Magnolia's Violet Page 6

  So, not only was Allison gaining loads of attention and critical acclaim, but she was also turning dumpster diving into the largest payday known to humankind.

  “Well… I’m just so… happy where I am now. It doesn’t seem right to leave Bennie.”

  What I wanted to say, was that there was no way the threat of hell itself could convince me to work for a former classmate—especially her! The backlash from my mother alone would make it the worst decision ever, right next to developing a shoplifting habit or airing our family’s dirt on reality television.

  Yet, at the same time I couldn’t help but wonder just how awesome could this shop possibly be if Allison was drawing in big-name movie star millennials. How stupid had I been to not know about all of it in the first place?

  “That’s so sweet, Farrah. Well, if you ever change your mind, stop by. I promise not to put you through the whole interview process. I’ll take you right on the spot!” Allison squealed with delight.

  How incredibly considerate of her. UGH!

  “Sure, thanks. It’s good to know I have options. Hold on, this is important.” I thrust the tray of lattes at her and reached inside my tote for my phone. Feigning shock, I pretended to read a surprising text. “Oh no! It’s… important… I better go now!”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “We’re prepping for an important showcase tonight. Don’t think I can stay out much longer. Bennie needs me. Very important text here. Need to go.” Yes, an important big showcase that big important people would attend. Allison wasn’t the only hot act in town. So what if I had totally made up the text up? Bennie could be looking for me—theoretically speaking.

  “Of course! Of course! Give me a hug!” Allison threw her arms around me and rocked from side to side like I was about to receive an indefinite sentence to Siberia, and there was no telling when I might return. I had this nagging feeling she had managed to splatter latte and whip on my coat in the process. “Take this,” she handed back the tray. “Remember. We’re just around the corner.”

  “Thanks,” I said, wondering how Allison’s dramatic hug hadn’t resulted in our lunches and lattes being completely smushed into the pavement. “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

  I wasn’t going to change my mind.

  I quickly waved and pivoted sharply, needing to get out of there, ASAP. As I walked ahead, uncharacteristically looking down at the ground below me, I fought against every feeling of anxiety and insecurity that threatened to take over my entire psyche. Yes, Allison’s father technically purchased the gallery for her. It wasn’t as if she had suddenly pulled herself up by her own pointy-toe-pump-straps to become one of the most sought-after young entrepreneurs under twenty-five. Of course, my father’s hands were temporarily tied and couldn’t help on that front. Otherwise, I might be in a similar situation.

  What made matters worse was Allison’s ever-so-smug, disguised as helpful, job offer. Who was she to think that I couldn’t pull off the same feat, should my parents give me the same financial help?

  “I’m running for the United States Congress on a social justice platform, Farrah.” My father had often lectured, emphasizing United States as if I were a second grader who didn’t quite understand the significance of our branches of government—or anything beyond Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. “This is it. All we need is for someone on the other side to take swings at you to get to me. It’s ugly out there, Farrah. One of our own participated in a photo shoot wearing clothing the magazine gave her, and the papers wracked her over the coals for it. I can help with the apartment, but wait until the election is over. Try to remain low key in the meantime… I will not be the candidate who loses what should be a given New York seat.”

  I despised politics. The only thing worse than being an elected official’s daughter was being an elected official’s daughter during an election. For years, I had managed to stay out of it. But this was the big one. The one that would most likely take the family straight to Washington, and open up doors previously thought unimaginable.

  Everything my parents wanted—but it wasn’t my dream.

  When I returned to the gallery, I swung the door open a bit too hard, and Manny jolted up from the front desk, startled, a far cry from his usual cool and collected self.

  “Don’t hurt me!” He threw his hands up in mock defense.

  “Ha. So funny and utterly original.”

  “Hey there! What happened to you? And why is there cream and cinnamon on the back of your coat?” he asked.

  Slamming the Heart of Buddha bag down onto the counter, along with what remained in the latte tray, I took a moment to gather myself before flashing my own award-winning smile. Even though he was my work friend, Manny would never get it. It wasn’t worth getting into. My parents had taught me a thing or two along the way. Sure, I hated the game. That didn’t mean I didn’t know how to play it.

