Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
At first, I was ecstatic because I’d never been outside of North Carolina, and it was better that I had some interest from a college than none at all. I’d seen many girls in my cheer squad graduate high school with nothing in their back pockets. In a way, my scholarship was owed to me. I kept the team in tip-top shape. I made sure practice ran as scheduled, and it gave me escape from the awful reality I faced at home. Growing up poor with a verbally abusive father and a spineless mother was for the birds.
When I’d taken a bus to get to New Orleans with two suitcases and one duffel bag full of my belongings, I was pleased to see the live oak trees swarming the land and eccentric people on the streets. We passed marshes and bayous with trees that hung with Spanish moss, colorful houses, and restaurants on the water. It was all so new, so refreshing. It was a fresh start, a new beginning, and I was ready to tackle the opportunity headfirst.
I wish I could go back and slap that happy, naïve version of myself. In the movies, you get a glimpse of New Orleans and the nightlife, the Mardi Gras parades, a bachelorette party celebrating a bride-to-be, or a collection of men looking for a good time at bars or strip clubs. But the low-down dirty truth is New Orleans was filthy and chaotic. I didn’t mind chaos, so long as it was the controlled sort, but New Orleans wasn’t controlled by any means. People ran rampant, women with their breasts out and some men even slinging their dicks around, just to get a reaction. Vomit on every corner of the street, homeless people demanding money, and tourists crowding the areas, making it hard for cars to pass.
I was a victim of the latter, sitting behind the wheel of my car, groaning as a line of elderly people walked along the crosswalk in matching neon pink shirts. Summertime in NOLA was ground zero for tourists, and I couldn’t stand it. As soon as I’d saved up enough money, I would leave this place and find somewhere quieter, a suburban area where I could hear more crickets chirping than car horns beeping.
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard of my dingy silver Volkswagen Beetle, tapping my fingers on the wheel. I had six minutes to get to work and my job was twelve minutes away. Once the elderly people moved, I floored it and was glad there weren’t any more red lights or pedestrians to stop me.
When I pulled up to Franco’s Italian Restaurant, I collected my purse and hurried through the back door of the building, apologizing to my manager Trent for being late for the third time this week.
“One mo’ strike, Brynn! I mean ‘nat!” Trent boomed in his Creole accent. I ignored him, throwing on my apron and rushing through the double doors that led out of the kitchen.
It was hard being on time when I worked part time at Nulli’s Mini Mart. As soon as my shift was over at Nulli’s, I would rush to the bathrooms, change, and hustle to Franco’s.
Franco’s was an upscale lakefront restaurant, a hidden gem according to online reviews. It was also the only other job I could get until I found one more suitable. Truth is, I hated my life. What was the point of spending all those years in college learning and studying, just to come out of it with a mountain of debt and still having to work a bare minimum job to pay the bills? I’d majored in Business, yet I didn’t have the time or resources to start my own. I’d dreamed of opening my own restaurant one day, or perhaps something quieter and quainter, like a bed and breakfast. I had dreams of this bed and breakfast existing in New Hampshire, where people would come during the spring and summer, sleep in, then wake up to delicious food from my kitchen. Because that was another thing I was good at, cooking.
The last time I was late on my rent, my roommate fussed for a bit, then told me things would get better, but I couldn’t trust Shavonne’s advice because she was up to her neck in debt too. Both of us struggled monthly to pay our $1250 rent, and I was almost positive Shavonne was selling ass or something on the side because she never came up short.
I let the idea and internal rant go, collecting a notepad from the hostess stand as said hostess informed me which tables I’d be serving. There weren’t many people in yet, but within a few hours, once the sun dipped and the golden light spread over the tables, it would be packed. That’s what the couples loved about Franco’s. It allowed a romantic night by the water as they drowned themselves in hot Italian food, wine, and love.