The Big Mistake

by Lexie Ray

  I muted the drama of the trashy talk show to try to focus, but groaned as I heard Nick’s guitar. He had been playing nonstop. Couldn’t he take a break and watch some trashy TV of his own so I didn’t have to hear him? That had been my favorite of his many talents. The guy knew his way around a guitar. With him playing now and me being able to hear it from afar, it was almost a punishment in and of itself for refusing him.

  Why didn’t you give it a try? Faith texted.

  I sighed and shook my head. Text message wasn’t the way to tell her about my stupid past. I didn’t know if I would ever tell anyone.

  Because it just didn’t feel right, I typed back. Plus he was really pushy.

  I turned the volume back up on the TV just to drown out the guitar from across the hall. God, was everyone on this episode sleeping with one another? Why couldn’t I find anyone to sleep with? I had needs, too.

  Needs, sure, and I would have to lower my stringent standards in order to see them met. I could’ve just said yes to Nick and slept with him and scratched that itch, but that probably would’ve damaged our friendship irreversibly.

  If me refusing to consider dating him hadn’t already.

  Well, I’m sorry things aren’t good, Faith texted. I want to come visit you, but I can’t until Friday. Life is super busy.

  Friday’s fine, I sent, wilting a little bit. Why couldn’t she just drop everything and come visit me now? I was throwing myself a pity party, and it was full of trashy TV and maybe even an afternoon margarita, if I couldn’t resist the urge.

  Perfect, Faith sent. I knew that she couldn’t drop everything and come comfort me in this stupid situation. There were too many things to drop — her job, her brother, her very serious boyfriend. Faith really was busy, and I was just selfish. Selfish and lonely and in need of something I couldn’t quite define.

  I needed a change, but I needed to stop running away. Usually, when I felt like I needed a change that was my cue to pack up everything, cut all ties, and get in my car and drive away. Half the time, I didn’t have a clue where I was going.

  But now, in Miami, I’d built this life I was proud of — something I didn’t just want to leave behind in my rearview mirror. There were people here I cared about — Faith, Luke, Sol, Adam, and yes, even Nick — who I couldn’t just cut ties with.

  Maybe I just needed to get out of the apartment for a little while. It felt like I’d been holed up here for an entire week, only leaving to go to work at the snack shop. Sure, I loved my friends and depended on them, but I needed to love myself a little more and treat myself to new and different things — if only to get my mind off of Nick and how much he’d offended me.

  I wondered if I should slam the door to the apartment just to get back at him for all of those times he’d done the same to me — as in, “I’m leaving, Jennet, and I’m still angry at you and no, we aren’t going to talk about it” — but I calmly pulled it shut and locked it. It satisfied me probably a little more than it should have to hear the guitar melody hiccup a little before going back to its endless chord progressions and little ornamentations. Maybe going about my life as normally as possible and resisting the urge to slam the door would affect him more than anything.

  I didn’t want to get even with Nick or extend this friendship drama any longer. But something had to give, and I didn’t know what it was yet.

  I walked out into the hot Miami afternoon, squinting in the sun until I dug my oversized rhinestone sunglasses out of my purse and shoved them on my face. It would’ve been the perfect day for the beach — if I’d had anyone to go with. The beach alone turned into something not as fun. Sitting in the stand and staring at the waves by yourself turned your thoughts inward, made you contemplative. I didn’t need to contemplate anything, and the last thing I wanted to be was lonely at the beach.

  I ambled down the sidewalk with no clear destination in mind. I hoped some form of exercise would stimulate me into having some idea of what to do with my life — and with Nick. I rarely exercised. Didn’t really feel the need to. My body accepted whatever I gave it and metabolized it efficiently. Faith was always talking about how jealous she was about my “perfect body,” but her body looked just fine, too. It was simply the way I’d always been, since I was a little girl.

  It made work at the snack shop particularly easy. I could grab whatever I wanted to eat and never have to worry about shimmying into my costume.

