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it? Not too soon, evidently.
“Mom,” I say, exasperated, “I do not want to join a sorority. I don’t even want to go back to college.”
Marsha sucks in a shocked breath then.
“Macy Lynn Jones, that is not an option.”
My head shakes miserably.
“Why isn’t it an option? You know I want to go to culinary school. Why can’t I just go and become a chef and stop wasting money on a degree I don’t even want?”
But Marsha is horrified.
“You don’t even know how lucky you are, young lady,” she snaps, eyes narrow and boring holes into my frame. “So many kids struggle to pay for college and here we are, paying your way. Yet you don’t even appreciate it one bit.”
“I do appreciate it,” I cut in meekly. “It’s just that ….”
Marsha twists her head curtly.
“So stop acting like a spoiled brat. And stop with this incessant cooking. This is beneath you, Macy.”
The timer goes off on the oven, punctuating her comment. Ignoring her, I pull the gorgeous flatbread out. It looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine and smells like a miracle. My stomach growls loudly.
But Mom doesn’t care. She stomps to the living room, Perrier in hand and confronts my dad.
“Jim, your daughter is at it again, talking about cooking this and cooking that. Will you tell her that no child of ours is going to work in food service? I swear, what will make her appreciate us? Talk some sense into Macy, will you?”
But my fingers move quickly, and I slice some flatbread, putting it onto a plate. Fortunately, my dad ignores me as I pass, heading up the stairs and into my room. Funny the difference a few days make. They were so happy to see me when I got back that they threw a party. Now they can barely look at me. My grades were bad this semester, so that probably didn’t help. And now I’m – gasp – cooking. Whatever will they do with this daughter who’s such a disappointment?
Defeated, I look around my childhood bedroom. I’m a simple girl. I really am. I like to read and I like to cook. I’d be so happy just doing those things. Well, and maybe some other things, now that I’ve been introduced to the Morgans.
Because they’re a part of my plan.
I’m not as dumb as people think.
I’m not clueless.
Because I want a baby.
A real one, cuddly and cute.
It won’t be easy because how many teen girls want babies? In fact, it’ll be damn hard because an infant is a handful and then some.
But I know what I want.
It’s just that what the world wants for me is different.
Starting with my parents. Holy hell, my mom would blow a gasket if I suggested having a baby at eighteen. But honestly, I’ve always loved the idea of holding a child to my breast, suckling milk. I can imagine the smell of the child, the feel of its tiny hands wrapped around my fingers. It makes my belly ache with longing.
And what about college? That’d probably be done for, at least. Who can juggle feedings around the clock with studying, exams, and term papers? Not me, that’s for sure.
So conventional wisdom is I stay in school, graduate, get a fast-track career and land in the CEO seat after twenty years of slogging away.
Too bad that’s not what I want at all.
Not even close.
But one wrinkle. You have to have a man to have a baby. Sure, there’s artificial insemination, but no sperm bank will take me seriously. Eighteen year old naif? Teen with no money, no prospects, no job? Please, I’d have a better chance of landing on the moon.
