Читать книгу Dream Come True - Gina Calanni - Страница 12
ОглавлениеAfter class I scramble to my car and hop in. I saved up for three whole summers to buy Rontu. I thought that was the right name for my brown Chevette. It reminded me of the dog in Island of the Blue Dolphins. I just knew when I laid eyes on it at the flea market that Rontu and I would go on great adventures. Sure, most folks don’t think Chevettes are great cars, but I knew it would be solid and make for great companionship. Shoot, look at us now. Sitting in the parking lot of Blue Ribbon Creamery. First day of training was, I guess, a fifty-fifty. I didn’t scoop ice cream right… but I did meet somebody really nice. My chest tightens. I glance out into the parking lot; most of the cars are gone. Brandon is hustling toward me. I swallow. What am I going to say? What is he going to say?
His face lights up like the first day of spring and everybody is headed to Dairy Queen for their free scoop of ice cream.
“Hey there.” He leans into my car window. His body is so large I have to back up or else our faces would be touching. And by our faces I mean our lips. They are so close. The lump in the back of my throat grows bigger, like it’s one of those ridiculous-size jawbreakers that nobody could even fit in their mouth – well, except Suzie T, but that’s not nice to say; I can almost hear my mama clearing her throat in disapproval.
“Hey.” I kick my own foot. Hey? Why can’t I ever think of something clever? Well, I suppose that’s because I’m Sahara… and unfortunately Sahara is not clever. Especially with her degree that’s not good enough for the creamery. I frown.
Brandon squints his eyes at me. “Do you want to grab something to eat?”
I laugh. “Are you trying to come up with another way of buying me a meal?”
Brandon flashes his healthy chompers at me again. “It wasn’t going to be as fancy as the cafeteria but I have a couple of bucks in my wallet and the dollar menu sounds like a good idea. What do you say?”
My eyebrows push together. Is he serious? I’m too embarrassed to ask. “Maybe another time. I’ve got to get home and study.”
Brandon jerks his head back at me. “Study for what?’
“For this class we’re in. Aren’t you going to?”
His knuckles brush against his chin like he’s thinking of something. “How about we study together?” His dreamy blues stare down into my eyes and my chest tightens like a rattlesnake is cutting off my air supply. “Starbucks and study time, yes?”
“All right.” I can’t imagine Brandon’s ever heard the word no. He’s so confident and those eyes of his are about the prettiest things I’ve ever seen.
“Do you want to ride with me?” He raises an eyebrow at me.
“No, I’ll follow in my car.”
He nods and strolls to a big silver truck. I’m sure that thing cost a fortune. It’s so fancy-looking. Here I am in my beat-up…
“I’m sorry, Rontu.” I know I didn’t say it out loud but it’s like Rontu and I are connected somehow and, even though he’s a car, it just didn’t seem the right thing to say or think. He has really been a worthwhile investment for me.
I follow behind Brandon’s pricey truck and flip on some tunes to ease my nerves. That guy makes my insides dance around like a bunch of Mexican jumping beans. As the twang of the guitar slides through my speakers, I’m immediately at ease. I sure do like Patsy Cline and “Walking After Midnight” is one of my favorite songs. I know it’s sad but it reminds me of my daddy. Like maybe somehow his leaving was not on purpose. I wonder sometimes if he got lost and is still trying to find his way back to our home. To me and my mama. Though I don’t know if my mama would welcome him back in as it’s been twelve years since he left.
As I park my car I glance at Brandon’s truck. It’s so sparkly and nice, just like Brandon. Why is something that shiny acting interested in me? My stomach clenches and I hop out of my car.
Brandon holds open the door for me and we make our way to the register. I scan the different options and decide to order one of their tiramisu lattes. Whipped cream in the afternoon, is there anything better? I think not.
I reach into my purse to take out my card and Brandon pushes my hand back in my purse.
“Come on now, it’s only coffee.” His dreamy blues make my knees all wobbly.
I sigh. “Okay. Thank you. I’d like a tiramisu latte.”