  My apartment building was pretty well located. I usually drove to work, just out of habit, but I could’ve walked the distance easily. My home was just a handful of blocks away from a retail area, and I figured doing some window-shopping would help me take my mind off of things. Money had been tight ever since Faith and Luke had moved out, since they’d provided a share of the rent. It was an issue that I wasn’t going to bother her with. I’d meant to advertise for a new roommate after they moved out, but never had the heart to. Faith and Luke had been my favorites, and I realized there would be no replacing them.

  So, window-shopping it was. I wandered from storefront to storefront, ogling the offerings of strappy sandals and gauzy sundresses. That was the beautiful thing about Miami. You needed maybe one jacket for when it rained or got cooler, but other than that, it was summer all year long. As long as you had your bathing suit and a big T-shirt to wear over it, you were set.

  I shouldered the door open to a beauty supply store, intent on seeing what nail polish colors they had for sale. Maybe I could get to feeling better about everything with a new hue on my hands. Companies were coming up with brand new ideas for nail polish colors and styles all the time. I’d tried stickers, magnetic polish, confetti, sprinkles, and more. I’d tried out every style from high gloss to matte, and pastels to metallic. Surely there would be some new form of beauty that would distract me. It was an affordable way to get a new look — a lot cheaper than revamping my wardrobe or redecorating the apartment.

  Then I found myself in the hair color aisle.

  I had been keeping my hair casually blue for a while now. Maybe that was the real change I needed to see. Blue was over. I needed a new color.

  Bypassing all of the boring shades of blonde, red, brown and black, I examined the boxes of fun colors. There was my go-to blue. I thought it was a nice shade, and I started my tenure here in Miami with pretty blue hair. Maybe, instead of leaving this city, I could just change my look and satisfy that kernel inside of me that was always begging for something new.

  Yellow was too close to blonde, and green might make me look like the Hulk. I hemmed and hawed between pink and purple before grabbing the box of pink dye and making a mad dash to the register. I didn’t want to think too hard about it. It was just a hair color, after all. Something I could change a lot easier than changing how I felt about Nick, or how he felt about me.

  Painting the dye on my blue locks once I returned to the apartment — there was no guitar issuing out of Nick’s place, which was a blessing — was a cathartic experience. It was like I was erasing all of the bad things that had happened here and giving myself a new identity, a new way to be happy.

  I waited the obligatory time frame, pacing around the apartment, before rinsing the excess dye out and drying it to reveal my new look.

  Honestly, it was perfect. I grinned at myself in the mirror and saw a whole new Jennet. I’d been too impatient to bleach my blue locks prior to the dye job, so the bright, bubblegum pink interacted with the existing blue in an interesting way. I had magenta hair, and it looked pretty amazing.

  I didn’t have to leave Miami. I didn’t have to stop being friends with Nick. And I didn’t have to abandon my search for Prince Charming just because of a little setback. He was out there, he was very likely in this city, and he was going to love my new hair.

  Chapter 3

  I’d been lots of things in my life. I’d been a waitress, a cashier, worked at a call center, a funeral home. I never stayed in any position long, so I developed a rudimentary skillset at a ton of entry-level jobs
. It’d never bothered me much, not rising in the ranks. I didn’t aspire to be anything but happy. Happy meant different things to different people. Was it so much to ask to have people I loved around me all the time, or to want to find someone to sweep me off my feet and away from all this mediocrity?

  That was probably the main reason I moved around so much. If I couldn’t find my happily ever after in one state, it must be waiting for me in a different one.

  What I did enjoy, however, was making people laugh. Laughter was the cure to all ills, and people couldn’t help but laugh at a grown woman dressed up like a corncob. That’s why I’d remained so long at my job at the snack shop.

  I got the job when I first moved to Miami, figuring it would be something easy to do to make the rent. The little storefront had a couple of benches outside for anyone who wanted to stick around, but it was really just a place to stop by quickly for some grub. The menu was limited to things that could be prepared in a microwave, so I didn’t have to learn any complicated recipes or anything like I would’ve if I tried to work at an upscale eatery somewhere else in the city. The majority of our sales came from people wanting a bag of chips or a candy bar or a bottle of soda. The cash register wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen before, so it was simple to pick up and excel at.

