Dream Come True

“Oh, well, for Pete’s sake, Sahara, that is not how you pack a suitcase. Haven’t you learned anything from me?” My mama tsks and begins dumping out my clothes and rolling them up and repacking everything. To be fair, this is the first suitcase I’ve ever packed, given that I’ve never been anywhere other than to spend the night at my friend Rachel’s house. And that was for only one night and I used my school book bag.

“All right now, there, you’re officially packed. So off you go. You best get a move on. You don’t want to be late for dinner or be driving in the dark. Heaven forbid you might get one of them flat tires or some other issues with that ridiculous contraption out front.” My mama shakes her head and taps her foot.

Poor Rontu would not appreciate these words from my mama. I know he is only a car and all, but still, it seems like he is more than a car to me. We’ve been through a lot together. He afforded me some independence to stretch my wings and make it to Dairy Queen on my own without asking anyone for a ride. Now he’s taking me out of this small town and out of the reach of my mama. My chest tightens. There is a tiny part of me that doesn’t want to leave my mama. But it’s not like I’m crossing state borders. Just a few hours’ drive away. We’ll still be under the same stars. But I’d best do like my mama says and get a move on as I don’t want to have a car failure on a long stretch of open Texas highway at night. The roads I’ll be traveling are barren. I know this for sure. There isn’t much between Mexia and Riverton. I’ve got to go.

“All right, Mama. I suppose this is goodbye for now.” I open my arms, expecting a hug in return but my mama pushes past me.

“Let me get the door for you. I suppose you’re looking for that kind of life where people open the doors for you. So let me go ahead and give you a taste of that.” My mama opens the door to our trailer and the Texas sun does not warm up the room. It’s cold. Colder than an ice-cream freezer. I rub my arms for a second, to give myself the courage to take the next step and move forward. This is it. I’m leaving. My mama wants me to go… without a hug. A lump forms in the back of my throat like a big iceberg that is cutting against my air tubes. I’m trying to breathe and move forward and hold back any kind of tears as I pass through our home. My home. But I’m moving on. I’m moving forward. I am. Onward and upward. I’m not going to cry. I need to be strong and show my mama that I can do this. I pass by her and our eyes meet. She presses her lips together and nods toward the car.

“All right, I’ll call you when I get there.”

“I might not be home. Got some appointments of my own to tend to tonight. But I suppose you can leave a message on that contraption you bought. If it’s even working.” She shrugs.

“I can go check and make sure.” I stop and put my suitcase down on the porch.

“No, Sahara. That won’t be necessary.” My mama shakes her head at me and I pick the suitcase back up and put it in the back seat. I stop once more and stare back at my mama. Her arms are crossed over her chest. She has on her nicest house coat. It’s hanging just above her calves. It doesn’t sway with the light breeze. It stands still just like my mama. No emotion. No sadness, no sorrow. No nothing.

I slide into the seat. It’s almost as though Rontu wants to hug me and tell me it’s okay. Tell me I’m going to be okay and to go ahead and start the engine and this trip up. I glance in the rearview mirror. My mama is nowhere in sight. She is gone. Not even going to watch me drive away from the porch.

The sun isn’t setting in the distance but it sure is setting on the park – not like a playground park; I mean the trailer park – as I edge off the gravel and little chunks flick up behind Rontu. We make it onto paved road and I’m steering us further down the road. We’re leaving Mexia. I’m leaving. I’m leaving my mama and everything I’ve ever known. I’m driving past trees and fields and things I’ve never seen before because I’ve never left the city limits before. There was never a reason to, especially not after the Target was built, but now I’m past the county line. The further I travel, a bit more of the sadness lifts off my skin. I wish my mama would have given me a proper goodbye but maybe that’s just not the way to handle things. Maybe the way she did it is how it’s supposed to be. Maybe she’s right. But if I were in her place I think I would break those rules and give my daughter a real hug goodbye. A little tear slips from my eye. Nope, don’t do it, Sahara. You’re about to be a professional. Showing up at Ms. Myra’s house has got to be a hundred percent professional. No tears. No silly emotions. Be a straight shooter, a yes mam, and get things done.

Yes, this is the new Sahara. The one that takes care of things. The one that reaches for the stars and builds the space ship to make it happen. I did it. I found out about Eagle Online. Listened to the fancy commercial and filled out all the forms online. I did that. No one else. And now look at me, en route to my new career. My new life. My new everything.

