I went back to Rome, Kentucky, intending to stay for good. But Emily, in her wise older-sister love, encouraged me to stick it out. She reminded me of my dream and how much I’ve wanted this, adding that I would be full of regret if I quit halfway through. It was a classically moving pep talk from someone who always succeeds in the end.
But I am The Failure—so even after returning to New York with a motivational speech under my wings and warmth in my heart, I still messed it all up.
I hoped to graduate as a badass chef like my idol, Zora Brookes. She was a small-town chef who cooked her way to two Michelin stars in New York City. She’s basically the Cat Woman of chefs, if you will. Efficient. Cunning. Outfitted in full leathers. (Just kidding about the leathers—though, from the photos of her in the Bon Appetit feature, she could pull off the look.) I had dreamed of following in her footsteps.
Instead, I’m a lost alley cat, emerging from behind the dumpster with matted fur, a broken spirit, and a fractured heart.
For possibly the first time in her life, Emily was wrong. This dream might not be for me—and I don’t know how much longer I can keep hoping it is.
Reading my mind, Josie, an early-twenties classmate sitting beside me, leans in and whispers, “What are your plans for after graduation?”
My metal chair squeaks as I adjust to find a comfier position. “Red wine and a sexy book. You?”
“I didn’t literally mean after this graduation,” she says with a laugh, gesturing to the ceremony we are currently part of.
What Josie doesn’t know, and what I’ll never admit to anyone, is that I barely made it here. I was one percentage point—really let that sink in—above failing my final evaluations. The only reason I get to walk across the stage tonight? Early in the semester, my instructor offered extra credit: Anyone willing to scrub down countertops and mop the kitchen floors after labs for a month would earn bonus points toward their final grade. If I’ve learned anything in my thirty years, it’s that if your name is Madison Walker, you always take the extra credit. And this time it kept me from flunking out altogether.
Well, that and the lemon thyme risotto I cooked in the third semester that made Chef Cobalt stop talking for a full sixty seconds. Which, if you knew Chef Cobalt, was basically a standing ovation. That was back before the panic attacks really started.
“I mean after the ceremony,” says Josie, her amber eyes sparkling as she pulls her warm-brown, waist-length box braids over one shoulder. “Did you decide on a restaurant to work at?”
I nearly laugh at her implication that I have choices. As if restaurants all over the city are clamoring to have me work in their kitchens.
Aside from a weeklong lab exercise we partnered on early in our second semester, Josie and I haven’t interacted enough to be friends. And we didn’t intern in the same kitchen either. If we had, she would have known better than to ask me that question. Because as it currently stands, I’m considering walking away from the culinary life altogether and finding yet another career path. Now I can put former fourth grade teacher and culinary school failure on my résumé.
The saddest truth, however, is that even if I still wanted to find a job in this industry, I doubt Chef Davis would give me the recommendation I need to get a good one. Most likely, he’d deter any interested restaurants from hiring me.
I press my lips against a smile and opt for the shortest answer I can give. “Not yet—how about you?”
Josie is like Emily. Meaning, she succeeds in everything she does. She was born for this kind of place—high expectations, pressure, perfection. The kind of girl who didn’t tense up when receiving a grade. I bet she used a mandolin slicer in the womb. So it’s not a shock when she rattles off the top restaurants (by the dozen) who have already given her a call-back interview.
Suddenly, I’m glad I never pursued a friendship with her, even if I really needed a friend around here. But I already have one Emily in my life, and though I love her to bits, I couldn’t stomach having another person to compare myself against.
Josie is mid victory speech when my phone goes off in my lap, buzzing wildly as my sister group chat comes alive. “Sorry to interrupt you,” I tell Josie, not actually sorry at all. “But I need to read this text.”
Her feelings aren’t hurt. She turns her attention to the guy sitting beside her and I zero in on my phone in my lap.
EMILY: I’m bored. What’s everyone doing?
ANNIE: Staring at Will because he’s so hot I can’t stand it.
EMILY: WILL GRIFFIN! How many times do I have to tell you the sister group chat is sacred and you are NOT allowed in here?!
ANNIE: Sorry. Annie’s in the shower. I’ll go get her. 😊
Ever since Will and Annie eloped a few months ago, Will has been angling to gain a place in our sibling group chats. Emily reminds him—repeatedly and sternly—that he’ll never be invited. But I think this is her way of punishing him for giving in to Annie’s desire to elope, telling no one until after it was done. (Personally, I support it. Annie hates attention, and her little sneaky church wedding with Will was perfect for her.)
AMELIA: Cool. I guess that means we won’t be hearing from her for a while and I’m not busy. Just watching Jeopardy with Noah.
EMILY: As every world-famous pop star does on a Saturday night.
It’s a wild story how my brother met Amelia, aka Rae Rose, world-famous pop star. But in a nutshell, her car broke down in his front yard, and she hid at his house for a few weeks to get a break from fame. They fell in love, bing bang boom—they’re married. She loves Rome and the life of normalcy it offers her when she’s not on tour, so she and Noah live there together full-time. And we love having her in the family. I’ve never met someone so down-to-earth. Hand to my heart, I’m more conceited than she is.
AMELIA: Oh yeah? Name one thing in the big city that’s more fun than eating chicken pot pie while your husband rubs your feet after getting back from a four-month-long tour?
My heart jolts. Because as much as I’d like to say I don’t want that kind of life, I really, really do.
When I was home a year ago, right before I came back to New York, is when I first experienced the shift. I saw what Emily and Jack, and all my siblings, had—and for once, I thought it looked nice. Wonderful even. I decided I was going to change some things when I got back to New York.
If only it had worked out like I planned. ...
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