by Julie Murphy
Dedication
For Ashley. Our friendship is my favorite rom-com.
Epigraph
If you don’t like the road you’re walking, start paving another one. —Dolly Parton
“She’s my friend because we both know what it’s like to have people be jealous of us.” —Cher Horowitz, Clueless
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Millie: One
Callie: Two
Millie: Three
Callie: Four
Millie: Five
Callie: Six
Millie: Seven
Callie: Eight
Millie: Nine
Callie: Ten
Millie: Eleven
Callie: Twelve
Millie: Thirteen
Callie: Fourteen
Millie: Fifteen
Callie: Sixteen
Millie: Seventeen
Callie: Eighteen
Millie: Nineteen
Callie: Twenty
Millie: Twenty-One
Callie: Twenty-Two
Millie: Twenty-Three
Callie: Twenty-Four
Millie: Twenty-Five
Callie: Twenty-Six
Millie: Twenty-Seven
Callie: Twenty-Eight
Millie: Twenty-Nine
Callie: Thirty
Millie: Thirty-One
Callie: Thirty-Two
Millie: Thirty-Three
Callie: Thirty-Four
Millie: Thirty-Five
Callie: Thirty-Six
Millie: Thirty-Seven
Callie: Thirty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Julie Murphy
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Millie
One
I’m a list maker. Write it down. (Using my gel pens and a predetermined color scheme, of course.) Make it happen. Scratch it off. There is no greater satisfaction than a notebook full of beautifully executed lists.
A long time ago, I decided to make a list of all the things I could control, and what it came down to was this: my attitude. Which is probably why I’ve been able to psych myself into thinking that a 4:45 a.m. wakeup call is humane. Listen, I’m a morning person, but 4:45 doesn’t even count as morning if you ask me, and I’m an optimist.
After swiping away the last alarm on my phone, I roll out of bed and pull on my fuzzy baby-pink robe with a scrolled M embroidered onto the collar. For a moment, I stretch my whole body and yawn one last time before sitting down at my desk and pulling out my floral notebook. Across the hardcover front in gold letters, it reads MAKE PLANS, and below that, in cursive, MILLIE MICHALCHUK.
I smack my lips together to rid myself of the taste of sleep. Normally, I’m militant about brushing my teeth, but the other day Amanda said she read online that if you’re experiencing writer’s block, you should try writing first thing, before your brain even has a moment to turn on. I figure it can’t hurt to try. With my mint-green GIRL BOSS pencil poised in hand, I examine all the false starts I’ve scratched through this week.
I believe in the power of positive thinking.
Most people don’t know what they want, and that’s the real reason they’re stuck. Me? I know exactly what I want.
Webster’s Dictionary defines journalism as the activity or job of collecting, writing, and editing news stories for newspapers, magazines, television, or radio. I define journalism as
I turn to a fresh page and I sit and I wait. I stare down the blank page, hoping for the lines to morph into words, but instead they stay perfectly static.
I’m a good student. Not as great as Malik or Leslie Fischer, who was destined to be our class’s valedictorian the moment she won the third-grade spelling bee when she was only in first grade, but I’m in all AP classes and I’m doing better than most of my peers. I rarely feel daunted by an exam of essay questions or even a timed trigonometry test. But this personal statement is turning out to be an entirely new kind of beast. In fact, it’s got me feeling more like a girl failure than a girl boss.
After ten minutes and nothing to show for my time except a few crossed-out words and a doodle of two stick figures who I imagine are out on a date and who might even be me and a particular someone . . . I shove my notebook back in the drawer of my desk.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the day when the right words come to me. I open my laptop and scroll through my video library until I settle on When Harry Met Sally. This is one of me and my mom’s favorites—the kind of rom-com we can quote in our sleep—even if my mom does fast-forward through the orgasm scene and we still watch the VHS copy she recorded years ago. (My mother has yet to discover that I can just watch the full-length version online.)
Above my computer hangs a cross-stitch I copied from Pinterest. An intricate floral vine weaves around the quote YOU HAVE AS MANY HOURS IN A DAY AS BEYONCÉ. (I made one for Willowdean that replaced Beyoncé’s name with Dolly Parton, both of whom are goddesses in my humble opinion.)
Beside that is a piece of découpaged wood that reads WHEN I LOOK INTO THE FUTURE, IT’S SO BRIGHT IT BURNS MY EYES. —OPRAH WINFREY. Above that is another cross-stitch that reads LIFE IS TOO COMPLICATED NOT TO BE ORDERLY. —MARTHA STEWART. And those are just a few of my masterpieces.
I got my love for inspirational quotes, cross-stitch, and crafts from my mom. Our whole house is lined with handmade embroidered pillows emblazoned with encouraging quotes and watercolor prints of Bible verses that are darn near good enough quality to be sold at The Good Book, our local Christian bookstore.
It’s like me and my mom are a pair of birds, always adding to our nest, and the project is never quite done, but with each addition we feel a little more at home. At least that’s how it’s been until now. But in the last few months, my hopes and dreams are growing in the opposite direction of what my mom wants for me. Slowly, I’ve been redecorating my nest.