Chapter Two

I check my instructions once more to make sure this is the right spot. The house is bigger than our trailer. It looks like one of those storybook kinds of houses with some pretty green bushes out front and a tree plonked right dead gum center in the yard. There are little colorful flowers peeking out from every nook and cranny. This sure does look like a nice place to live. I hope Ms. Myra is okay about my being here. Given it was last minute and all.

I knock on the door and it swings wide open. The lady in the doorway has a grin bigger than the one my daddy used to wear on payday. Her hair is parted to the side and it reminds me of a sunset at the end of summer when I was wanting to stay out later and wait for the fireflies to pop up. But I wouldn’t even need to wait for the fireflies to pop up here. Ms. Myra’s eyes are sparkling like firecrackers.

“Hi, Ms. Myra?” I reach out my hand to shake and she pulls me in and hugs me into a deep embrace. And my heart flips over inside of my body. Wow. Little butterflies of happiness sail around in my arms. This woman sure does know how to hug and we haven’t even met before.

She pats down my hair. “Well, Sahara. You have grown into such a beautiful young woman.” Her smile softens for a second. “I mean, well, your mama would send me a school photo from time to time.” Ms. Myra focuses on the ends of my hair. “It’s just been a while since I’ve gotten one.”

“Oh, wow. That’s nice to hear.” I feel sillier than the day I showed up to school with my pajama bottoms on instead of pants like everyone else. I made it all the way to school without realizing I had my gingerbread cookie pj’s on. It only took another silly Sahara move a few months later to replace the name of Sahara Cookie to Sahara Sundae.

“Yes, well, come on in now. Let’s get you settled.” Ms. Myra reaches for my bag but I don’t release it. I know manners are manners but I’m younger. I should be carrying my own bags.

“Thank you, Ms. Myra. I can carry it.”

“I suppose my hands aren’t what they used to be.” She waves me into her house and takes a deep breath. “So this is the living room area. Your room is right this way.”

I follow behind her down a small hallway and take a right into a bedroom comparable to the one I had back at home. A single bed is laid out with a purple bedspread and some sort of crochet or yarn blanket over the end of it. Along with fluffy pink pillows held together by a big lacey bow. It’s so pretty.

“This is really nice. Thank you for taking me in. With the short notice and all.” I lay my suitcase down on the bed and take in Ms. Myra. She appears a bit older than my mama but much thinner. Not in a work-out-too-much way. But in a frailness way, like she might blow away if even a hint of a strong Texas wind came through.

“You bet. Now, we must go over some rules. Weekday curfew is eleven p.m. And Friday and Saturday nights you can stay out till midnight but not later. I talked to your mama about a chore list. So I made one up for you. It’s there on your dresser.” Ms. Myra points to a piece of white, lined paper.

“Yes, ma’am, and I’m happy to help with the cooking, too. I can’t make anything fancy. But it’s edible. At least that’s what my mama always says.” I let out a slight laugh. A bit of nervousness really, and I’m hopeful that she doesn’t think that was disrespectful to say.

“We can take turns. Now, I’ll let you get settled.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Me, too,” falls from my lips and, as the words make it to my ears, I begin to appreciate this is actually true. Being in this house is nice and different. Ms. Myra leaves me alone in the room. My room. Temporarily. But yet it seems like something more than a temporary situation. The hug from Ms. Myra is still doing me in over all the emotions of leaving my house and my mama. And forcing myself not to cry. It’s best I take a shower and clean everything from me. Maybe washing away some of these emotions will help.

Ms. Myra is up before me and has a nice breakfast laid out. I do my best to eat as quickly as I can as I don’t want to be late on my first day. Then I hustle myself to the creamery and try dialing my mama a few times. It is possible that she hasn’t left for work yet herself. The phone rings and rings on an endless loop of “I’m not going to pick up for you, Sahara.”

I put my phone back into my purse and scurry my way into the building. My shoulders slump and I raise them up. She probably thinks there is nothing to talk about. Definitely, there’s nothing my mama could say that would change my mind. I’m here. And I’ve had a warm welcome and everything. I don’t know why I’ve never heard of Ms. Myra but it seems to me she knows a lot more about me than I do about her. Which is really about as much as a mosquito knows after they taste their first bit of blood and then die.

