmm. So, is that the real reason you wanted to postpone sleeping with Scott tonight? Because you had a bush you didn’t want him to see?”
“What? What did you say?”
“I know you, Ari.” I smirked. “And you definitely heard me. Is that the real reason?”
“Carter …”
“I’ve known you since what? Fifth grade?”
“Fourth grade.”
“Same thing,” I said, noticing a slight redness on her cheeks. “You can tell me. I’m not going to judge you. I’ll just suggest you keep your bush trimmed regularly, instead of worrying about waxing it all off at the last minute.”
“Even if I had a bush,” she said, rolling her eyes, “which I don’t, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t make that the main reasoning behind not having sex with someone—my boyfriend especially, at the last minute.”
“Good,” I said. “Because most guys—guys like me, honestly don’t care about that. And seeing as though you probably won’t be having sex for another eight months, I’m just trying to save you some money. Maybe take the money you’ll be spending on a wax this weekend and buy a better vibrator instead?”
She slammed the door to my room, and I laughed until I fell asleep.
Track 2. Wildest Dreams. (3:54)
Arizona
Why don’t they tell you that the major you declare your sophomore year may be the one subject you end up loathing by your senior year? And how can people honestly expect a nineteen-year-old to know what she wants to do for the rest of her life and be happy with her decision?
Ridiculous.
Somewhere between Small Business Accounting and Tax Law 101 my junior year, I realized that I hated business only slightly less than I hated the idea of working in an office for the rest of my life. Even though I could draft a spreadsheet and integrate statistics like no one else could, I was bored. Excruciatingly and utterly bored.
I didn’t realize my true passion in life until I started baking “Fuck this major” cupcakes to cope with an intense tax law class. I’d brought them to a study group and they were devoured by my classmates in seconds, so I made more. Then I started branching out and making other things.
At first, I mastered the simple treats—different cupcakes, cookies, and brownies. Then I started to attempt the more intricate recipes: frosted éclairs, upside down sorbet style crescents, stuffed cream waffles.
The more I baked, the happier I became, but it wasn’t until my mom brought it to my attention one day, that I actually considered taking it seriously. I’d made her an orange soufflé for Christmas and she loved it so much, that she took pieces of it over to her neighbors—demanding that they try it. She even called my then-boyfriend over and asked him to have some, to which he said, “Hmmm. It’s edible.”
Still, I’d realized my love for the culinary arts far too late. So, instead of switching majors, I remained in the business school and whenever I had free time, I stole classes from the number one culinary school on the beach: Wellington’s Culinary Institute.
Every Saturday and Sunday, I went downtown and sat in the very back of the classroom—taking notes like I really belonged there. On the days that the class met in the actual cooking room—one stove per “paying student,” I would simply pretend to be a high-schooler who was doing a research project.
It was what I was currently doing at this moment.
“Don’t forget that you’ll be graded on how you create the layers on your croissant.” The professor said from the front of the room. “They’ll need to be crisp, but not too flaky—soft, but never sticky … You’ll also need to make sure your own personal design is something you’ve never created in this class before. Do not replicate any previous assignments or you’ll receive an automatic demerit.
I watched as the woman standing in front of me stirred her batter and mixed in a few sprinkles of sugar. She tasted the dough and shook her head—sprinkling in even more.
“Hey,” I whispered to her. “Hey…”
She looked over her shoulder. “What?”
“You don’t need any more sugar in that.”
“How would you know, thief?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because you still have to fry it and coat it with a sugar blend, and that’s before you even inject the sugared filling into it. If you use any more, you’ll give the taste-tester early onset diabetes.”
She set down the bowl of sugar and got back to work, gratefully stepping over a bit so I could see the rest of her setup.
As I was writing down the list of ingredients, I felt someone tapping my shoulder.
“Yes?” I didn’t look up. I was in the middle of writing down a brand of specialty dough. I was on the last letter when the notebook was snatched out of my hands and I found myself face to face with a woman dressed in all black. The word “Security” was etched across her chest in huge block letters and she was crossing her arms.
“What are you doing here today, Miss Turner?” she asked, pursing her lips.
“I’m uh—” I cleared my throat and sat up. “I’m here doing a book report.”
“A book report?”
“Yes,” I said. “A very important book report for my school. My high school.”
“And what high school do you supposedly go to?”
“Pleasant View High.”
