NEW YORK
101 DAYS UNTIL I FAIL . . .
I have a personal vendetta against the phrase give it your best and forget the rest. That motto only works for a select few—the naturally gifted and the "somehow I always come out on top" success stories. I've never been a member of either club.
Instead, here are some of life's rules, both silly and serious, that I've always found to be true:
1.If I jump off the roof of the shed with an umbrella, gravity will definitely take over, and I will end up with at least a broken leg.
2.A good cry pairs well with almost any emotion: happy or sad.
3.Nothing beats a classic chocolate chip cookie.
4.Every family has one person who is considered The Failure—and in my family, that person is me.
No matter how hard I have tried to shake off the label these past thirty years, it always seems to pull me back in. (Or more honestly, I jump headfirst right into its comforting embrace.) And though my three siblings would never call me that to my face, I know that deep down they think it. (Because it's true.)
At first, my inevitable misdeeds always present themselves as sparkling, hopeful opportunities. A bright shining star on the horizon. Cut your own hair, little six-year-old Madison. It'll look so cute. (It did not. I looked like Weird Barbie.) Improvise your lines on the opening night of your theater performance, twelve-year-old Madison. It'll take everyone by surprise and make you look so funny and creative. (It was a disaster. No one laughed and my fellow castmates were furious at me for weeks for ruining the production.) Spike the punch at prom, seventeen-year-old Madison. Everyone will love you for it. (Well, they did love me for it, but it also got me detention for the rest of the school year and community service on the weekends.) And last but not least, Quit your secure elementary school teaching job, adult Madison. Go to culinary school in New York and wow everyone with your high-profile chef position. (Or develop anxiety and panic attacks that keep me from ever wanting to step foot in a professional kitchen ever again.)
And when I fail, which is often, the fallout is almost always bigger than the big bright idea that started it.
I should have listened to my gut and quit culinary school a year ago, like I'd planned before I got everyone's hopes up that I'd actually follow through with something. The city was panning out to be nothing like I'd expected, and I missed my little small-town home in a way I never anticipated.
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 Catwoman 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 with.
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.
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.
MADISON: You small-towners are embarrassingly boring.
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.
MADISON: You haven't lived until you've known the thrill of clutching your purse against your chest and trying to make it home after dark without getting murdered.
EMILY: Maddie . . . are you trying to ruin my night with anxiety over your safety? Because it's working.
I glance up, noting that the guy three seats down from me has already been called. It's almost my turn.
MADISON: Sorry, Em! No anxiety necessary tonight. I'm actually having a quiet night at home.
EMILY: YOU NEVER STAY IN! WHAT'S WRONG? ARE YOU SICK?! DO YOU NEED ME TO FLY OUT AND BRING YOU SOUP?
ANNIE: I'm here!! Sorry you're sick Maddie!! What do you have?
MADISON: Omg, I'm fine! Just had to block out the night to take an everything-shower. Speaking of, gotta go rinse off the self-tanner!
I lock my phone as the dean calls my name over the microphone. I stand and make my way up the stairs as a sea of strangers watch me cross the stage in my white chef's coat, shake hands with the dean, then receive the chef's hat that I don't deserve but am awarded anyway because I disinfected the counters a few times.
There're only a few sparse claps in the audience for me from a few of my classmates since I lied and told my family that the Culinary Institute of New York doesn't do a formal graduation ceremony. If I had told them the truth, they would have flown out and cheered obnoxiously loud for me. Probably with a glitterized poster board displaying the phrase YES CHEF in bold font. But I didn't want that. It would have been too difficult for me to fake my way through a night of celebration that I hadn't truly earned.
Yes, I technically graduated, but it doesn't mean the same thing for me as it does for everyone else who has walked across this stage tonight. In my case, it only means I get to leave this place with a sliver of my dignity still intact.
I exit the auditorium, breaking away from the graduating students who will go prepare their last meal in the school's kitchens and then present it to their loved ones. It's tradition—one that I won't be upholding.
I find a back door and follow it out into an alley that takes me to the street. When I pass a public trash bin, I take off my undeserved cap and shove it onto the mountain of rotting fast food bags and god knows what else before walking away as quickly as possible.