Course, my mama wouldn’t want me pondering about mosquitoes, or as she would say, Sahara, you just got to smack them skeeters and keep going. Ain’t nothing the matter with leaving the screen up on the windows. You just have to go to sleep. And then I’d wake up itching and scratching. There is a different kind of itch inside me now. The one to succeed. I want to be better than the little girl waking up in the middle of the night itching the bites. I want to take a bite out of this world and be somebody. I’m ready for this. I love my mama with all my heart. But I can’t scoop ice cream for another day in my life, at least not for a job. No, my path is being paved with flavors and samples, no more scooping for the masses.

Or so I thought. I stare up at Mr. Flints. He’s an average height guy, missing most of his hair, and he’s got a pair of glasses on with a mustache underneath his nose that makes it all look like a costume for Halloween or something. Even though I’m sure it’s not. I don’t think Blue Ribbon Creamery would allow their managers to wear costumes every day.

I’m ready to take down notes on whatever wisdom about Blue Ribbon Creamery he is going to tell us. I heard from a few other girls in the ladies’ room that he has worked here for longer than he can probably remember. I giggle for a moment. Shoot, I don’t want him to think I’m not taking this training seriously. I most definitely am. This is the most important class of my life. Even more important than my high-school education, as this one is going to land me with a job as an associate product developer. I imagine the flavor-developing spot is filled with baskets of fruits, nuts, cakes and candies.

“Now, new recruits, everyone that works for Blue Ribbon has to go through six weeks of our intensive training course in order to move on to the position you were hired for.” Mr. Flints taps on his paper. “The first thing you will learn is how to properly scoop ice cream.”

I scrunch up my eyes. Sure, I thought I was done scooping ice cream when I was offered a position as a product developer, but now I have to learn how to scoop properly? What does that even mean? I’ve been scooping ice cream at Dairy Queen for the past six years. I’m sure if anybody in this room knows how to scoop ice cream properly it’s me.

“Miss.” Mr. Flints is staring at me. Oh shoot, I hope it didn’t seem like I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t want to get in trouble on my first day.

“Yes, sir?” I raise my eyebrows at him. I’m sure now I appear to be paying full attention.

“It says here on your resume that you have worked at Dairy Queen for the past several years. Why don’t you come up here and show us how they scoop ice cream at Dairy Queen?” Mr. Flints’ voice changes a bit when he says Dairy Queen, almost as if saying those two words makes him sicker than a dog after digging through a dumpster. I don’t know why that would be; Dairy Queen is a nice establishment with good food. Ha, well, good-tasting food. That’s what my mama always says. Not everything you eat has to be healthy, Sahara. I sure do miss her. I hope she’s okay. When I left it didn’t go over as I had hoped it would. She barely put her knitting needles down long enough to let me hug her goodbye.

“Miss?”

Uh oh, Mr. Flints is waiting on my response. I stand up. My hands are a little shaky. I need to remedy that before I begin scooping. I stroll my way to the front of the class like I’m all alone walking in a field of bluebonnets.

“Yes, sir.” I stand next to him in front of the class. There are about thirty other recruits in the room. And all sixty eyes are on me. Me, Mr. Flints, and the ice cream. A stack of bowls is next to the ice cream and several white plastic spoons. I figure I’m supposed to dish up ice cream for the class.

I bet my friend Sally Jane would be in a hysterical fit of giggles right now, knowing I left Dairy Queen because I didn’t want to scoop ice cream anymore only to show up on my first day at Blue Ribbon and have to scoop up ice cream.

“All right, here is the ice-cream scoop. Show us how you folks do it at Dairy Queen.” Mr. Flints nods at me.

“Yes, sir, will do.” I pick up the metal scooper and lift off the ice-cream lid. I try and think of some fancy way to impress Mr. Flints and the class, but my mind, as usual, is empty.

I dig into the ice cream and round the vanilla as best I can before dropping it into the Styrofoam bowl.

Mr. Flints nods. “Exactly. This is the wrong way to scoop ice cream. Thank you, miss…”

“Sahara, sir, my name is Sahara Smith.” I offer my hand.

