ME:
guess who’s about to
be famous?? ?? ??
Three dots appear immediately. Then vanish. Then appear again.
KARE-BEAR:
???
WAIT
WHAT
DID YOU GET IN?!?!
My grin transforms into full-blown laughter, ricocheting through the little kitchen as I spin once in the middle of the floor, arms out like some kind of flour-dusted Disney princess. I clutch my phone to my chest and bounce in place, unable to control the excitement buzzing through my body. Before I can reply, the little bubble pops up again.
KARE-BEAR:
girl u better not quit bc i refuse
to suffer at this place place alone ??
I glance at the clock on the microwave. Ten fifty-seven p.m., which means in about nine hours, I’ll be back in my cubicle atElite Connections Customer Solutions, headset glued to my ear, pretending not to hear Kara snort-laugh whenever someone asks to speak to a manager because our manager is objectively terrible.
“Thank you for callingElite Connections. This is Taylor. How can I make your day brighter?” I mutter under my breath in my cheerful, customer service voice, mocking the greeting I say on the phone at least sixty times a day. My brain is already tired just thinking about the rest of the week.
It’s not a bad job, exactly… but it is asoul-crushingone. Eight hours of angry customers, hold music that is severely outdated, and the smell of burnt popcorn clinging to the break room microwave.
Why is that smell so hard to get rid of?
But Kara and I make the best of it by passing notes during team meetings, doing a baked goods swap on Fridays, and making eyes at each other over our shared cubicle wall when we have a particularly hostile client on the line.
But still.
It’s not what I’m meant for.
Every time I say that chipper greeting, a little part of me imagines what it would feel like to say a different greeting instead.
“Welcome to Taylor’s Treats. How can we make your day sweeter?”
A smile tugs at my lips. The same one that got me through dozens of shifts, and the customer who once yelled at me because his router’s blinking light was, and I quote,too aggressive.
Kara always says I was born to make people happy, not handle complaints from people who don’t know the difference between the internet and cable.
My best friend is the realist to my dreamer, but she also never rolls her eyes when I talk about pink awnings and always taste-tests everything I bake.
She’s actually the one who made me apply toAmerica’s Next Great Bakerin the first place.
“You’re wasting your frosting magic on cranky customers,” she’d told me over tacos one night. “Go be famous already.”
I’d laughed it off, explaining to her that people like me don’t get chosen for TV. But, after a few margaritas, she filled out the application for me, uploading a photo of me holding a whisk like a microphone as my headshot.
Now here I am, staring at the proof that she was right.Again.
My phone vibrates in my hand, shaking me from the memory.
