Page 12 of Somewhere Along The Line
I could talk about the program all day, and I might if I’m not careful. My fingers find a pen to jot down a few thoughts to structure the conversation, and more importantly, my anxious mind:
Mentorship
College application support
FAFSA help
Grant opportunities
Matching funds
One-to-one reporting from recipients to donors
Lasting generational impact
Those points sum it up. My phone buzzes with a text, vibration breaking the silence and causing a startled yelp to leave my mouth.
It’s only 7:08 a.m.
Sami follows the text with a gif of a pleading penguin, its smooth fins held together in prayer in front of its sweet little face. I can’t fight the grin that’s spreading across my cheeks.
My fingers fly across the screen as I try to wrap this conversation in a bow before Mr. Nowak arrives.
Today is going to be good. I’m not sure why, but I can feel it.
Each fallen leaf crunches and splinters under the balls of my feet as I walk to meet Sami for our half-apps date. Hearing every crisp, dry edge pop under the pressure of my steps is supremely satisfying. I’m shimmering from the inside out as I stroll through the neighborhood, my brain bathing in the glow of a truly great day; everything turned out exactly right.
I run through each hour in my mind, trying to wring my memory of every last drop, wishing I could bottle up today’s wins for a future tomorrow.
The donor meeting went flawlessly. I secured a ten-thousand-dollar initial pledge for the scholarship program. The jelly didn’t seep through the bread of my PB&J sandwich for lunch. Alberts & Sons agreed to provide an in-kind donation for the fundraising gala I’m in charge of next month. My art class students were eager to work and, thankfully, not eager to fight.
But the best part of today? Having a salary that covers the occasional half-priced app with my roommate. A roommate who is proof I don’t live with my parents anymore. It’s not much, this string of good news, but it’s mine, and that’s enough.
After things blew up with Henry, I couldn’t imagine having days like this again. I couldn’t imagine anything, actually. The picture I painted of the rest of my life was wiped clean in one explosive afternoon, and for almost two years I stared at the blank space left over, unsure how to draft a new plan.
While I may never receive an apology for how things ended with him or the company, it's an act of defiance to enjoy myself on the new path I’m cobbling together.
The thought prompts a little twirl, the wind picking up my skirt as I spot the bar in the distance. What do they say,living well is the best revenge?
Today, I believe it.
The Velvet Stool has a heavy wooden door that I haul open before elbowing my way past a throng of suits to find Sami perched at a high top. The light catches her dark hair and bounces off the martini glass in front of her.
“Your girl has arrived!” I squeal as she jumps down to wrap me in a hug. If you weren't aware we are roommates who see each other every day, you’d think this was a reunion after five years apart. It’s just how we operate. I love every bit of it.
“Tell me,” I say as I slide into my seat, “what happened before 8 a.m. that made you in dire need of a drink?”
Sami launches into her story, bemoaning our (now) broken dishwasher and how she walked downstairs into a cascade of bubbles I managed to miss by thirty minutes.
I decidenotto volunteer that I started the dishwasher before I left.
“And then, when the maintenance man finally arrived, a full two hours after the service window,” Sami says before taking a gulp from her martini to build suspense, “he looks at me, this scruffy old man who could desperately use a belt, and goes, ‘You need to clean the filter.’ As if that’s a thing we’re supposed to know. Why the hell do I need to clean a filter if the entire purpose of a dishwasher is to be a cleaning machine?! That’s literally itsonly job.”
She presses the tips of her fingers to her scalp, pushing her hair back from her forehead in frustration. “Plus, he charged me seventy-five bucks for the visit even though he didn’t even touch the thing.”
“Ugh, I’m so sorry. That’s absolutely absurd.” I try my best to muster up some anger on her behalf, if only to dampen the glow I waltzed in here with. “I’ll clean the filter. I’m sure there’s a tutorial on YouTube. It can’t be that bad.”
The door chimes as it opens, Sami’s head turning toward the sound as I spot the bar’s newest suit.
