Never Getting Back Together

ELEVEN

Baking isn't an art. It's a science.

I use an ice cream scoop to measure out cookie dough. I make sure the ratio of dough to carob chips matches the other cookies on the baking sheet exactly. These have to be perfect. Not only are they for the Founder's Festival bake sale this afternoon, but they're also for the Happy Spoons Grant. I need photographic evidence of Rosedale's residents enjoying them to include with my application.

"Those look great, Hun." My dad's face grins out at me from my phone. I propped it up on the counter with my selfie stick, so we can FaceTime while I prep for the bake sale.

Dad's ashy-blond hair appears damp from his morning shower. The button-down shirt and tie he's wearing are immaculately pressed. He's clearly going into the office even though it's a Sunday. Dad's in a salaried position, which basically just means he puts in overtime for free.

"Thanks. Hopefully, the judges for the grant will think so too." I dip my finger in the dough and pop it into my mouth. It's fantastic, sweet and rich with a tang of salt. One of the great things about AIP baking is eggs aren't allowed, so cookie dough is free-game.

"Well, I'm sure they'd be crazy not to." Dad smiles, but his eyes have that pinched look they get whenever we talk about anything to do with money. "Listen, I have some bad news, sweetheart."

At my dad's serious tone, I set down my cookie dough and focus.

"We found out they're making some changes to our health plans at work next year. They're changing providers. The deductibles are going up, and—" Dad's voice trails off, and he swallows, looking at the ground. "The new plan won't cover your Cromolyn prescription."

The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. I feel like I just got punched in the gut. Cromolyn is the most effective medication for controlling my condition, and it costs fourteen hundred dollars a month before insurance. Our current plan only pays about half of it, but the idea of having to come up with all that money on my own makes me nauseous.

"I'm so sorry," Dad says. "But don't worry. We'll figure something out." Guilt and worry are etched in the lines around his mouth. I hate that he feels bad about not being able to do more for me financially. Dad has nothing to feel guilty about. He works hard, and he's got a good job. It isn't his fault that the outrageous cost of living in New York is rivaled only by the expense of having a chronic illness in this country. Besides, I'm twenty-one years old. I knew I'd have to figure out how to foot the bill for my healthcare eventually. I just didn't expect to have to do it so soon.

"It's okay." I force a bright smile even though I feel hollow, like someone used my ice cream scoop to remove my insides. "We will figure it out. If I get this grant, I'll be able to launch my business. I'll be living a life of luxury before you know it."

"That's the spirit." Dad's smile looks as fake as my own.

My timer blares. I grab my mitt off the counter and peek inside the stainless-steel oven. It's by far the nicest appliance I own. Walking into my kitchen is like entering the Land of Misfit Gadgets. The microwave is flimsy, white plastic with a crack across the front. The old-fashioned farmhouse sink is made out of green ceramic. And the refrigerator looks like something that arrived in the back of Marty McFly's DeLorean. It has to be straight out of 1955. The pool house was unfurnished when I moved in. I bought everything second-hand with quite a bit of help from Betty and Dad.

The intoxicating smell of gooey, melted chocolate and toasted sugar floods the room. I set the cookies on top of the stove to cool. They're utter perfection, fluffy with a crisp, golden crust. Unfortunately, this is the batch of regular cookies I'm pitting against my AIP version to convince the good people of Rosedale that sugar-free is the way to be. I frown. I may have self-sabotaged with these. They look too good. I sigh and pop the AIP batch into the oven.

"So, how are things with Carrie?" I try to ignore the lead weight of panic lodged in my gut and switch the topic to something only slightly less complicated.

To say Carrie and I didn't hit it off is an understatement. Convinced I was exaggerating my gluten intolerance, she snuck bread crumbs into the meatballs she made when Dad took me to meet her. Within five minutes, I was covered in hives and had a migraine that lasted three days.

Despite that, I'm glad my dad has someone. I worry about him alone up there in the city without me. Carrie's the first official girlfriend he's had since my mom died. She's an executive assistant at a major law firm. She works long hours, so Dad's workaholic tendencies aren't a problem for her like they were for other women he's dated.

"She's good." A grin stretches across Dad's face. Even if the two of us are unlikely to ever be besties, it makes my heart happy that Carrie can make him smile like that. "She's doing a yoga class in Central Park this morning."

"That sounds very health-conscious. Maybe you should join her sometime."

"I'll have to think about that." Dad gives a weak chuckle and nods. "Well, you're pretty busy over there, kiddo. And I should probably head. Call me tomorrow morning? I want to hear all about the bake sale."

"You got it." I turn back to the screen. "Please try not to worry too much about the insurance thing. We've got months to figure it out."

Dad gives me a half-hearted smile. "I'll do my best. Love you, hun."

"Love you." I blow a kiss at the phone, and Dad winks at me.

I keep my smile fixed in place until his face disappears, then I bury my face in my hands.

This can't be happening. I probably haven't got an ice dancer's chance in hell at getting picked for the grant. And when I get rejected, my dad will feel even guiltier about not being able to help me. There's no way I can afford my prescriptions and the licenses and insurance I need to start my business. I could talk to Paula about a loan, but I don't have any credit. There's no way I'd qualify.

I love working at Giselle's and plan to keep teaching classes even if I do become a nutrition counselor. But without help from our insurance provider, the cost of my medication will by far exceed what I make there. I'll have to get a second job.

I give myself ten seconds to feel the sheer terror over my impending financial situation. Then I take a deep breath and shake out my arms, trying to rally. "Okay, pity party over," I tell myself. This is a setback, but I have a plan. I just need to stick to the plan. My tuition is already paid for, so I'm going to finish my nutrition certification. And I will submit the best application I can for that grant to give myself a fighting chance.

I inhale a deep breath to calm my nerves. But instead of the scrumptious scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, I get a noseful of smoke.

Oh, shoot. I forgot to set the timer!

I spin around. Tendrils of gray slither out of the oven and into the air. "No! No! No!"

Shoving on my mitt, I pull the charred cookies out of the oven and rush to the window. I open it wide, wafting the smoke outside before the alarm goes off. I glance at my watch. 11:38. I haven't got time to make another batch before I need to leave for the bake sale. Talk about an epic backfire. My AIP cookies—the ones for my grant application—resemble bricks of charcoal, while my plain, sugar-loaded cookies look fantastic.

My phone vibrates on the counter. I trudge over to it, feet dragging against the tile in defeat. It's a text from Janet.

Janet: Hi, Quinn! Remember, everything you can imagine can be real.

I let my head fall backward and moan. Unless it's possible to imagine my cookies un-burning themselves, I am so screwed.