“Whoa… I said coffee not the works.” Brandon laughs.
I reach back in my purse.
“Sahara, I’m kidding.” He shakes his head at me. “Two tiramisus, please.”
The cashier takes our names and rings us up. We step to the side while they make our drinks.
“You’re something else.” Brandon tugs on my hair.
“I could say the same about you.” I poke his side.
“Sarah and Brandon.” The employee shouts.
We both laugh as if we knew it would be Sarah and not Sahara. Brandon grabs our drinks and I follow behind him to the back of the café. We sit down, me with my notes and Brandon with his laptop.
“I bet you get that all the time, huh?”
I laugh. “More times than I can count.”
“It is an interesting name, though. Are your parents big travelers?”
I laugh even harder now. Brandon is staring at me like I’ve got a clown wig on or something.
“I’m sorry. It’s just the idea of my parents as travelers… well, that’s just funny. I guess, I mean my daddy might be. He left on my tenth birthday, so who knows what he’s up to; maybe he is a big traveler.”
“Oh, gosh, that must have been really difficult.”
“I suppose, but there’s no going back and changing things, so…” I take a sip of my drink.
The sides of Brandon’s mouth pull up higher than the sunrise at noon. I’m not sure why he thinks my daddy leaving is funny. I’m about to stand up and leave as he leans in to me and wipes my nose.
“Sorry, you had some whipped cream on your nose.” His eyes twinkle at me.
My face heats up and I’m not sure which is worse: that I had whipped cream on my nose or that Brandon thought it was funny. Does he think I’m a fool? My shoulders slump to the floor.
“Hey, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Do you know how cute you look when you’re pouting?” Brandon squeezes my hand. His fingers are a little rough but the warmth of his skin makes me all sensitive inside. How is he causing all these emotions when I only just met him?
I stare back into his eyes. “I’m not pouting.”
“Okay.” Brandon grins. “So tell me about your name. I’m curious.”
I sigh. I really don’t want to share this with Brandon. I’m afraid he’ll think it’s silly or think less of my family.
“My mama said she named me Sahara because I was going to be something special, like the desert.” Brandon’s eyes are sparkling at me. I hesitate for a second. “But when my daddy left he said that my mama lied and that she had just misspelled Sarah because she was too doped up on hospital drugs when she filled out the form.” I swallow hard but the lump in the back of my throat doesn’t move.
“Wow.” Brandon shakes his head. “Your dad.” He stops speaking for a moment, almost as if he’s remembering an unwritten rule about talking badly about somebody else’s family. He lets out a sigh. “I like your name and think it suits you well.”
“Thank you. Now enough about me. We’re supposed to be studying here.” I tap on my papers. They look so lame compared to Brandon’s laptop. I’m still not sure why he is sitting here next to me. We are like the dry cleaner’s and the laundromat. Obviously from two different worlds. I’m sure his family life is probably as nice as his truck.
“How about I quiz you?” Brandon winks at me.
“Okay and then I’ll quiz you.” I skim my notes as quickly as I can before Brandon can ask me the first question.
“I didn’t take you for the cheating type.” Brandon tugs the papers away from me.
“I wasn’t. I was just checking out my notes one last time.”
“Tell it to the judge.” Brandon laughs and shuffles the papers. “All right. What is Blue Ribbon’s number-one rule?”
I stare up at the ceiling. I know the answer is not going to be printed up there but for some reason it just seems like the right thing to do. Shoot. I can’t think of what the number-one rule is. Is it about safety? Or more about sales. I glance back at Brandon; he’s watching me with a big smile plastered across his face. I can’t help but smile back even though my insides are twisting together. I do not know the answer to his question.
“I’ll give you a hint.” Brandon’s eyes twinkle and his smile is brighter than the reflection of sundown on the tin foil over my Aunt Betty’s famous apple pie. I’m still stumped. I have no idea.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“A smile can go a long way.” Brandon lets out a small laugh.