He shakes it. “Sahara, hmm, that’s an interesting name.” He squints his eyes at me, like he’s trying to figure out why my name is Sahara. I’ve seen this look only every other day in my life.

“Please take your seat, Sahara.”

“Yes, sir.” I make my way back to my seat and notice all eyes are back on Mr. Flints, except one pair of sky blues. Those dreamy blues are watching me walk all the way to my seat. My cheeks flush and I sit down as quick as I can. I pick up my pen ready to jot down whatever special way Mr. Flints is going to instruct the class, as I obviously have failed in my first chance to impress him. I blow out through my lips.

Mr. Flints pulls out a sharp shiny knife from his white coat pocket. “Now, class, what I have here is a sharp knife. Before class I heated some water.” He lifts the cup in front of him and then sticks the knife into the water. He shakes it off and then picks up the ice-cream container. “What I’m doing is cutting a grid into the ice cream with my knife.” He slices squares into the ice-cream container and then places the knife on the table. Mr. Flints picks up the ice-cream scooper, dips it in the cup, shakes it off and scoops up a rounded dollop of ice cream.

“You there, front row.”

A bouncy, brown-haired girl pops up out of her seat. “Yes, Mr. Flints?”

“Here, pass out ice cream to the class, and Sahara you can come and help. Maybe Dairy Queen has shown you the proper way to offer ice cream to a customer… hmm?”

“Yes, sir.” I nod. Maybe putting Dairy Queen on my resume had been a bad idea. I sure thought it would show I had relevant work experience, but it seems like maybe it’s giving me a ding or a black mark, like I’m the spotted egg at the Farmer’s Market. I shake my head and scrape my chair back.

Great, I get to walk up in front of the entire class again and come face to face with each class mate after I’ve already failed once. Shoot. This is not going well. I scoot my way up to his desk and pick up as many ice-cream bowls as I can and pass them out while trying to avoid eye contact as I loop each aisle. Bouncy, brown-haired girl is fast and there are only two more cups, one for me and one for… oh… dreamy blue eyes staring at me. I check out his desk and it’s empty. Bouncy, brown-haired girl has already taken her seat. I take the last two bowls of ice cream and try my best not to stumble over my two feet as I get within steps of Dreamy’s desk. I place the bowl on his desk with the spoon and he reaches for it and grazes my hand with his own. I peek at him and he smiles.

I’m warmer than my Aunt Nanny’s house in the dead heat of August, bless her heart. She’s only got a window unit and it’s always on the fritz. I blow air over my face as I sit down in my seat. Good thing we’re eating ice cream, as I need to cool down.

Mr. Flints pulls down a white screen from the wall and flips on the projector thing on his desk. I remember seeing slides in grade school. The first slide that pops up is the logo for Blue Ribbon Creamery – I suppose this is to remind us where we are. I glance around. I can’t imagine anyone not knowing where they are. The next slide is about Blue Ribbon’s company rules. I pick up my pen and write out as many as I can before the screen changes. I’m not sure why Blue Ribbon doesn’t just have a manual for us to read, but it seems like Mr. Flints is inside my head, responding that it makes more sense for us to write it down because then we might actually remember it. I suppose he might be right. But my hand is starting to cramp. I haven’t had to do this much writing since I don’t know when. I scan the room and the majority of the class have their own laptops. I don’t own one. I brought my computer with me, but it’s not a laptop. I hope to buy one with my first paycheck, that is, if I’m making decent money. I still don’t know what the pay rate is for the training. I know it’s not the same as it will be when I start my product developer position. Exactly how much less I probably should have found out, but I was so dadgum excited I just said yes. I probably would have signed my life away that day I was in such a daze.

Mr. Flints must have dismissed class as everyone is standing and heading toward the exit. I stick all my notebooks and pens in my bag and hustle after them. I don’t want to be left alone in the room with Mr. Flints. Who knows what else he might want to quiz me on.

I exit the room without any further words from Mr. Flints. I let out a sigh.

“Hey there, you want to grab lunch together?” Dreamy blue eyes is speaking to me. Me. Sahara Smith, the girl that just messed up on how to scoop ice cream. He must think I’m a charity case.

“That’s all right, you’d probably be better off joining someone else.” I step on ahead. I’m not going to be somebody’s good deed. No sirree, my mama did not raise anybody looking for a handout. Nope.

