Chapter 1
It’sten in the morning, and I’ve been staring at the classifieds online for the last three hours. I’ve applied to every hospitality job on at least five different websites, and I haven’t gotten one call. I even hired a resume specialist to make sure everything on my resume was up to par. My two-hundred dollars offered me a few grammatical changes to my intern experiences, and I have been told that I have a perfect resume and should have no problem finding a job.
Well, that’s fun because for the last two summers, I’ve been working pro-bono, so I can add experience to my sad resume. I have three weeks to find something, and that stupid clock hanging on the wall is the loudest reminder in the world. Well, it was until yesterday. I ripped the batteries out after my last class. The thing was taunting me.
“Oh, my God. Oh. My. God. Ash! I got the job,” Gracie shrieks after tossing her phone onto the black futon that we call a sofa. “I can’t believe it—I didn’t think I’d find anything with how dried up the market is right now, but New York City, the Marriott, yeah baby, here I come.” When good news arrives, it’s typically the time when Gracie breaks out into song and dance—spoke too soon. “Start spreading the news… I’m leaving in three weeks … I’m going to be a part of it …New York, New York.”
I want to tell my best friend to shut up, but instead, I smile my fakest smile. I’ve been a firm believer in karma—be happy for others and good things will happen, yadda-yadda, so I do what any good friend would do and shriek back. “Holy crap, Gracie! This news is freaking enormous. We must celebrate tonight.” We can celebrate the fact that you have a promising future, and I’m going to be a bum with a degree.
Gracie pouts her lips and ambles over to me with outstretched arms. “Ash, you’re going to hear something. I know it. I got this feeling inside my bones – It goes electric, wavy when I turn it on—”
“Okay, okay, let’s figure out where we’re going tonight, so I can make reservations,” I interrupt her solo of Justin Timberlake’s song.
I know Gracie is trying to encourage me, or stop me from yelling blasphemy at my soon-to-be degree in hospitality management, but dammit, I’m jealous.
No one ever told me how hard I would fall on my butt after finishing college, and I haven’t even graduated yet. Whatever the case … my butt already hurts. There are all these expectations like securing a job and finding an affordable apartment to make for a seamless move. Well, it’s obvious none of that is in the cards for me.
What’s worse is, here I am, trying to figure out how to tell good ole’ Mom and Dad that since it’s May 1st and I still haven’t received one job offer, I will have to move “home” in three weeks to their one-bedroom condo in a retirement community.
When I decided to advance my education toward a bachelor’s degree, Mom and Dad must have felt confident I wouldn’t want or need to move home after graduating. I thought most college graduates moved home with their parents for a while after. How else am I supposed to find my way in the big, bad world? Anyway, they sold the house I grew up in and downsized to a cute, teeny-tiny condo in a community of people that are their age. I kind of wonder if the space constraints were a factor in their decision when buying the place. It’s clear I don’t fit the lifestyle they have taken on. I don’t think I’m even allowed on the property without an AARP card. The memo is loud and clear.
In any case, I’ve been putting this conversation off for the last few weeks, hoping something magical might happen, but there is no magic happening here.
“Let’s go to The Cabana tonight,” Gracie says, throwing a pencil at my head. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just thinking about a message I have to send to my parents.”
“Give it a few more days. You still have time,” Gracie says. “Plus, tonight, it’s all about The Cabana—the Copacabana …” Another song is coming. “Because … my name is Lola, and I am a showgirl. I might even wear yellow feathers in my hair.”
“Gracie, I just need a minute and then I’ll make reservations,” I tell her, still trying my best to smile.
I scuffle my feet against the matted carpet and close myself in my bedroom, plopping down stomach first onto my unmade pink and black checkerboard clad bed.
I’ve had a text message drafted for the last few days, and I need to hit send. I know Mom and Dad will follow up with a phone call, but at least they can digest the news for a moment before they find the words to lecture me on becoming a responsible adult. I’m sure they’ll also add in the fact that I didn’t turn out just like my brother, Bradley—our family’s golden-child, who had a high-level job offer in not one, but four Fortune 500 companies by March of his final year of grad school.
My finger is hovering over the send button when a text comes through.
Speak of the devil.
There’s an image accompanying the text, so I open the message, finding a massive diamond ring on a slim, well-manicured, tan finger. What is going on?
Brad-Bro: Guess what, sis? Katarina said, yes!
I didn’t know how to spell her name correctly. I don’t think I even know her last name. I should know this stuff if my brother is already engaged to her. An engagement, though? It’s too fast. I want to respond to him and ask what she said yes to since I didn’t know he was proposing to some woman I’ve never met. I assume Mom or Dad would have mentioned this plan to me at some point, had they known. Our family doesn’t do well at keeping secrets from one another.
On the other hand, I shouldn’t be surprised by the news.
Bradley has been on a fast-track plan since he was twelve and became president of the middle school’s investment club. He made the statement that he would be married with children by thirty, so he can get the child-bearing years over with before turning thirty-five. That way, Bradley will be able to focus on his career through retirement. I might have laughed under my breath when he first announced his ridiculous plan. I mean, what twelve-year-old plans their life out like that?
Now that he’s getting married, I guess his plan is almost complete. Meanwhile, I haven’t even moved on from school. Bradley is only four years older, but he has a place of his own, met a great woman (I think), and now he’s off to la-la-land.
Well, good for him.
Jackass.
I do my best to force yet another fake smile, so my sarcasm doesn't come through the words of my text.
“You look like you just swallowed a bottle of toilet cleaner. You okay?” Gracie asks, poking her head into my room. “I’m worried about you.”