“Ah, yeah, I suppose I forgot about that one. It’s the company tagline, right?” Gosh, I couldn’t feel worse right about now. I didn’t remember the company tagline; how am I supposed to pass any of the tests when I don’t even know the tagline? My insides feel shredded. I glance at my phone. It’s five after six.
“Yes, it is. All right, next question.” Brandon scans over my notes. A vibrating sound comes from underneath the table. He eyes his phone and holds up one finger to me.
“Hello… yes, this is Brandon. Yes, I’m working on… training just began. Yes, I will. All right. Bye.” His mind seems to be elsewhere as he stuffs his phone back in his pocket. What was that about? It’s not anything for me to worry about, that’s for sure.
I clear my throat and pick up my notes. “Actually, I’ve got to go. I promised Ms. Myra I’d eat dinner with her tonight and now I’m going to be late.” I stand up. Brandon’s eyes are wide. Does he think I’m dumber than a fruit fly? I sure wish I had wings right about now and I would flap them so fast and exit this shop before Brandon noticed I was gone.
“Oh, okay.” Brandon stands as well.
“Thanks for the latte.” I nod at him and hightail it out of there. My whole drive home I try not to slam my head onto my steering wheel. The only thing that prevents me from doing so is, one, Rontu wouldn’t appreciate it and, two, I might cause an accident. Other than that it seems like a great idea.
I scoot my way up the driveway and run to Ms. Myra’s front door. The kitchen light is on. I sure hope I haven’t ruined dinner. This would be our very first one together. I open the door and take a right to the kitchen. Ms. Myra’s house is what one might describe as quaint. It’s got three bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and only one bathroom. The bathroom part might be a problem for some folks but I’ve been sharing one with my mama since I was born. Ha, I mean once I was out of diapers.
“Hi, Ms. Myra. I hope I’m not late, I was studying.”
Ms. Myra has her back to me as she’s stirring a big pot of something on the stove. She slowly turns around and her smile tells me she isn’t mad.
“Not at all, dear. Now have a seat and tell me all about your day. How did you like Blue Ribbon?
“Yes, ma’am. I liked it a lot. Except I need to do some major studying as apparently I don’t know the proper way to scoop ice cream and I forgot about the number-one rule of the creamery.” I slide onto the vinyl green chair and then immediately hop up. “Can I help with something, Ms. Myra?”
“No, dear, tonight is my turn. You can take a turn another time.” Ms. Myra nods at me to take a seat. I reluctantly sit back down. It seems backwards for me to be sitting while she serves me. After her allowing me to stay with her an’ all.
“What’s the proper way to scoop ice cream? I would have thought someone from Dairy Queen would know.”
I laugh. “I would have thought that, too, but Mr. Flints seems to think not too kindly of Dairy Queen. Anyways, he said the proper way is to cut the ice cream with a warm knife first, like a grid.”
Ms. Myra brings the pot to the table and sloshes some of the chili onto the floor. “Oh, darn it.” She slides the pot on the table and reaches for a towel. Her legs slip a bit and she braces herself on the counter.
“Are you all right?” I jump to her side.
“Yes, dear. I’m just getting old, that’s all.”
I take the towel from her and clean up the mess.
She is still holding on to the sides of the counter like she might fall. I’m afraid to ask her if I can help. I don’t want to embarrass her. I pretend to clean the towel for longer than what would seem necessary at the sink until she lets go of the sides of the counter and slowly makes her way to the table like an inchworm. This is not the kind of movement I would expect of someone her age. If I had to guess I would say she’s got to be a few years older than my mama, but that would still make her under sixty.
I sit down at the seat in front of her and smile. “Thanks for making dinner. It smells delicious.”
“Oh, thank you, Sahara – that’s very kind of you.” She grins back at me.
My heart is warming all over. There is something about her that makes me want to rush to her side and hug her. Like I’ve known her my whole life or something.
“Tell me about the rest of your day. Did you meet any new friends?” She takes a scoop of the chili. I notice the cornbread is sitting on the counter and I step up and grab it along with the butter.
