I rest my chin in my hand, staring at the screen again. If I lose my job, I lose my health insurance, my car, maybe my apartment. Dreams don’t keep the lights on. Trust me, I’ve tried. What kind of lunatic risks everything on a long shot?
Apparently,thiskind.
The kind who grew up baking birthday cakes out of boxed mix and decorating them with her mom and grandma because store-bought was too expensive. The kind who wrapped up tins of cookies as Christmas presents because that’s what love lookedlike when money was tight. The kind who dreamed hard when it made no sense, believing that a bakery could be more than just a business.
That it could be a cornerstone of the community.
I scroll down the email again, rereading every word as if one of them might suddenly say, “Just kidding”. But none of them do; this is real.
It’s signed.
It even has an attachment at the bottom titled, “Contestant Welcome Packet.”
My stomach flips on the wordcontestant.
That’s me... I’m a contestant.
I shove my phone closer and snap a photo of the email, heart still hammering. The image is a little blurry and has those weird horizontal lines through it. For a second, I hover over my contacts—my mom, my brother, my best friend Kara—but my thumb stops before hitting send.
They’re going to freak out. They’ll start crying, which in turn will makemecry, and I can’t afford to cry right now.
I need to think.
I stand, pacing the length of my kitchen, which takes approximately four and a half steps before I hit the opposite counter. My brain feels like it’s spinning in the bowl of an overworked mixer.
Joy, fear, disbelief, and excitement, all blending together.
I catch my reflection in the microwave door: curly blond hair in a messy bun, an oversized T-shirt, and bright hazel eyes that look a little too hopeful for someone who can’t afford to fix their car starter that sporadically started failing last week.
“Okay,” I say aloud, pointing at my reflection. “You can do this. You’ll figure it out. People on TValwaysfigure it out.”
The microwave version of me doesn’t look convinced.
Not at all.
I grab a bright orange dry-erase marker and start jotting down a stream of consciousness to-do list for myself on the fridge in my loopy handwriting, because that’s what I do when things feel too big. Break them down into bite-sized pieces.
Contact the show to confirm I’m not hallucinating. Tell my boss; maybe beg her to hold my job. Budget for flights. Figure out what to pack. Buy a better whisk since mine literally snapped in half last week.
Don’t panic.
DON’T PANIC!
My phone buzzes on the counter as I’m putting the cap on the marker. I drop it into the wire basket attached to the refrigerator and scoop up my phone with its sunshine-themed case.
KARE-BEAR:
u survive audit hell or did
the trunch make u cry?
I stare at it, thumb hovering over the keyboard, then grin wider. Kara and I started calling our supervisorThe Trunchlast year after she yelled at someone for taking an extra three minutes on their bathroom break.
All that was missing was the chokey.
The nickname stuck, and now, every time she stomps past our desks, Kara humsSend Me on My Wayunder her breath, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to lose it.
And to answer her question, The Trunch sure did try to make me cry today, but I held it together, because my call logs this term have been flawless.
