Читать книгу Dream Come True - Gina Calanni - Страница 11

Chapter Two

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.