“Good call.” She nods at the cornbread. “Now, quit stalling. Did you meet a boy?”
I laugh. “Yes, ma’am, there are males and females in the class.” I take a big bite of the cornbread. I’m sure Ms. Myra won’t like me talking with food in my mouth.
Her eyes are on me as I chew. I can’t help but want to laugh, but then cornbread would be all over the table and that would be really gross. I swallow and take a sip of my tea. It is much too sweet but I would never mention this to Ms. Myra.
“Yes, ma’am. I met a guy called Brandon.” I take a bite of chili; it is delicious. I bet Ms. Myra’s been cooking this all day long. It’s got those savory flavors from having been simmering for hours.
“Brandon… what’s his last name?”
“Rollins. We studied together at Starbucks.”
“Oh my, that sounds nice.” She winks at me.
My cheeks are warmer than a hot cookie from the oven. I take a gulp of the too-sweet tea.
“Sahara Smith, you like this boy, don’t you?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I sure don’t want to tell Ms. Myra a fib. But it’s a bit embarrassing to be sharing how I feel about Brandon when I just met him. It seems a little soon and I just met Ms. Myra, too, even though it feels like this isn’t the case.
“I just met him.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean anything. Was he sweet to you?”
“Yes, ma’am. He tried to buy my lunch, then he asked me to dinner but I said I couldn’t, that I had to study and of course I had already planned on having dinner with you. So finally he asked if I would study with him at Starbucks and he bought my latte.” I take a deep breath.
“Sounds like this boy has some good manners. I like that.” She takes a small bite of her chili. Her bowl is as full as when we sat down. Here, I’ve been doing most of the talking and she has hardly touched her food.
“Yes, ma’am.” I can’t help wondering if he likes me, too, or if he had liked me until I ruined it by not answering that question right. I scrape up the last of my meal and stand up. “I’d better get to studying so I don’t mess up tomorrow in class.” I rinse off my plate and put it in the dishwasher. “Thank you for dinner; it was real tasty.”
“You’re welcome, Sahara. I’m so glad you’re here.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. My whole body is warm, like I’m swirling around in a forest of good feelings. I squeeze it back and make my way to my room and hop on my bed. I’ve got to get today’s lessons down – who knows what the class for tomorrow will bring.
I head back to my new room and suddenly it hits me: I might be shipped out before I even get settled in. “Accreditation is just a word” has been on repeat in my mind today, ever since Brandon said it. I have done my best to silence it but now I’ve got to check it out – does that really mean that my degree isn’t real? I need to see if I’m as big a fool as I suspect I might be. Did I fall for some big scam? I log on to my computer; thankfully, Ms. Myra has internet service. Clickety clack and I’m all set to search every which way I can about Eagle Online. But there is no need for any hooping hollering of a search. All I have to do is type in Eagle Online and underneath their website reads a list of other sites which all talk about it being a scam, fake school, do not go, not real, fake degrees, accreditation is more than a word and Eagle Online knows this. Shoot, and darn it! If only Sahara Smith had known this before she signed over a bunch of money and the idea that she could be something. I shut my computer down and climb into bed to shut myself down, too. This day, this realization, is more than I can handle and I know when it’s time to fold.
***
I blare down the hallway and in through the kitchen with my spiral notepad in hand. Ms. Myra has put the coffee on and I’m taking it upon myself to use one of her to-go cups. I pour a half-cup and nearly drop it from my hand. Ms. Myra is in the doorway with her eyes on me.
“Good morning. I was just going to take some of this coffee for the road, if that’s all right?”
Ms. Myra adjusts her robe. “Of course it’s all right, but don’t you want to sit down and have a proper breakfast?” She passes through the kitchen and pulls out a frying pan and it’s like the kitchen got hotter without her even turning on the burner. “I suppose you might like your eggs sunny side up, yes?”