  Then, my boss, Jared, had the bright idea of promoting the snack shop more from the outside.

  “You’re the loudest one here,” he said, holding up the corncob costume. It was an obnoxious shade of yellow and unwieldy to boot. I’d cook alive inside as I hawked our snack foods. The corncob on a stick that we sold wasn’t even our most popular item sold at the store.

  “You should’ve gotten a giant bag of Cheetos for a costume,” I said, eyeing the corncob critically. “That’s our best-selling item.”

  “Small problem of licensing,” Jared said, “the primary issue being that I don’t want to pay for the privilege of using Cheetos’ branding. Nobody has dibs on corncobs served on sticks.”

  “Give me a raise and I’ll wear the costume,” I told him.

  “Wear the costume or you’re fired,” he said, implacable.

  “Give me a raise and I’ll own this gig,” I said, taking the costume. “If you make me wear this and swelter outside, I’ll be the most miserable corn on the cob you’ve ever seen. But if you butter my kernels with a little extra cash, I won’t just be Jennet anymore. I’ll be the Corn Queen.”

  “Corn Queen,” Jared repeated, rolling the syllables around in his mouth. “I like that. I like that a lot. Corn’s cheap to get. I want that to be our main snack. If you can make corn on a stick outsell Cheetos in a week, you’ll get that raise — and a bonus.”

  “Done,” I said. I loved a zany challenge, and I knew I could succeed in this one. It was really stacked in my favor, and I actually felt a little bit bad for Jared because of all the money I was going to pry from his fingers.

  I’d been called a lot of things by a lot of people. On my report cards in high school, the kinder teachers would write that I was “boisterous,” or “outgoing.” The ones I’d crossed during my academic tenure would write observations like “obnoxious” and “destructively disruptive.”

  I preferred to think of myself as someone who knew how to work a crowd, and not many people realized just how valuable an asset that was. If I could bend a bunch of people to my will just by bullshitting, there was nothing that could stop me.

  At least that’s what I told myself as I slogged to work in my corncob outfit on the first day of the challenge.

  It was one of those spectacularly hot days in Miami that made you wonder why there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, why it wasn’t pouring buckets of rain, why there weren’t jungle vines and lush vegetation all around us. It was hot to begin with, but it was also so humid that breathing meant drinking the air down, thick and oppressive. I wondered if Jared had checked the weather for the week and laughed uproariously to himself. I’d started sweating the instant I zipped myself into the corncob costume, and I’d still been inside my apartment in the air conditioning.

  Now, though, I was trudging the handful of blocks between the apartment and the snack shop, fully encased in a steaming corncob costume. I’d done my makeup elaborately, as befitting a Corn Queen, but it was already running down my face in rivulets of sweat.

  I guess I could’ve waited to put the costume on once I’d arrived at the snack shop. Or I could’ve simply driven to work instead of walked. But I’d wanted my first day as Corn Queen to really make an impact, get people talking, make them follow me, excited, to the snack shop to buy some corncobs on a stick.

  Instead, it got me some rather dubious attention.

  “Girl, what are you doing?” a teenager asked, gawking at me from a pickup basketball game.

  “I’m going to work!” I announced, trying to make my voice sparkle as I grinned widely at the rest of the kids, who’d all stopped to stare at me in wonder and horror.

  “Where do you work that makes you dress like that?” another kid piped up. “Hell?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said, even though the kid had a point. “I work at the snack shop just a little ways from here. Do you guys know it?”

  “I’ve been there before,” another kid said. “There’s a blue-haired girl who works there, but I’ve never seen a corncob.”

  “I’m the Corn Queen,” I corrected him, “and I’m on my way to sell the most delicious snacks our shop has to offer.”

  “Cheetos?”

