The more I baked, the happier I became, but it wasn’t until my mom brought it to my attention one day that I actually considered taking it seriously. I’d made her an orange soufflé for Christmas and she loved it so much that she took pieces of it over to her neighbors—demanding that they try it. She even called my then-boyfriend over and asked him to have some, to which he said, “Hmmm. It’s edible.”

Still, I’d realized my love for the culinary arts far too late. So, instead of switching majors, I remained in the business school and whenever I had free time, I stole classes from the number one culinary school on the beach: Wellington’s Culinary Institute.

Every Saturday and Sunday, I went downtown and sat in the very back of the classroom—taking notes like I really belonged there. On the days that the class met in the actual cooking room—one stove per “paying student,” I would simply pretend to be a high-schooler who was doing a research project.

It was what I was currently doing at this moment.

“Don’t forget that you’ll be graded on how you create the layers on your croissant.” The professor said from the front of the room. “They’ll need to be crisp, but not too flaky—soft, but never sticky…You’ll also need to make sure your own personal design is something you’ve never created in this class before. Do not replicate any previous assignments or you’ll receive an automatic demerit.

I watched as the woman standing in front of me stirred her batter and mixed in a few sprinkles of sugar. She tasted the dough and shook her head—sprinkling in even more.

“Hey…” I whispered to her. “Hey…”

She looked over her shoulder. “What?”

“You don’t need any more sugar in that.”

“How would you know, thief?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because you still have to fry it and coat it with a sugar blend, and that’s before you even inject the sugared filling into it. If you use anymore, you’ll give the taste-tester early onset diabetes.”

She set down the bowl of sugar and got back to work, gratefully stepping over a bit so I could see the rest of her setup.

As I was writing down the list of ingredients, I felt someone tapping my shoulder.

“Yes?” I didn’t look up. I was in the middle of writing down a brand of specialty dough. I was on the last letter when the notebook was snatched out of my hands and I found myself face to face with a woman dressed in all black. The word “Security” was etched across her chest in huge block letters and she was crossing her arms.

“What are you doing here today, Miss Turner?” she asked, pursing her lips.

“I’m uh…” I cleared my throat and sat up. “I’m here doing a book report.”

“A book report?”

“Yes,” I said. “A very important book report for my school. My high school.”

“And what high school do you supposedly go to?”

“Pleasant View High.”

“You go there even though it’s been abandoned for fifty years?”

Shit. “I meant Ridge View…” I’d looked it up on Google earlier.

“All high schools are currently out for the summer. The last day was this past Friday.” She snapped her fingers and motioned for me to get up. “Let’s go. You know the routine…”

I stood up and took my notebook back, following her out of the room and into the hallway. “Is stealing lectures and taking extra notes in a class really a crime?” I asked. “Who am I really hurting here?”

She waved her key card over the pad at the door. “Out.”

“Wait.” I stepped outside. “If I give you twenty dollars, will you go back and tell me what type of dough they’re using for the specialty cronuts? Maybe I can give you my email address and you can send it to me?”

She slammed the door in my face.

Ugh… I tucked my notebook into my purse and heard familiar laughter. I looked up and realized it was the instructor from the “Understanding the Recipes” course.

“You think this is funny? I asked, feeling bold. “Kicking someone out of class?”

“It’s hilarious.” He laughed harder, looking at me. “And you weren’t kicked out of class, you were removed because I saw you going in there this morning.”

“You snitched on me? I thought you liked me…You don’t normally snitch on me.”

“I don’t,” he said. “But on test day, all bets are off. Can you not see the direct correlation between the times we have security remove you and the times we don’t?”

I was stunned.

“Exactly,” he said, patting my shoulder. “We all appreciate your passion, but test days are only for those who are actually paying tuition…I trust I’ll be seeing you more often since you’re out of college now, though?”

I nodded, and he laughed again, saying, “See you next weekend, Miss Turner,” before walking away.

Completely honored by the “appreciate your passion” comment, I smiled and wondered if I could later get him to write me an unofficial recommendation for a few other culinary schools I was waiting to hear back from.

Maybe a letter from him would help me get a scholarship?

I glanced at my watch and realized I had three hours to get ready for the college I was actually paying to attend; my graduation ceremony was today.

Track 3. All Too Well (3:42)

Yep…I definitely picked the wrong career path for my life…

I was officially convinced that Reeves University officials had held a secret meeting dedicated to listing the many ways that they could make this year’s ceremony the most boring yet.

Everything from the twenty minute organ prelude to induct the doctorates, to the thirty minute video that recapped the university’s best features, to the fact that they’d booked five different speakers.

I’d sat through nearly all of them, scrolling through social media newsfeeds and twiddling my thumbs, but the fourth speaker of the day had definitely mastered the art of sounding as monotonous as possible. Every other line was “And then I remember,” “I wish I’d known,” or “I’m not making this up, kids…Hahaha.”

There was never any laughter from the audience afterwards. Only silence. And snores.

I covered my mouth so I could yawn yet again, and the girl sitting next to me stretched out her arms and rested her head on my shoulder. Without my permission.

“Um...” I looked at her.

“Yes?” She looked right back at me.

“Um…Do I even know you? Why would you just lay on me?”

She blinked.

“No, really. Why are you laying on me?”

“Shhh!” She adjusted her position and shut her eyes.

I was tempted to jerk away and leave her hanging, but I decided to make the most out of the situation. I looked at the girl to my left—at the vacant shoulder that was calling my name, and leaned onto it.

Several minutes later, and once the speaker said he was “almost done” for the umpteenth time, my phone vibrated with a text from my mom.

I’m sorry, hon, but I can’t sit through another second of this. I got plenty of pictures of you walking across the stage, though! Oh! And I got a lot of you at the department ceremony earlier! I’ll see you at home for your party! I’m making crab-cakes! Be there by seven!