Dream Come True

“Hi, Ms. Myra. I hope I’m not late, I was studying.”

Ms. Myra has her back to me as she’s stirring a big pot of something on the stove. She slowly turns around and her smile tells me she isn’t mad.

“Not at all, dear. Now have a seat and tell me all about your day. How did you like Blue Ribbon?

“Yes, ma’am. I liked it a lot. Except I need to do some major studying as apparently I don’t know the proper way to scoop ice cream and I forgot about the number-one rule of the creamery.” I slide onto the vinyl green chair and then immediately hop up. “Can I help with something, Ms. Myra?”

“No, dear, tonight is my turn. You can take a turn another time.” Ms. Myra nods at me to take a seat. I reluctantly sit back down. It seems backwards for me to be sitting while she serves me. After her allowing me to stay with her an’ all.

“What’s the proper way to scoop ice cream? I would have thought someone from Dairy Queen would know.”

I laugh. “I would have thought that, too, but Mr. Flints seems to think not too kindly of Dairy Queen. Anyways, he said the proper way is to cut the ice cream with a warm knife first, like a grid.”

Ms. Myra brings the pot to the table and sloshes some of the chili onto the floor. “Oh, darn it.” She slides the pot on the table and reaches for a towel. Her legs slip a bit and she braces herself on the counter.

“Are you all right?” I jump to her side.

“Yes, dear. I’m just getting old, that’s all.”

I take the towel from her and clean up the mess.

She is still holding on to the sides of the counter like she might fall. I’m afraid to ask her if I can help. I don’t want to embarrass her. I pretend to clean the towel for longer than what would seem necessary at the sink until she lets go of the sides of the counter and slowly makes her way to the table like an inchworm. This is not the kind of movement I would expect of someone her age. If I had to guess I would say she’s got to be a few years older than my mama, but that would still make her under sixty.

I sit down at the seat in front of her and smile. “Thanks for making dinner. It smells delicious.”

“Oh, thank you, Sahara – that’s very kind of you.” She grins back at me.

My heart is warming all over. There is something about her that makes me want to rush to her side and hug her. Like I’ve known her my whole life or something.

“Tell me about the rest of your day. Did you meet any new friends?” She takes a scoop of the chili. I notice the cornbread is sitting on the counter and I step up and grab it along with the butter.

“Good call.” She nods at the cornbread. “Now, quit stalling. Did you meet a boy?”

I laugh. “Yes, ma’am, there are males and females in the class.” I take a big bite of the cornbread. I’m sure Ms. Myra won’t like me talking with food in my mouth.

Her eyes are on me as I chew. I can’t help but want to laugh, but then cornbread would be all over the table and that would be really gross. I swallow and take a sip of my tea. It is much too sweet but I would never mention this to Ms. Myra.

“Yes, ma’am. I met a guy called Brandon.” I take a bite of chili; it is delicious. I bet Ms. Myra’s been cooking this all day long. It’s got those savory flavors from having been simmering for hours.

“Brandon… what’s his last name?”

“Rollins. We studied together at Starbucks.”

“Oh my, that sounds nice.” She winks at me.

My cheeks are warmer than a hot cookie from the oven. I take a gulp of the too-sweet tea.

“Sahara Smith, you like this boy, don’t you?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. I sure don’t want to tell Ms. Myra a fib. But it’s a bit embarrassing to be sharing how I feel about Brandon when I just met him. It seems a little soon and I just met Ms. Myra, too, even though it feels like this isn’t the case.

“I just met him.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean anything. Was he sweet to you?”

“Yes, ma’am. He tried to buy my lunch, then he asked me to dinner but I said I couldn’t, that I had to study and of course I had already planned on having dinner with you. So finally he asked if I would study with him at Starbucks and he bought my latte.” I take a deep breath.

“Sounds like this boy has some good manners. I like that.” She takes a small bite of her chili. Her bowl is as full as when we sat down. Here, I’ve been doing most of the talking and she has hardly touched her food.

“Yes, ma’am.” I can’t help wondering if he likes me, too, or if he had liked me until I ruined it by not answering that question right. I scrape up the last of my meal and stand up. “I’d better get to studying so I don’t mess up tomorrow in class.” I rinse off my plate and put it in the dishwasher. “Thank you for dinner; it was real tasty.”

“You’re welcome, Sahara. I’m so glad you’re here.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. My whole body is warm, like I’m swirling around in a forest of good feelings. I squeeze it back and make my way to my room and hop on my bed. I’ve got to get today’s lessons down – who knows what the class for tomorrow will bring.

I head back to my new room and suddenly it hits me: I might be shipped out before I even get settled in. “Accreditation is just a word” has been on repeat in my mind today, ever since Brandon said it. I have done my best to silence it but now I’ve got to check it out – does that really mean that my degree isn’t real? I need to see if I’m as big a fool as I suspect I might be. Did I fall for some big scam? I log on to my computer; thankfully, Ms. Myra has internet service. Clickety clack and I’m all set to search every which way I can about Eagle Online. But there is no need for any hooping hollering of a search. All I have to do is type in Eagle Online and underneath their website reads a list of other sites which all talk about it being a scam, fake school, do not go, not real, fake degrees, accreditation is more than a word and Eagle Online knows this. Shoot, and darn it! If only Sahara Smith had known this before she signed over a bunch of money and the idea that she could be something. I shut my computer down and climb into bed to shut myself down, too. This day, this realization, is more than I can handle and I know when it’s time to fold.

