CHAPTER ONE
Madison
NEW YORK
101 DAYS UNTIL I FAIL . . .
I have a personal vendetta against the phrasegive it your best and forget the rest.That motto only works for a select few—the naturally gifted and the “somehow I always come out on top” success stories. I’ve never been a member of either club.
Instead, here are some of life’s rules, both silly and serious, that I’ve always found to be true:
If I jump off the roof of the shed with an umbrella, gravity will definitely take over, and I will end up with at least a broken leg.
A good cry pairs well with almost any emotion: happy or sad.
Nothing beats a classic chocolate chip cookie.
Every family has one person who is considered The Failure—and in my family, that person is me.
No matter how hard I have tried to shake off the label these past thirty years, it always seems to pull me back in. (Or more honestly, I jump headfirst right into its comforting embrace.) Andthough my three siblings would never call me that to my face, I know that deep down they think it. (Because it’s true.)
At first, my inevitable misdeeds always present themselves as sparkling, hopeful opportunities. A bright shining star on the horizon.Cut your own hair, little six-year-old Madison. It’ll look so cute.(It did not. I looked like Weird Barbie.)Improvise your lines on the opening night of your theater performance, twelve-year-old Madison. It’ll take everyone by surprise and make you look so funny and creative.(It was a disaster. No one laughed and my fellow castmates were furious at me for weeks for ruining the production.)Spike the punch at prom, seventeen-year-old Madison. Everyone will love you for it.(Well, they did love me for it, but it also got me detention for the rest of the school year and community service on the weekends.) And last but not least,Quit your secure elementary school teaching job, adult Madison. Go to culinary school in New York and wow everyone with your high-profile chef position.(Or develop anxiety and panic attacks that keep me from ever wanting to step foot in a professional kitchen ever again.)
And when I fail, which is often, the fallout is almost always bigger than the big bright idea that started it.
I should have listened to my gut and quit culinary school a year ago, like I’d planned before I got everyone’s hopes up that I’d actually follow through with something. The city was panning out to be nothing like I’d expected, and I missed my little small-town home in a way I never anticipated.
I went back to Rome, Kentucky, intending to stay for good. But Emily, in her wise older-sister love, encouraged me to stick it out. She reminded me of my dream and how much I’ve wanted this, adding that I would be full of regret if I quit halfway through. It was a classically moving pep talk from someone who always succeeds in the end.
But I am The Failure—so even after returning to New Yorkwith a motivational speech under my wings and warmth in my heart, I still messed it all up.
I hoped to graduate as a badass chef like my idol, Zora Brookes. She was a small-town chef who cooked her way to two Michelin stars in New York City. She’s basically the Catwoman of chefs, if you will. Efficient. Cunning. Outfitted in full leathers. ( Just kidding about the leathers—though, from the photos of her in theBon Appetitfeature, she could pull off the look.) I had dreamed of following in her footsteps.
Instead, I’m a lost alley cat, emerging from behind the dumpster with matted fur, a broken spirit, and a fractured heart.
For possibly the first time in her life, Emily was wrong. This dream might not be for me—and I don’t know how much longer I can keep hoping it is.
Reading my mind, Josie, an early-twenties classmate sitting beside me, leans in and whispers, “What are your plans for after graduation?”
My metal chair squeaks as I adjust to find a comfier position. “Red wine and a sexy book. You?”
“I didn’t literally mean afterthisgraduation,” she says with a laugh, gesturing to the ceremony we are currently part of.
