Page 1 of The Difference Between

Prologue

Today’s youth are being indoctrinated by mediocrity, and it shows.

Exhibit A: the too-colorful poster on the classroom wall that says All that matters is trying your best!

Spoiler alert: Trying is not all that matters, results are. If I try to drive safely but run over someone, will I be praised for effort as the unassuming pedestrian gets zipped up in a body bag?

I will not.

And it’s not just the posters—it’s the windows covered with handwriting worksheets that consist of mostly illegible chicken scratch yet boast excellence with gold stars. Based on the book I just finished reading by Dan Korem, I’d say the teacher in charge is out to maintain harmony, not improve work quality. If I were running this class, only—I squint to read the name—Holly Langford would have a gold star. Her penmanship is perfect; she earned that sticker.

But what do I know? I’m only seventeen. Maybe this kind of placating is required to get kids to become useful members of society. Maybe I was just as bad as they were. Doubtful.

My gaze skips from alphabet cards to colorful posters to scribbled work before settling on the open notebook on the child-sized table in front of me. It’s the only thing in the room that makes sense. The college-ruled lines are filled with the list I’ve spent my entire senior year curating: my life’s checklist.

Graduate top of class

Get bachelor’s degree in finance

Get MBA

Get a kick-ass job

Make enough money to retire at age thirty-five and buy any Fontain winery I want

Find perfect man to marry and start a family

Rub it in my sisters’ faces how rich I am

I’ve done the math—I have the first one in the bag. Five months from graduating and my grades cannot be beat. All that’s left is conquering the rest. I will. I always do because excellence is a choice. At least that’s what my dad always says.

And since I agree with him, I plan on choosing it every day of my life.

Amanda leans over from her table and eyes the paper, her vanilla body spray wafting toward me as she does. “Why are you still carrying that thing around?”

The list was a throwaway career exercise from the guidance counselor. While most of my classmates—Amanda included—wrote vague goals or nothing at all before pitching it, this list has morphed into my entire life’s blueprint. The cornerstone of my future. The anchor I go back to when I think of blowing off an assignment or pissing money away at the mall. A cheap tee today isn’t going to get me designer clothes at thirty and a winery at age thirty-five.

“It’s called being focused,” I remind her. “Maybe if your tongue wasn’t always down Greg’s throat you would know.”

She wiggles said tongue then asks, “Do you think you’ll really make enough money to buy a winery by thirty-five? And retire?” Her brows raise in skepticism. “My grandpa is seventy and still working.”

I look at her sideways. The fact she’s been my best friend since kindergarten and still questions my resolve is beyond me. Also, her grandpa has a gambling problem. “Have I ever not done something I said I would?”

She laughs, loud, not a single edge of it restricted, not even the snort that comes at the end. “Every Friday night when I ask you to come out with us and you say you will, but you end up doing homework or picking up an extra shift at the diner, actually.”

She has me there. “Those extra shifts are going to be what help me buy a winery, thank you very much.” Before she can argue, I add, “Where I’ll charge you double for doubting me.”

She sits back in her space. “Having kids is too far down on your list.” At my look, she shrugs. “What? I’m just saying you don’t know how long it will take you to—” She cranes her neck to reread. “Find the perfect man. What if you’re too old? My kids will be adults already. How will they play together?”

I scoff, regarding the glittery butterfly clips covering her head. “I won’t be too old. I’ll be thirty-five.” I point to said number on my list. “Right here. After I retire while you and your grandpa are still working.”

She rolls her eyes but says nothing else. She’s been dating the same guy—Greg Nickels—since we were sophomores. She wants to go to beauty school, get married, and never leave Fontain.

I, on the other hand, have to leave Fontain in order to return. It’s not because I hate it—why would I plan on coming back if I hated it?—there’s just no opportunity. A small North Carolina town filled with vineyards and wineries won’t be the place I make all the money I plan on making in the amount of time I want to make it.

And while the difference between Amanda’s and my life plans may seem radical, we’ll both end up back here with families someday. We’ll laugh from rocking chairs and drink the wine I grow while our husbands grill burgers.

I’ll just have a lot more money than she does.