  “Nothing,” I lied through smiling teeth. “Help me move those prints over to the left. Bennie will be here any second now.”

  Chapter Five

  Sage

  “I need two medium rare house Swiss mushroom burgers with a side of white cheddar mac and cheese. One Reuben classic with extra spread—hold the side pickles!” My manager read off the ticket, before going on to the next.

  Racing to the grill, I was on that order in a hot flash, tossing all that was needed with such quickness and precision that there was barely enough time to catch my breath. Sure, I often complained about the college dining grill to anyone who would listen, and many times acted like working there was the worst thing that could possibly happen to me.

  Truthfully, that was all a melodramatic act on my part. It wasn’t so bad after all.

  In fact, I’d come to somewhat enjoy that dining hall—and the awesome co-workers who definitely helped make it better. Yes, it was always super busy; and, sure, we dealt with annoying and super picky undergrads from time to time. But we made it work. It didn’t hurt that I’d gotten pretty darn good at whipping up our Reuben’s special sauce to perfection, if I did say so myself!

  “Boneless wings, extra spicy.”

  “Onion Rings with ranch!”

  “Flatiron Ciabatta—no provolone!”

  “Roasted Turkey Club—extra sriracha aioli!”

  The orders kept pouring right in, keeping us all on our toes till you could feel the heat. Damon, my grill partner in crime, flashed his signature toothy grin in my direction. “Look at you, keeping up!” Damon shouted over the clanging of pots and pans and general grill-associated din we’d all grown accustomed to.

  I threw Damon a sassy grin over my shoulder as I slathered two thick slices of marbled rye with butter and tossed them playfully onto the grill. “Oh, you know I do!”

  That’s how it was for us, one order after another, a dance around the grill with a quickness that was both swift and cautious (you never, ever wanted to brush your hand against anything remotely near a flame), perfecting each dish—and your grilling craft—a little bit more each time.

  Sometimes I joked that if the whole photography thing didn’t pan out, culinary school might find itself thrown into the mix.

  “Boss is looking to update our page on the school website,” Damon shared, flipping a hefty burger with a spatula and then decorating the top side with a healthy helping of Swiss. “Maybe you can get side action for the photography.”

  “I think the school has their own photographer for projects like that,” I replied, lowering a batch of Cajun steak fries into a sizzling vat of oil.

  “Maybe so; but your work’s much better. You should ask around. See what’s what.”

  With a big, goofy grin of my own, I lifted up a platter of the Flatiron Ciabatta to show off my work. “How’s this for a photo op?” I asked.

  “You never know. An opportunity’s an opportunity.”

  I shrugged. Damon was right. It wasn’t exactly my dream photo shoot, but a job’s a job. And I certainly had the growing portfolio of fre
elance work to prove it.

  “Believe it or not, I did land an engagement shoot for next weekend,” I said. “Client’s a friend of a friend.”

  “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “Central Park. Where else does every Manhattanite go?”

  “Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “True.” I slammed the bell three times to alert the server, who was sure taking her sweet

  ass time getting out those orders. “Man, where is she? I need her to pick up this ticket, ASAP!”

  *

  I could barely feel the soles of my own feet as pins and needles prickled throughout each one. Exhausted, I pulled the front door of the apartment shut and sank to the floor. All I wanted was to crawl into my room and get lost deep within the comforting, cloud-like covers of my bed, but I could barely lift myself. Instead, I rested my head against the door for a few quiet moments of solitude.

  Tucking my right arm, like a makeshift pillow underneath my head, I started to drift off. That was until I sniffed something extremely unpleasant emanating from the underside of my shirt. I wreaked of some unholy concoction of ground beef and fryer oil. I’d stink up the whole apartment if I fell asleep like that! But just as I gathered enough strength to lift myself from off the floor, my phone vibrated against the pocket of my jeans.