“I doubt that.” Dreamy Blues is at my side. He’s got to be at least a foot taller than me. And I’m no shrinking violet or however that phrase is supposed to go. What I mean is I’m not short or dainty. My daddy was tall, at least that’s what my mama always said. I hardly remember what he looks like as he left when I was little. I was ten, just turned into double digits. I had been looking forward to crossing over from single digits to doubles for, shoot, as long as I could remember. But, things didn’t turn out as I had imagined and that was the year my daddy decided to leave before it was time for me to blow out the ten candles on my cake. My mama tried to make an excuse at the party about him being called in to work, but everybody knew he hadn’t been to work in weeks.

It’s lunch time and I didn’t pack my lunch as I left Ms. Myra’s in a rush this morning, not wanting to be late on my first day. Ms. Myra is definitely older than my mama by a few years but the way she moves makes her seem much frailer than her years give away. Her frame is thinner than a popsicle stick and easily blown away but that didn’t stop her last night from wanting to be firm with me. She was like a teacher wanting to establish ground rules on the first day of class. She talked about weekday and weekend curfews and such, which seems a bit strict as I am over twenty-two years of age. I could buy a can of beer if I wanted to, though I never have. The smell of it makes me sick. Reminds me of my dad. I shake off that thought.

Blue eyes is holding on to my arm. “Are you okay?”

I eye his hand. It’s large and holding on to my arm. I follow his knuckles, which are grasping my turquoise buttoned shirt, along his arm and up to his big shoulders. My mama would call them farming shoulders, square and huge, good for hauling in hay barrels and the like. On the side of his neck, a vein is popping wildly like it’s trying to send me a Morse code message or something. His jaw is big, too, and chiseled, clean-shaven; that’s a good thing, I suppose. Not that I care. I’m not here for a romance or anything like that. I’m here to better myself and have a real career. Nonetheless, my eyes make their way up his face until our eyes are staring directly into each other’s. I gasp.

I must look like an idiot. I can’t help it. This guy looks like one of those commercial models for a cologne or something.

“Are you okay? Sahara, right?”

I blink my eyes. “Yes, I’m fine.” I glance down at his hand again. It’s still holding on to my arm.

“Oh, sorry. You just seemed like you were upset.” Blue Eyes releases my arm.

“No, not upset at all.” Crap, now not only do I look like an idiot, I sound like one, too. I probably should try and be nice to this guy. Besides him being beautiful to look at, he’s the only person at Blue Ribbon that has spoken to me other than Mr. Flints, and that did not go over well.

“Hi, yes, my name is Sahara. What’s yours?” I offer my hand.

He takes my hand in his and shakes it nicely, nicer than I can ever remember my hand being shaken before. His hand is warm and heavy. Kind of reminds me of my teddy bear; I’ve had it forever and slobbered on it in my sleep so it’s a bit rough in parts, but still my Mr. Bear is my favorite and I’m not ever going to let him go.

“Brandon B-Rollins. Nice to meet you.”

I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at his pronunciation of his name. Is he nervous? Or maybe he’s got a speech impediment or something. That would explain why he would want to talk to me; he probably realizes we are similar. I certainly don’t look like the rest of the class. I did put on my most professional outfit for today, which consists of my nice buttoned-down blouse and grey slacks; I don’t own a blazer but I suppose it’s not necessary for training anyways. Maybe after I get my first paycheck I will buy one. Mexia isn’t exactly the mecca of fine clothing! It was only last year that we got a Target; this outfit is from the Mossimo collection and I think it looks nice. But compared to the rest of the class, I think it’s pretty clear who got their outfit at Target and who didn’t.

“Nice to meet you. Where are you from?” I’m going to let the B-Rollins pass. I don’t want to embarrass him, especially if he has an actual speech problem.

“I, uh, grew up pretty close to here. What about you?”

“Mexia – you know, like Anna Nicole Smith?” I probably shouldn’t have mentioned her. Her life was full of scandal and sorrow, nothing that I would want. I mean, I like that she moved away from Mexia but her life wasn’t exactly one I would want to mirror, especially the stripping part, no sirrree. I’d rather scoop buckets of turd for the rest of my life than strip down for a bunch of dirty old men. Yuck.

Brandon laughs. “Anna Nicole Smith? Didn’t she die a few years ago?”