The cross-stitches and découpages hanging on my wall today are a departure from the inspirational diet quotes I surrounded myself with last summer and the eight summers prior to that at Daisy Ranch Weight-Loss Camp. YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE EXCEPT THE WEIGHT was always a personal favorite.
Fat camp. Yes, I went to fat camp. But that’s all history, because for the first time in nine years, I’m not going back to see my friends or Ms. Georgia, my counselor, at Daisy Ranch. Entering and winning runner-up at the Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant changed the game for me. I did things I never believed possible. I played my ukulele for a crowded theater and walked the stage in a beautiful gown—not to mention the swimsuit portion of the competition! I even went to a dance with a boy. I did all that in this body. Which is why I can’t afford to waste another summer weighing in every morning and eating rabbit food in the hopes that someone will notice that I’ve dropped six pounds on the first day of school.
Now if I could only just figure out a way to explain that to my mom. And then, watch out, world! Millicent Michalchuk, trusted news anchor, is coming to a television screen near you.
But first I’ve gotta finish this dang personal statement for the Broadcast Journalism Boot Camp at the University of Texas in Austin.
I know it’s going to take more than summer camp or even a degree. We’re talking internships and years of grunt work. But I’m willing to do all that, because I want to be the face people come home to every night—a voice they can trust. A voice that will inspire. And maybe even change the world. I guess that’s a silly thing to expect from a news anchor, but my grandparents are as religious about the local news as they are about, well, religion!
I hear them talking about things people have said on the news channels th
ey watch, and there are times that I don’t even think we’re living in the same world. It’s got me thinking that sometimes it’s about more than the facts. Sometimes it’s about how and which facts are presented. Like, when same-sex marriage was legalized, all the news outlets I pay attention to online treated it like a celebration, because it was! I went over to my grandparents’ house, and by the sound of their television, you would have thought we’d been invaded by a hostile enemy.
Maybe it’s different for everybody, but people like my grandparents? Their opinion of the world is shaped by the person who delivers their news. That’s real responsibility, and I don’t take that lightly.
I know. They don’t put fat girls on the news. Well, they didn’t let fat girls win runner-up in the Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant either. But everything happens for the first time at some point, so why can’t that first time be me?
After I’ve removed all my curlers, I reach for the black leggings and mint sweatshirt I laid out for myself last night. The sweatshirt is the result of a Mother-Daughter Crafturday Saturday—a fading monthly tradition, now that I’m working for Uncle Vernon—and has a fabric-paint-lined iron-on transfer of a puppy with a butterfly on its nose. (It’s as adorable as it sounds.)
I add a touch of light pink lip gloss and close my laptop, leaving Harry and Sally behind. Lastly, I get the coffeepot started for my parents before driving to work.
At 5:45 in the morning, Clover City is just barely buzzing awake. The only evidence of life is the flickering light that spills into the street from Daybreak Donuts and Coffee and the handful of runners I see before pulling into the parking lot of Down for the Count, my uncle Vernon and aunt Inga’s boxing gym.
Dad tried telling them that the name of the gym felt a little defeatist, but they weren’t hearing it. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Inga connected on a Rocky fan-club message board. Inga was a recent transplant from Russia living in Philadelphia, and they met for the first time at the top of the infamous Rocky steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. (Against my entire family’s protest, because no one in my family except me can really wrap their head around falling in love on the internet.)
I’ve never been to Philly, but Inga has promised me that we’ll go after graduation—a true girls’ trip. I just hope it won’t take climbing all seventy-two Rocky steps for me to get the happy ending to my own love story.
I park in the spot right in front of the gym. Inga always nags Vernon and I for us both parking in the front spaces, but I like to think of it as my employee-of-the-month parking. Even if I am their only employee. Hey, the pay is crummy. I’ve got to take my perks where I can find them.
Stretching above the windows in our corner of the shopping center is our light-up sign. It reads DOWN FOR THE COUNT with a set of boxing gloves hanging next to it. Below that I can still see the shadow of letters where it once read LIFE CLUB FITNESS.
Bells jingle above my head as I open the front door and run behind the counter to turn off the alarm.
I go through my opening duties: counting out the register, sharpening pencils, printing off new member applications, checking the locker rooms for towels and toilet paper, and doing a quick walk-through and equipment check. I make a game of weaving in and out of the punching bags and tugging on each of them to make sure they’re just as sturdy as they were yesterday morning. Bouncing on my toes, I give the last bag a quick one-two punch.
The bell above the door rings, letting me know someone’s come in.
“Looking good, Millie!”
Sheepishly, I glance over my shoulder. “Morning, Vernon.” My uncle was once the kind of guy parents begged their daughters to stay away from. Thick muscles and sandy-colored curls. But these days he’s more sleep-deprived dad than small-town bad boy. He’s got a few clusters of white in his reddish-blond beard, and his smile lines are more deep set now, but he’s just as sturdy as I always remember him being.
“Your stance is getting pretty solid,” he says. “I don’t think I’d want to mess with you in a dark alleyway.”
