What Josie doesn’t know, and what I’ll never admit to anyone, is that I barely made it here. I was one percentage point—really let that sink in—above failing my final evaluations. The only reason I get to walk across the stage tonight? Early in the semester, my instructor offered extra credit: Anyone willing to scrub down countertops and mop the kitchen floors after labs for a month would earn bonus points toward their final grade. If I’ve learned anything in my thirty years, it’s that if your name is Madison Walker, you always take the extra credit. And this time it kept me from flunking out altogether.
Well, that and the lemon thyme risotto I cooked in the thirdsemester that made Chef Cobalt stop talking for a full sixty seconds. Which, if you knew Chef Cobalt, was basically a standing ovation. That was back before the panic attacks really started.
“I mean after the ceremony,” says Josie, her amber eyes sparkling as she pulls her warm-brown, waist-length box braids over one shoulder. “Did you decide on a restaurant to work at?”
I nearly laugh at her implication that I havechoices.As if restaurants all over the city are clamoring to have me work in their kitchens.
Aside from a weeklong lab exercise we partnered on early in our second semester, Josie and I haven’t interacted enough to be friends. And we didn’t intern in the same kitchen either. If we had, she would have known better than to ask me that question. Because as it currently stands, I’m considering walking away from the culinary life altogether and finding yet another career path. Now I can putformer fourth-grade teacherandculinary school failureon my résumé.
The saddest truth, however, is that even if I still wanted to find a job in this industry, I doubt Chef Davis would give me the recommendation I need to get a good one. Most likely, he’d deter any interested restaurants from hiring me.
I press my lips against a smile and opt for the shortest answer I can give. “Not yet—how about you?”
Josie is like Emily. Meaning, she succeeds in everything she does. She was born for this kind of place—high expectations, pressure, perfection. The kind of girl who didn’t tense up when receiving a grade. I bet she used a mandolin slicer in the womb. So it’s not a shock when she rattles off the top restaurants (by the dozen) who have already given her a call-back interview.
Suddenly, I’m glad I never pursued a friendship with her, even if Ireallyneeded a friend around here. But I already have one Emily in my life, and though I love her to bits, I couldn’t stomach having another person to compare myself with.
Josie is mid victory speech when my phone goes off in my lap, buzzing wildly as my sister group chat comes alive. “Sorry to interrupt you,” I tell Josie, not actually sorry at all. “But I need to read this text.”
Her feelings aren’t hurt. She turns her attention to the guy sitting beside her and I zero in on my phone.
EMILY: I’m bored. What’s everyone doing?
ANNIE: Staring at Will because he’s so hot I can’t stand it.
EMILY: WILL GRIFFIN! How many times do I have to tell you the sister group chat is sacred and you are NOT allowed in here?!
ANNIE: Sorry. Annie’s in the shower. I’ll go get her.
Ever since Will and Annie eloped a few months ago, Will has been angling to gain a place in our sibling group chats. Emily reminds him—repeatedly and sternly—that he’ll never be invited. But I think this is her way of punishing him for giving in to Annie’s desire to elope, telling no one until after it was done. (Personally, I support it. Annie hates attention, and her little sneaky church wedding with Will was perfect for her.)
AMELIA: Cool. I guess that means we won’t be hearing from her for a while . . . and I’m not busy. Just watching Jeopardy with Noah.
EMILY: As every world-famous pop star does on a Saturday night.
It’s a wild story how my brother met Amelia, aka Rae Rose, world-famous pop star. But in a nutshell, her car broke down in his front yard, and she hid at his house for a few weeks to get a break from fame. They fell in love,bing bang boom—they’re married. Sheloves Rome and the life of normalcy it offers her when she’s not on tour, so she and Noah live there together full time. And we love having her in the family. I’ve never met someone so down-to-earth. Hand to my heart, I’m more conceited than she is.
MADISON: You small-towners are embarrassingly boring.
AMELIA: Oh yeah? Name one thing in the big city that’s more fun than eating chicken pot pie while your husband rubs your feet after getting back from a four-month-long tour?
My heart jolts. Because as much as I’d like to say I don’t want that kind of life, I really,reallydo.
When I was home a year ago, right before I came back to New York, is when I first experienced the shift. I saw what Emily and Jack, and all my siblings, had—and for once, I thought it looked nice. Wonderful even. I decided I was going to change some things when I got back to New York.
If only it had worked out like I planned.
MADISON: You haven’t lived until you’ve known the thrill of clutching your purse against your chest and trying to make it home after dark without getting murdered.
EMILY: Maddie . . . are you trying to ruin my night with anxiety over your safety? Because it’s working.
I glance up, noting that the guy three seats down from me has already been called. It’s almost my turn.
MADISON: Sorry, Em! No anxiety necessary tonight. I’m actually having a quiet night at home.
EMILY: YOU NEVER STAY IN! WHAT’S WRONG? ARE YOU SICK?! DO YOU NEED ME TO FLY OUT AND BRING YOU SOUP?
ANNIE: I’m here!! Sorry you’re sick Maddie!! What do you have?