  I reached for my phone and sighed. It was Mom, trying to video chat with me.

  Mustering up as much energy as I possibly could, I dragged myself over to my room—the living room was a disaster—and pulled myself up and into my burgundy upholstered armchair, the one I had found at a tag sale.

  Hastily, I glanced over at the full-length mirror, propped up against an adjacent wall, and smoothed down my hair, attempting to untangle its unruly waves with my fingertips. Turning my full attention back to the phone, I took a deep breath and answered Mom’s call.

  “Hey, Mom. What’s up?” I chirped enthusiastically. Perhaps a bit too enthusiastically? I lowered my register, trying the best I could to control my voice and disguise any hint of the absolute exhaustion and frustration that I felt. “Getting ready for bed now.”

  “Hi, honey. Just checking in. Getting ready for bed?”

  Was there anything the woman didn’t notice?

  “Hanging out. That alright with you?”

  “No need to get defensive. Didn’t recognize where you were, at first.”

  My mother meant well. She honestly did—not once did I ever question her devotion for me. To put it mildly, my mother was somewhat of an anxious, perfectionistic control-freak with ridiculously high self-imposed standards. She was the kind of person who planned meticulously, crafted many to-do lists for even the most minuscule of tasks, and continuously fretted over preventing anything bad happening.

  From where I was standing, Mom was successful with just about everything she did. Yet she somehow still perceived herself as a chronic failure.

  “I’m good,” I fibbed. “Got back from work a couple of minutes ago, and as I said, I’m heading off to bed. Might go to the museum tomorrow. Or the park. I haven’t decided yet. But I’m tired. Tough day. Like, a really tough day.” I was rambling. I needed to stop rambling. But I couldn’t. The more her brow noticeably furrowed with worry, the more I worried. God, I hated video chatting with her. Why couldn’t she text like a reasonable person?

  “Okay… good. Well, I know you’re busy. Everything else is in order? You’re taking your med—”

  “Mom, I got it! I’m taking my meds! EVERY DAY!” I shrieked. Great. Her too? Didn’t anyone trust me to do anything right? Couldn’t we have just one conversation that didn’t involve that topic? I wasn’t that incompetent.

  “You know I have to ask, Sage. Listen, honey. I wanted to ask, how’s the resume coming along?”

  Talk about a complete blitz attack. How’s the resume coming along? It was such a high school English teacher thing to say. Typical Mom, in any case.

  While Dad was probably out with his friends bonding over sushi, sake, and newly purchased vinyl, I could picture Mom curled up in her favorite armchair, hunched over a Sunday morning crossword puzzle (glasses slid halfway down her nose) asking herself: I wonder how Sage’s life is coming along? I know. I’ll call and ask about her psych medication, and resume. Let me jot down a reminder on one of these many to-do lists I have written here in my planner.

  “Kat looked over my resume the other day. But I’m focused on my photography,” I explained. “Dane said there might… might be an opening where his friend works, and I could jump ship. I mean, he can be annoying and all, but Dane is relatively helpful for the most part—when he’s not having a complete anxiety attack. His friend works for an app startup, and they’re looking for new people all the time. I’ve been working hard on my portfolio. Practically day and night.”

  Mom fiddled with her clear, boxy-framed glasses that seemed a little too big to fit her face. “You can’t rely on that field though, honey,” she replied. “How many years has it been downtown now? It’s a never-ending internship. All work on your part, and no paycheck. Enough’s enough.”

  “Mom!”

  “Sage, listen. Please. I’m trying to be helpful. Your father hasn’t been able to help you along the way. Yes, he’s managed to become a successful writer, and I understand that this photography hobby means a lot to you, but it’s very rare to break into the actual field. Whenever we talk, you’re exhausted beyond measure. Your job that pays, actual money, bores you to death. No health insurance. Don’t you think it makes a little more sense to move on?”

  Mom abruptly yanked her off her glasses and, from what I could see, appeared to throw them to the side. “Hold on, honey. I’m getting my old ones. These frames are terrible—I don’t know what I was thinking ordering online.”