I shake out my hands. “I’m just messing around,” I tell him as I head over to the counter and grab my car keys. Learning how to box for real is on my long-term to-do list, after getting into broadcast camp and making out with a boy. (Hey, Oprah says to name your goals, and she’s never led me astray.)
He shrugs. The circles under his eyes and his day-old T-shirt tell me he was up all night with the twins. Not only that, but the gym is really up against the ropes at the moment. (Pun totally intended.) Up until last month, this place was part of the Life Club Fitness franchise, which has specialty gyms (tennis clubs, CrossFit, indoor soccer) all over the country. This meant we had additional resources for marketing and equipment and even doing things like sponsoring local sports teams.
But LCF filed for bankruptcy without any warning, so now Uncle Vernon and Aunt Inga are on their own with this place, and without a safety net. Between all the investments they’ve already made here and newborn twins, the success of this gym has turned out to be more important than ever. Last time I was at their house, I saw a stack of late notices from the water and electric companies, and I just can’t shake the image. This place is their last hope, and I’m not about to let it fail.
I point to a puke stain on Vernon’s shoulder. “You’ve got some clean shirts in the office.”
He glances at the stain. “I don’t, actually. This was the last one.” He plops his head down on the counter. “Nothing will ever be clean. Luka and Nikolai had the toxic shits last night. We might just have to condemn the whole house. All is lost, Millie. Poopocalypse has claimed every last soul.”
I try not to laugh, but I can’t help smiling. Vernon is the only person in my family who cusses, and something about him doing it in front of me makes me feel somehow older and cooler than I actually am. “I washed the shirts in your office with the towels last night.” He picks up his head, and I get a good whiff of him. Toxic is about right. “Maybe hop in the showers, too? We normally don’t see anyone for another twenty minutes anyway.”
Vernon lifts his arm up and sniffs. “Well, guess I don’t wanna scare off any potential new members.”
I muster my most encouraging smile. “Right! Now, you know where the new membership packets are, and we’re starting that promo with Green’s Vitamins, remember? Those flyers are on your desk. And just . . .”
“Don’t take no for an answer,” he says, finishing Inga’s business mantra. (Well, really, just her mantra in general.)
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Inga’s been slashing our budgets like crazy lately. She could star in her own horror movie. Or maybe she could be a wrestler. Invincible Inga the Budget Assassin.” He turns and shuffles toward the showers, his shoulders sloped. I decide not to tell him about the brown mystery stain on his back.
“Just throw that shirt in the dirty towel hamper,” I call as I let myself out the front door.
I slide into the minivan and glance up to the Down for the Count sign flickering above, with the W in “Down” completely out—something I take a mental note of for our long list of needed repairs.
As I pull out into the street, I hit the call button on the steering wheel. “Call Amanda!” I shout.
“Calling Panda,” the robot car voice responds.
“No. End call. Do not call Panda. Call Amanda.”
“Searching for Panda Express.”
“No!” I moan and turn the whole radio off and on before trying again. “Call Amanda!”
There’s a long pause before the robot voice answers me. “Calling Amanda.”
“Finally,” I mumble.
The line rings for a moment before Amanda groans into my speakers.
“Good morning, beautiful!” I say. “You are smart. You are talented. You are kind.”
“There is nothing good about mornings,” she says, her voice muffled by what sounds like a pillow. “But at least you got the beautiful thing right. Smart? Talented? Kind? I’ll work on those.�
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“All mornings are good,” I tell her. “It’s those afternoons that ruin everything.” I chuckle at myself, but Amanda’s silence is evidence that she doesn’t find my humor cute. “Daily affirmations. I read about it last week. You speak the things you want to be. I figured it’d be easier if we affirmed each other. Spice things up!”
“I can play this game,” she says. “I just say good things for you to be.”
“Pretty much.”
“You are a plate of hash brown. You are a waffle. You are a cinnamon roll.”
“Amanda!” I roll my eyes. “Take this seriously.”
“What? I’m hungry and no one is taking that seriously.” She huffs into her receiver. “Are you on your way?” she asks. “Get out of my room, Tommy!” she growls. “Sorry. My brother.”
“Be waiting for me outside. I’ve got morning announcements.” I grin. “Be there in ten. And maybe we can stop for breakfast.”
“I’m awake, Mom!” she shouts again. “Please hurry,” she whispers into the phone.
“You owe me three affirmations!” I remind her as I press down harder on the gas. A friend in need is a friend indeed.
Callie
Two
Melissa and I sit on the floor of the gym, facing each other with our legs spread and our feet touching. Our hands clasp together as we stretch, pulling each other back and forth. She sits up, and her dark burgundy ponytail on the very top of her head swings forward as she pulls me toward her. I’m trying really hard not to breathe in, though, since the gymnasium floor seriously smells like balls.
“Our after-school practices next week were bumped to the band room,” I tell Melissa.
She looks up from her stretch. “Are you shitting me?”
“Nope. Coach Spencer is scrambling because the football team’s indoor facility isn’t done yet, so they’re moving everyone’s practices around so the team can have the gym and the weightlifting equipment.”
“But the band room has no space! What have they even done to deserve an indoor training facility? And it’s not even football season.”