I swallow. I haven’t had sunny side up eggs since my daddy left. It was the one thing he made food-wise. Sunny side eggs, the whitest eggs with a bit of sunshine in the middle. My mama never made them and I can’t imagine she even considered it after my daddy left.
“I haven’t had sunny side eggs in, gosh, forever.”
“Well then, sit down. You’ve got time, don’t you? Class doesn’t begin for another hour, right?” Ms. Myra bustles to the stove and takes out a frying pan. I suppose I’ll be in the frying pan if I don’t sit down and partake in her offering. I can’t say I’m not a bit put off about having the eggs, and how did she know? Did my mama mention something to her? This seems so out of character, like if she were to wear her gardening culottes to church, just something that she wouldn’t do. I shake my head. But then again, how did we get here? Where I’m getting to know this woman who seems to know bits and pieces about me, but I only know what I’m seeing here in the house about her.
“Can I help with anything?” I take a side step as I can’t help but be uncomfortable sitting while she prepares me breakfast.
“Yes, sweetie, why don’t you tell me about the last time you had sunny side up eggs?” Ms. Myra casts her eyes back at me and I let our stares meet for a second longer than is comfortable before I swipe my coffee up like it’s a life raft in the ocean and the Titanic is going under. This is the only thing running through my mind, sinking into freezing water: I don’t discuss my daddy with anyone, not even my mama. Well, that much is her doing. But we just don’t speak of him. Ever.
“Um, well, my daddy used to make them for me.” There, not hard. I spoke the truth and not a thing more.
“That’s right and did he make them good for you? I remember sometimes – well, in his earlier years – he was always worried about the runniness of the eggs.” She cracks the egg on the side of the counter.
My eyes are bigger than the egg yolks, I’m sure. How does Ms. Myra know that my daddy likes to make sunny side up eggs, and better yet that he worried about them?
“Yes, ma’am, they were always good.” I swallow my question. I want to ask how she knows my daddy but I can’t; it doesn’t seem proper. Like a question that I should know the answer to, and if I don’t then there is probably a reason for that so I can’t poke and ask. I need to let it settle down in my tummy and try not to focus on it.
“Well, that’s good to hear. At least he got something right.” Ms. Myra scoops some of the prettiest sunny side eggs onto a light-blue plate and I do my best not to shed a tear. Not about my daddy, no. Lord knows I haven’t cried about that man for a decade. But this moment. Ms. Myra going out of her way to make me breakfast. I haven’t had someone make breakfast for me since, well, since my daddy left. That was always his thing. My mama handled dinner until I turned eight, then that was my job, as she was always picking up extra cleaning shifts and said it was high time I learned how to use a kitchen properly and not just for running around in. Though I was never much of a runner in the kitchen, I suppose this was just one of her sayings.
I scoop up a bit of the center and a slice of the white and let the flavors do a little jig in my mouth. Shucks corn, that’s a tasty egg. The perfect seasoning too. “Wow, Ms. Myra, these are delicious. Thank you.” I fork up another biteful and practically devour the eggs before she responds.
“Well, sugar, that’s good to hear. Thank you for being here. It’s nice having you. Now, you best get on to your class. Don’t you worry about this mess. I’ll take care of it.” She reaches for my plate.
I glance at the big green clock with an apple center that hangs on the wall. “I could clean them up over my lunch break or when I get home?”
“Hush now with that nonsense. Scoot on to class and we’ll catch up later over dinner.” She nods at me. And I know this type of head move. It means go on and get what you’re supposed to do done. And I plan on doing just that.
I’ve got to settle up the situation with Eagle Online. I only tossed and turned about a thousand times last night. Took a zillion gasps for air. I suppose what they say is true: you don’t have to have water to drown, and boy am I drowning. Drowning in debt and in utter failure. I wasted a bunch of time at a fake school. I still can’t believe this is true or possible. I’m going to make some phone calls over my lunch break and see if I can find some answers and maybe, just maybe, I’m wrong. Maybe all those sites online weren’t real. Maybe they are the ones that are fake.