“You go there even though it’s been abandoned for fifty years?”
Shit. “I meant Ridge View.” I’d looked it up on Google earlier.
“All high schools are currently out for the summer. The last day was this past Friday.” She snapped her fingers and motioned for me to get up. “Let’s go. You know the routine.”
I stood up and took my notebook back, following her out of the room and into the hallway. “Is stealing lectures and taking extra notes in a class really a crime?” I asked. “Who am I really hurting here?”
She waved her key card over the pad at the door. “Out.”
“Wait.” I stepped outside. “If I give you twenty dollars, will you go back and tell me what type of dough they’re using for the sp
ecialty cronuts? Maybe I can give you my email address and you can send it to me?”
She slammed the door in my face.
Ugh. I tucked my notebook into my purse and heard familiar laughter. I looked up and realized it was the instructor from the “Understanding the Recipes” course.
“You think this is funny? I asked, feeling bold. “Kicking someone out of class?”
“It’s hilarious.” He laughed harder, looking at me. “And you weren’t kicked out of class, you were removed because I saw you going in there this morning.”
“You snitched on me? I thought you liked me. You don’t normally snitch on me.”
“I don’t,” he said. “But on test day, all bets are off. Can you not see the direct correlation between the times we have security remove you and the times we don’t?”
I was stunned.
“Exactly,” he said, patting my shoulder. “We all appreciate your passion, but test days are only for those who are actually paying tuition. I trust I’ll be seeing you more often since you’re out of college now, though?”
I nodded, and he laughed again, saying, “See you next weekend, Miss Turner,” before walking away.
Completely honored by the “appreciate your passion” comment, I smiled and wondered if I could later get him to write me an unofficial recommendation for a few other culinary schools I was waiting to hear back from.
Maybe a letter from him would help me get a scholarship?
I glanced at my watch and realized I had three hours to get ready for the college I was actually paying to attend; my graduation ceremony was today.
Track 3. All Too Well (3:42)
Arizona
Yep. I definitely picked the wrong career path for my life.
I was officially convinced that Reeves University officials had held a secret meeting dedicated to listing the many ways that they could make this year’s ceremony the most boring yet.
Everything from the twenty-minute organ prelude to induct the doctorates, to the thirty-minute video that recapped the university’s best features, to the fact that they’d booked five different speakers.
I’d sat through nearly all of them, scrolling through social media newsfeeds and twiddling my thumbs, but the fourth speaker of the day had definitely mastered the art of sounding as monotonous as possible. Every other line was “And then I remember,” “I wish I’d known,” or “I’m not making this up, kids … Hahaha.”
There was never any laughter from the audience afterwards. Only silence. And snores.
I covered my mouth, so I could yawn yet again, and the girl sitting next to me stretched out her arms and rested her head on my shoulder. Without my permission.
“Um ...” I looked at her.
“Yes?” She looked right back at me.
“Um … Do I even know you? Why would you just lay on me?”
She blinked.
“No, really. Why are you laying on me?”
“Shhh!” She adjusted her position and shut her eyes.
I was tempted to jerk away and leave her hanging, but I decided to make the most out of the situation. I looked at the girl to my left—at the vacant shoulder that was calling my name, and leaned onto it.
Several minutes later, and once the speaker said he was “almost done” for the umpteenth time, my phone vibrated with a text from my mom.
I’m sorry, hon, but I can’t sit through another second of this. I got plenty of pictures of you walking across the stage, though. Oh! And I got a lot of you at the department ceremony earlier. I’ll see you at home for your party. I’m making crab-cakes! Be there by seven.
You’re my mother and you’re leaving my college. graduation EARLY? Really?
I actually wanted to leave TWO HOURS AGO, but because I’m your mother, I stayed a little longer. Love you!
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t blame her. I texted:
Love you, too, see you soon.
I looked up into the arena. Some members of the audience were getting the exact same idea.
Hell, even some of the graduates were feeling the same way. The ones that still had the energy to get up, that is.
Before I could figure out what I wanted to do, my phone vibrated once more. Carter.
Are you awake right now?
I am. I’m finding this speech quite inspiring. If you try to pay attention, you might learn something today.
Bullshit. What is this guy even talking about?
I listened to the speaker for a few minutes, honestly not understanding why he was now talking about a dead goldfish, but I pretended I did anyway.
He’s talking about taking chances, trying scary risks, and learning that just one of them is bound to pay off.
