“Yep. Let’s go, girl.” She storms past me to her small kitchen. The one I have made eighty-seven pounds of extra-buttery microwave popcorn in the last six days. It’s the only thing nourishing me at the moment.
My parents have moved, and I’m taking it harder than I thought I would. Probably because I sent them off with a boatload of lies. They have no idea that I am currently jobless, awardless, and dishwasherless—yes, my landlord kicked me out because of that little dishwasher mishap.
Willow smacks my legs from their claimed position and plops down next to me.
“Hey!” I cry. It’s dramatic. It’s pathetic. But this couch and I have become one. There is no room for Willow.
“Move over.” She nudges her shoulders against my tucked-in legs. Sitting up, I cross my arms and stare at my fuzzy pink socks that are looking a little gray on day three. I watch as Willow fills one mug and then the other. “Here,” she says, handing me the thing as if it were a beer stein filled to the brim.
“This mug would be so much prettier with a little color. A little design.”
“Of course it would,” Willow says, taking a sip of her fully charged cola. “But that isn’t the job C&C asked you to do.”
I scoff. “So, you agree with them now? I’m just this big fat failure. I can’t even make a mug right.” Oof—wallowing is so not pretty on me.
“Of course not,” my friend says, her tone patient. “I’m not calling you a failure. I’m stating the truth. Now, your turn for truth. What are you going to do?”
I hold my mug with both hands, swishing the liquid within from side to side. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be sittinghere. I’m afraid I’m just going to fail again, Willow. How’s that for truth?” I am crashing out and I don’t know how to stop.
She stirs next to me, her eyes soft and fairly pitiful. “Okay, well, let’s talk it out. Drink up.”
“Your answer to everything can’t be Coke and confession.”
“And yet, it is.” She pushes up on my hand, until the edge of my C&C mug presses against my bottom lip. I take one delectable sip. Does she have any idea how long it’s been since I cut real Coke from my life?
Ten minutes later and two mugs down, I sit on the floor across from Willow—yes, she has successfully removed my butt from the couch. I fill up my third mug of Coke and take a long, dragging drink. “I thought I was helping them. I just wanted to make the dishes beautiful. Why wouldn’t they let me?”
She tips back her head and downs her last drop of Coke. “Because C&C appeals to people without taste.”
“Ha!” I yell, smacking my mug to hers. “Yes!” Only it isn’t true. Clay & Crescent is high-end stuff. Uniform. Boring. Expensive. And popular.
Still, Willow giggles with my jolt of caffeine.
“They never believed in me. Just like—” I breathe out, the thought heavy on my chest.
“Don’t stop now, Princess Leia!” Willow smacks the coffee table with her open palm. “Keep talking.”
“Actually, I’m more of a Luke.” I peer down into my mug. “Do I even have the skills to do what I want to do? The truth is, I’m afraid that everyone else has been right all along. And I’m just fooling myself. Maybe I do need to grow up and get a real job and quit making thingy-ma-bobs.” It’s mygreatest fear. One that makes me doubt myself more than ever.
I was sort of depending on the judges of the Sierra Clay Award to tell me if I actually have what it takes in this business. And now we’ll never know. Because Spiral Song is a goner. A series ofIf Give a Pig a Pancake—or in my case, give an anxious woman dish soap and my piece is toast. It’s actually sitting on Willow’s TV stand—a large crack down one of the waving spirals and a jagged chunk broken from the top. It’s not winning an award.
It's a failure. Just like me.
“This isn’t like you,” she says.
“Maybe it’s the new me,” I say, afraid that it’s true.
“It’s not!” she insists. “Now, finish your thought from before.”
“My dream isn’t practical, Willow. My parents have known that all along. Why would anyone believe in it?” What has my dream caused but worry and heartache?
“Stella! I believe in you. But if you don’t believe in yourself, does it even matter?”
“Maybe they’re right, Willow.”
She shakes her head. “None of that. You’re letting the doubt of C&C, of your family, of your recent bad luck, cloud your head. Come on, reroute. Tell me about someone who did believe in you. That’s the kind of energy you need right now.”
I lift my mug and down its contents, then fill it up once more. Three mugs in and my dry spell is officially over.Thanks, Willow.