  “Absolutely not!” I thundered. “Haven’t you ever tried the corncobs on a stick from there? That’s our best-kept secret.”

  “Corn’s a vegetable,” the first kid said, wrinkling his nose. “Why would we want that?”

  “Corn might be a vegetable, but it won’t taste that way the way we serve it,” I promised. “You’ve got your sweet corn on a stick, but then you can load it up with whatever toppings you want.”

  “Toppings?” another kid repeated. “What do you mean, toppings? When we have corn at dinner, my mom doesn’t serve it with toppings.”

  “How do you think it would taste with mayo and chili powder?” I asked, fighting to put my hands on my hips. I couldn’t even find my hips in that bulky costume.

  “Is that even good?” another kid asked.

  “Only one way to find out,” I said, triumphant. “Follow me to the snack shop!”

  “We’re in the middle of a game,” one of them complained.

  “And it’s too hot for corn,” another put in.

  “That’s just it!” I exclaimed. “How can you expect to keep playing basketball in this heat if you don’t have a little energy food? Cheetos are junk, but you can eat them every once in a while — if you’re active. But corn is good for you, and it’ll give you the energy you need to play awesome.”

  I had a long train of kids behind me when a cop cut our procession short.

  “Ma’am, is there someone I can call for you?” the officer asked, eyeing me uncertainly and with no small amount of pity. “A family member? A doctor?”

  “He thinks you’re crazy,” one of the kids said, sidling up to me.

  “I know you’re crazy,” another kid offered. “I’m sweating just standing here. I don’t want to think about how hot it must be inside that corn suit.”

  “The Corn Queen doesn’t feel the heat,” I lied, partially to try to encourage myself to forget about the sauna my body was existing in. “Officer, you can call your whole family, all of your friends, the rest of your buddies on patrol, and any doctor you know. I work at a snack shop not too far from here and we’re having a special on corncobs on a stick. They’re a sweet and delicious treat, perfect for a summer day — reminiscent of picnics and childhood.”

  “Well, if you’re not a crazy that needs a phone call, can I at least offer you a bottle of water?” the cop asked. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

  “The Corn Queen cannot stop!” I announced, raising my fist in the air. “These fine bas
ketball players need fuel for their game. They need corncobs on a stick!”

  The band of kids took up a ragged cheer around me, and the cop shook his head as he drove off.

  “You’re not afraid of the cops?” a kid asked me, staring at me in awe. “We always run when they come around.”

  “The Corn Queen fears nothing,” I said grandly. “But why do you run? Are you doing something bad when they come around?”

  The kid shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes.”

  “Well, stop doing bad things and you won’t have a reason to be afraid of the cops,” I said. “Corn Queen’s kernel of wisdom!”

  The kid stared at me like I was certifiable, and I really was beginning to feel insane. I’d probably sweated too much, and was feeling more than a little lightheaded from all the walking and shouting. I probably should’ve taken the water the cop offered me, but I didn’t want to look weak. The Corn Queen was lots of things, but weak wasn’t on the list.

  It was with no small degree of relief that I reached the snack shop, my customers in tow.

  “Go in there and tell the man you want corncobs on a stick with all the fixings,” I said grandly, pointing at the snack shop. I saw Jared inside, his mouth hanging open, and it made all of my sweat and shame completely worth it. “And tell him who sent you!”

  “The crazy corn lady!” a kid shouted, jumping up and down as the rest of the rowdy bunch pressed into the store.

  “No, no!” I yelled, fighting to be heard over the tumult. “The Corn Queen! The Corn Queen sent you to get your corncob on a stick! The Corn Queen!”

  I hawked those snacks tirelessly, told people they could get all sorts of ridiculous toppings on their corn — chili, chocolate syrup, ice cream — that the corncob on a stick was a canvas and their palate was the paint. I said anything and everything to sell corn, including making up silly poems about corn on the spot, dancing, shouting so persistently at people that they had to stop and see what I was selling, and by blocking the sidewalk.