You’re so full of it, Ari. You should leave.
I want to listen to the rest.
Then I hope you have another way to get to your graduation party, since I just saw your mom leave.
What? I don’t remember rushing you out of YOUR college graduation. I sat through the entire thing!
I wasn’t depending on you for a ride home :) You’ve got five minutes.
I’ll meet you there in ten.
I gently pushed my neighbor off my shoulder and stood up.
“Sometimes, you just have to stay until the end,” the speaker said a little louder, louder than he’d been for his never-ending speech. “I wish I would’ve stayed until the end of a lot of speeches when I was younger. I definitely wished I would’ve listened to the entire speech at my college graduation.”
What? I turned around, looking to see if he was not-so-subtly referring to me.
He was. He nodded and gestured for me to return to my seat.
“You never know what you’ll miss out on,” he said.
I took a step back.
“This could be the most important speech of your life …”
I took another step back.
“And you might regret it for the rest of your—”
I turned around and rushed out of the room, hearing the laughter and applause of my classmates behind me. When I made it to the hallway, I looked back to see other students following my lead and joining the exodus.
College was officially over.
I took off my cap and gown and met Carter in the parking lot. “Since you made me leave early, you have to stop at Gayle’s before we go to my graduation party.”
“Do we have to sit inside?”
“I’m shocked you even have to ask.” I got into the car and he let the top down on his black Camaro—quickly speeding away to the diner.
Gayle’s was the number one waffle house and sweets company on the beach. It was so popular, that the company bought mobile-store trucks and drove them around campus during its season.
The menu wasn’t anything special; it was beyond simple with its typical home-style American breakfast fare. What set it apart from anywhere else was the 1950s atmosphere and the undeniable this-shit-is-the-best-I’ve-ever-had-in-my-life waffle recipe. For years, the locals jokingly accused them of using crack in their batter to get people to come back so often, so the owner started boxing the batter in tins with the word “CRACK” written right on front.
Gayle’s was also the only restaurant that had a ten-page menu solely dedicated to their desserts, and they added new options and concoctions every week.
I’d pulled countless all-nighters, hosted several dates, and even held a birthday party there before. But no matter what, it was where Carter and I met up whenever life veered left and we needed to talk, or whenever there was nothing else better to do.
We met there so often, that sometimes his other friends would simply show up if they needed him, instead of calling him on the phone.
“Let me guess,” the waitress rolled in front of us on her white skates, as soon as we entered. “A Belgian waffle with vanilla yogurt and strawberries—with a sprinkle of chocolate chips for one order, and a waffle tower with chocolate yogurt, peanut butter, and a sprinkle of Oreo chips and candy on
the side for the second order?”
We both nodded. We ordered the exact same thing every time we came here.
“Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll be right with you.”
We took a seat in a booth by the bay windows—in perfect view of the tourists who were starting their annual takeover of the beach.
“I’m going to miss this so much,” I said. “If I don’t get into anywhere else soon, I’ll have to accept the offer from that culinary school in Cleveland. I don’t think they have a beach, though … or a restaurant that’s similar to this one.”
“They don’t have much of anything. It’s Cleveland.”
I laughed. “Just try not to rub it in, since you’re lucky enough to be staying here for law school.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to send you ocean-view pictures every day.”
“Here you two are.” The waitress set down our orders and I swiped a spoonful of yogurt from Carter’s plate.
“Ugh!” I swallowed it. “How can you eat that? The words ‘chocolate’ and ‘yogurt’ should never be allowed anywhere near each other.”
He swiped a spoonful of my vanilla yogurt in return. “It’s not like vanilla is that much better. There’s no flavor in that whatsoever.”
I shrugged and picked a few Oreos from his toppings cup, while he picked a few strawberry chips from mine.
As I was stealing one of his peanut butter swirls, a few members of his college basketball team walked inside—super loud and obnoxious. Spotting Carter, they immediately walked over and shook his hand—asking a few brief questions, leaving Carter plenty of room to congratulate them on a hard-fought season. Plenty of time for them to reminisce on his short-lived, yet high-profile freshman season.
The team had actually been quite terrible this year, posting the worst record in all of college basketball. And although his former teammates would never say it to his face, I’m sure they wondered if he’d lied about his diagnosis years ago, if he’d used his sudden ACL injury as an excuse to walk away from everything.