***

I blare down the hallway and in through the kitchen with my spiral notepad in hand. Ms. Myra has put the coffee on and I’m taking it upon myself to use one of her to-go cups. I pour a half-cup and nearly drop it from my hand. Ms. Myra is in the doorway with her eyes on me.

“Good morning. I was just going to take some of this coffee for the road, if that’s all right?”

Ms. Myra adjusts her robe. “Of course it’s all right, but don’t you want to sit down and have a proper breakfast?” She passes through the kitchen and pulls out a frying pan and it’s like the kitchen got hotter without her even turning on the burner. “I suppose you might like your eggs sunny side up, yes?”

I swallow. I haven’t had sunny side up eggs since my daddy left. It was the one thing he made food-wise. Sunny side eggs, the whitest eggs with a bit of sunshine in the middle. My mama never made them and I can’t imagine she even considered it after my daddy left.

“I haven’t had sunny side eggs in, gosh, forever.”

“Well then, sit down. You’ve got time, don’t you? Class doesn’t begin for another hour, right?” Ms. Myra bustles to the stove and takes out a frying pan. I suppose I’ll be in the frying pan if I don’t sit down and partake in her offering. I can’t say I’m not a bit put off about having the eggs, and how did she know? Did my mama mention something to her? This seems so out of character, like if she were to wear her gardening culottes to church, just something that she wouldn’t do. I shake my head. But then again, how did we get here? Where I’m getting to know this woman who seems to know bits and pieces about me, but I only know what I’m seeing here in the house about her.

“Can I help with anything?” I take a side step as I can’t help but be uncomfortable sitting while she prepares me breakfast.

“Yes, sweetie, why don’t you tell me about the last time you had sunny side up eggs?” Ms. Myra casts her eyes back at me and I let our stares meet for a second longer than is comfortable before I swipe my coffee up like it’s a life raft in the ocean and the Titanic is going under. This is the only thing running through my mind, sinking into freezing water: I don’t discuss my daddy with anyone, not even my mama. Well, that much is her doing. But we just don’t speak of him. Ever.

“Um, well, my daddy used to make them for me.” There, not hard. I spoke the truth and not a thing more.

“That’s right and did he make them good for you? I remember sometimes – well, in his earlier years – he was always worried about the runniness of the eggs.” She cracks the egg on the side of the counter.

My eyes are bigger than the egg yolks, I’m sure. How does Ms. Myra know that my daddy likes to make sunny side up eggs, and better yet that he worried about them?

“Yes, ma’am, they were always good.” I swallow my question. I want to ask how she knows my daddy but I can’t; it doesn’t seem proper. Like a question that I should know the answer to, and if I don’t then there is probably a reason for that so I can’t poke and ask. I need to let it settle down in my tummy and try not to focus on it.

“Well, that’s good to hear. At least he got something right.” Ms. Myra scoops some of the prettiest sunny side eggs onto a light-blue plate and I do my best not to shed a tear. Not about my daddy, no. Lord knows I haven’t cried about that man for a decade. But this moment. Ms. Myra going out of her way to make me breakfast. I haven’t had someone make breakfast for me since, well, since my daddy left. That was always his thing. My mama handled dinner until I turned eight, then that was my job, as she was always picking up extra cleaning shifts and said it was high time I learned how to use a kitchen properly and not just for running around in. Though I was never much of a runner in the kitchen, I suppose this was just one of her sayings.

I scoop up a bit of the center and a slice of the white and let the flavors do a little jig in my mouth. Shucks corn, that’s a tasty egg. The perfect seasoning too. “Wow, Ms. Myra, these are delicious. Thank you.” I fork up another biteful and practically devour the eggs before she responds.

“Well, sugar, that’s good to hear. Thank you for being here. It’s nice having you. Now, you best get on to your class. Don’t you worry about this mess. I’ll take care of it.” She reaches for my plate.

I glance at the big green clock with an apple center that hangs on the wall. “I could clean them up over my lunch break or when I get home?”

“Hush now with that nonsense. Scoot on to class and we’ll catch up later over dinner.” She nods at me. And I know this type of head move. It means go on and get what you’re supposed to do done. And I plan on doing just that.

I’ve got to settle up the situation with Eagle Online. I only tossed and turned about a thousand times last night. Took a zillion gasps for air. I suppose what they say is true: you don’t have to have water to drown, and boy am I drowning. Drowning in debt and in utter failure. I wasted a bunch of time at a fake school. I still can’t believe this is true or possible. I’m going to make some phone calls over my lunch break and see if I can find some answers and maybe, just maybe, I’m wrong. Maybe all those sites online weren’t real. Maybe they are the ones that are fake.

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