  Mom dropped the phone, giving me a lovely view of the ceiling and what looked like the side of a wicker waste paper basket. All accompanied by the muffled sounds of desk drawers being slid open and shut. She finally picked up again, not wearing any glasses, holding the phone a little too close to her face. “Can’t find them. I can see you, though, if I squint a little like this.”

  “Whatever, Mom. I don’t need health insurance, I’m on your plan,” I argued. There had to be a way to get her off the phone gently. For someone who just wanted to do a quick check in with me, Mom sure had an awful lot to say. And to think: she often insisted that I tended to veer off course.

  “Sage, what’s your end game here? You’re not going to be on my insurance forever. You know, I have a friend whose younger sister, not much older than you, came down with a serious case of—”

  “MOM! Do we need to get into this now? I thought you were checking in. I’m tired, I haven’t showered, and I want to be left alone. I don’t need to hear all about how some alleged sister of a friend had a bad day!” I exclaimed.

  “I’m not trying to nag you,” Mom said defensively. “Seriously. I’m not making this up. Her sister was on a strong dose of antibiotics for a sinus infection. Skipped preventive measures, like taking probiotics—”

  “LA LA LA, I don’t want to hear it, Mom—”

  “Anything can happen. You’re slugging away between the office, freelance work, and the grill—which can be dangerous. Back when I was in college and worked at the student dining hall, a classmate catching those heavy aluminum pots from the dishwasher accidentally tipped one filled with boiling water. He managed to scald his entire leg—”

  Watching her anxiety worsen made me feel like an animal trapped in quicksand. Deep down, I knew Mom’s real concern—my access to mental health care. I wasn’t the type of person who could afford to toss the dice on health insurance, in that respect. No, I had no choice but to navigate my entire life, my entire future, while battling an illness that would forever remain without a cure.

  “Mom! Please don’t tell me about the freak-dishwasher-accident story again.”

  “It’s been four months since graduation, Sage.”

  Something about her saying those words, f
ace pressed up against the screen, eyes squinted, really got to me.

  “I get it. I’ll try harder. I’ll even stop by the career services center at St. Luke’s and have them look at my resume—which, I don’t feel necessary considering I’m perfectly capable of writing on my own. But whatever. If it helps, I’ll do it. It’s not that I can’t do it… it’s just a lot right now, and I still haven’t settled in and found my way.”

  Mom smiled—with her mouth though, not her eyes. “I know that, Sage. It’s a big adjustment for you. I think it’s wonderful that you’re thinking about getting some extra help. You’ll settle in quickly and do just fine. I know you will. There’s a young math teacher at Tinsley Prep who’s going on maternity leave soon. You know Tinsley. My friend, Dr. Carter is the headmistress. Well, she’s looking for a leave-replacement—”

  Had that been her main reason for calling me all along? It was bad enough that Mom didn’t believe in me. Math teacher leave replacement? Did she have to add insult to injury, too?

  “Mom, I don’t want to be a teacher. How many times have I explained this to you? Especially at some ultra conservative and stuffy school like yours—no offense. They’ll get all weird if I want to start coloring my hair again… or get a get my lip pierced.”

  Mom squeezed her eyes shut as if she could feel the pain of a single needle piercing through the flesh of her own lower lip. “Lip pierced? You’re in your twenties—aren’t you too old for the whole I’m finding myself routine? Sage, you’re a smart woman. You don’t need to poke holes in your face to prove a point.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Really, Mom? You’re aware of some plethora of twenty-somethings out there, who have found themselves and completely know who they are? Get real. Most people don’t even get their act together until they’re thirty-five—and sometimes that’s pushing it!”

  “Sage, cut the histrionics and listen to me. This opportunity could be a break for you. You can teach at a good school, temporarily, and maybe even attend grad school? Or maybe enroll in an education program. That way you can get certified and teach at a city public school. They’re far more progressive. They’ll let you dye your hair purple, blue—whatever you want, as long as you do your job.”