Dream Come True. Gina Calanni

and partake in her offering. I can’t say I’m not a bit put off about having the eggs, and how did she know? Did my mama mention something to her? This seems so out of character, like if she were to wear her gardening culottes to church, just something that she wouldn’t do. I shake my head. But then again, how did we get here? Where I’m getting to know this woman who seems to know bits and pieces about me, but I only know what I’m seeing here in the house about her.

      “Can I help with anything?” I take a side step as I can’t help but be uncomfortable sitting while she prepares me breakfast.

      “Yes, sweetie, why don’t you tell me about the last time you had sunny side up eggs?” Ms. Myra casts her eyes back at me and I let our stares meet for a second longer than is comfortable before I swipe my coffee up like it’s a life raft in the ocean and the Titanic is going under. This is the only thing running through my mind, sinking into freezing water: I don’t discuss my daddy with anyone, not even my mama. Well, that much is her doing. But we just don’t speak of him. Ever.

      “Um, well, my daddy used to make them for me.” There, not hard. I spoke the truth and not a thing more.

      “That’s right and did he make them good for you? I remember sometimes – well, in his earlier years – he was always worried about the runniness of the eggs.” She cracks the egg on the side of the counter.

      My eyes are bigger than the egg yolks, I’m sure. How does Ms. Myra know that my daddy likes to make sunny side up eggs, and better yet that he worried about them?

      “Yes, ma’am, they were always good.” I swallow my question. I want to ask how she knows my daddy but I can’t; it doesn’t seem proper. Like a question that I should know the answer to, and if I don’t then there is probably a reason for that so I can’t poke and ask. I need to let it settle down in my tummy and try not to focus on it.

      “Well, that’s good to hear. At least he got something right.” Ms. Myra scoops some of the prettiest sunny side eggs onto a light-blue plate and I do my best not to shed a tear. Not about my daddy, no. Lord knows I haven’t cried about that man for a decade. But this moment. Ms. Myra going out of her way to make me breakfast. I haven’t had someone make breakfast for me since, well, since my daddy left. That was always his thing. My mama handled dinner until I turned eight, then that was my job, as she was always picking up extra cleaning shifts and said it was high time I learned how to use a kitchen properly and not just for running around in. Though I was never much of a runner in the kitchen, I suppose this was just one of her sayings.

      I scoop up a bit of the center and a slice of the white and let the flavors do a little jig in my mouth. Shucks corn, that’s a tasty egg. The perfect seasoning too. “Wow, Ms. Myra, these are delicious. Thank you.” I fork up another biteful and practically devour the eggs before she responds.

      “Well, sugar, that’s good to hear. Thank you for being here. It’s nice having you. Now, you best get on to your class. Don’t you worry about this mess. I’ll take care of it.” She reaches for my plate.

      I glance at the big green clock with an apple center that hangs on the wall. “I could clean them up over my lunch break or when I get home?”

      “Hush now with that nonsense. Scoot on to class and we’ll catch up later over dinner.” She nods at me. And I know this type of head move. It means go on and get what you’re supposed to do done. And I plan on doing just that.

      I’ve got to settle up the situation with Eagle Online. I only tossed and turned about a thousand times last night. Took a zillion gasps for air. I suppose what they say is true: you don’t have to have water to drown, and boy am I drowning. Drowning in debt and in utter failure. I wasted a bunch of time at a fake school. I still can’t believe this is true or possible. I’m going to make some phone calls over my lunch break and see if I can find some answers and maybe, just maybe, I’m wrong. Maybe all those sites online weren’t real. Maybe they are the ones that are fake.

       Chapter Four

      The sound of a dial tone slams against my ear. Really? Forty-two minutes on hold only to be passed to a representative – which I know happened because I heard the click of them picking up, and then the sound of their breath. Yes, their breath – I gosh darn heard it. It was soft but it was there. And then came the machine of death. Letting me know I’d been hung up on. Hung up on after forty-two minutes of being on hold? What in the world type of institution am I dealing with? I am so strung out over the idea of my growing debt, side-saddled by the possibility – and I’m still saying possibility as I haven’t had a confirmation yet – that the school is a fake. That my degree isn’t real. That I’m here at Blue Ribbon Creamery under false pretenses. What if they find out? I’ll probably be thrown off the program, and lose my associate product developer job. And then it’ll be back to Mexia and Dairy Queen for me, with my tail between my legs.

      And here it is, the end of the week, and I’m boots-deep in despair, and this is without my normal fretting about studying for this week’s lessons. I’m worried about all the training material we’ve covered. We’ve learned everything from the homogenization process to the exact temperature to freeze ice cream. All these degrees and pressures to remember is making me feel like I’m in over my head. It’s like I’m a dog with my head out the window and I’m taking in the sights but my hair is whipping around in front of my face and I know I’m missing something.

      Today is the last day of week one, and if we don’t pass this morning’s test then we are out. Out, as in no more big, important job for Sahara. No need to worry about Eagle Online and if they are real or not, as I will be out on my ear with the bucket of debt I’m accumulating. I’ll have to let go of any type of embarrassment because I’ll be too busy trying to fix things. There aren’t any special sprinkle toppings that can make this vanilla cone a special one-of-a-kind sundae. I passed every time Brandon asked if I wanted to get together this week. I didn’t want to tell him that I would prefer never to study with him as the last time we tried to study together I was only asked one question and I got it wrong. No siree. I don’t want to embarrass myself again. I need to focus on this class and getting good grades, that’s why I’m here. No other reason or dreamy, blue-eyed guy is going to stand in my way. I place my scantron in the box and make my way out of the class.