CHAPTER ONE

Madison
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 stag