The more distance I put between me and the building, the more my eyes burn. I can't cry yet. I won't cry yet. I need to get through a four-minute walk to the station, take two quick trains, and then a five-minute-ish walk back to my old brownstone apartment—and then I can let the tears fall.
All I want is to remove my contacts from my eyes, sink into some stretchy pants, curl up in a little ball, and sob my way through the night—and tomorrow I'll figure out what the hell I'm going to do with my life.
Rome, Kentucky, however much I want it to be, is not an option. I can't bring myself to sleep on my siblings' couches while I figure out how I'm going to make money. I can't look any of my wildly successful sisters in the eye as I tell them I have to start over again because all I gained from school is a meaningless diploma and an aversion to industrial kitchens.
Finally, I make it back and get through the door of my small, old Brooklyn brownstone apartment. I drop my purse on the counter, feeling a fresh sob cooking behind my eyes. And that's when I notice my roommate's closed door and signature black scrunchie around the knob, indicating she's got a guy in there, and if I'm around, I should wear headphones all night.
One point for Paper-Thin Walls. Zero for Madison Walker.
Even the loud hum of our leaky window unit usually isn't enough to drown out the sounds of her sexual escapades.
I wish I could say I was happy for Bryce, but she's a terrible roommate (which says a lot, coming from me). Works from home as a graphic designer, so she's always here. Never picks up after herself. Listens to her reality TV shows at full volume. Leaves clumps of hair in the shower drain and pasted to the tile walls. But by far the worst thing about her is that she has a guy over almost every other night. Normally I'm the first person to celebrate a woman's sexual fulfillment, but after two long years of this, I'm ready to bust into her room and scream, Can you watch HGTV for like one night, please?! I guess this is what I get for taking the freakishly cheap lease in the better part of town.
Bryce owns this apartment (her grandfather paid it off before leaving it to her) and I rent her second bedroom. Apparently, she's had issues in the past with other renters complaining about her . . . lifestyle. But instead of changing her ways, she lowers the rent a little more each time since that money is just a bonus for her.
Tonight, I only needed a few hours to fall apart in my room without hearing her mating with some guy who grunts like a caveman, but I guess that's too much to ask. So I retreat to my own space, hoping that—for once—it will feel like home. But when I shut the door behind me, all that greets me is claustrophobia. Opening the window won't help either. It faces the wall of another faded brick apartment building.
For the millionth time this week, my heart aches to go home. To the place I took for granted. To the green grass and blue sky and fresh air. To my sisters and our Audrey Hepburn movie nights.
I see Sammy, my tortoise, chomping leaves in his plastic enclosure with a hot-pink ventilated lid, and wonder if he's as claustrophobic as I am. But supposedly, living in his enclosure is what's best for him right now while I help him heal. The unfortunate irony is that New York is what cracked both of our shells. If neither of us ever stepped foot in this damn city in the first place, we'd both still be whole.
A familiar rhythmic thumping sound beats against my wall, shaking my dresser, where Sammy lives. His enclosure becomes a mobile home as it bumps its way across the surface. I reach it right before it plummets off the edge and catch it like a newborn baby.
I can't live here any longer.
A breath trembles from between my lips and I know what I have to do. It's time to call my sister and fess up. The pep talk didn't work. I still hate it here, I'm not sure I ever want to cook again, and I don't know what to do with my life now.
There was a time when cellphone calls wouldn't connect in Rome, Kentucky; but thankfully, service has come a long way in the last two years and you can reach almost every corner of my hometown now.
I plop down onto my bed with Sammy and his plastic house perched on my lap as I dial Emily's number. It rings and rings, and when it goes to voicemail panic wells in my chest. I'm drowning in here and I need her tether to pull me back to dry land.
With blurry, tear-filled eyes, I try calling her boyfriend, Jack. He'll answer, and most likely she's with him anyway, since they spend every waking second together now that they live under the same roof.
It's going to be okay. Emily will fix me.
The call rings several times, and just when I think there's no hope, the line connects.
I'm greeted with a deep "Hello?"
But . . . that's not Jack's voice.
I form my mouth around the word hi, but then decide to double-check my phone screen.
Shit—shit, shit, shit!
I called the wrong J name.
Apparently, I'm now on the phone with James Huxley.