Relatively Crazy
Page 1
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Ellen Dye
Relatively Crazy
Copyright
Dedication
Other Books by Ellen Dye
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
I flipped the book open to Chapter One and read:
Darlings, do not despair because you were born low. It matters not that you have no money, no skills, and are seemingly doomed to toil until exhaustion claims you. A Valiant Knight is waiting to rescue you with the power of true love. You have arrived at a starting point, and with the turn of a single page you will begin the self-improvement necessary to attract your very own Valiant Knight!
I hugged the book to my chest, realizing I’d found my secret weapon, my ticket out of Exhaustion City. I was Galahad holding the Holy Grail; I was Scarlett in the radish patch. I gloried in the wave of hope that washed over me. I would be rescued! And with God as my witness, I swore I’d never ask, “Want fries with that burger?” again.
Praise for Ellen Dye
“A hoot and a half. … A book readers will truly enjoy (and not want to put down).”
~MidWest Book Reviews (5 Stars)
~*~
“This is an outstanding book written by an author who understands how to create great characters.”
~John Foxjohn, bestselling author of Killer Nurse
~*~
“A charming romance…a thoroughly enjoyable read.”
~MidWest Book Reviews (5 Stars)
~*~
“This story tugged at my heartstrings. You definitely shouldn’t pass this story up.”
~Diana, Night Owl Romance Reviews (4 Stars)
~*~
“A good love story with very interesting characters that will leave you hungry for more.”
~M. Dobson, Sizzling Hot Book Reviews (4 Hearts)
~*~
“If you’re looking for that warm fuzzy feeling, you will find it in this book.”
~Melissa, Romance Writers Reviews (5 Stars)
~*~
“Ellen Dye can really spin a tale, folks.”
~TRS, AReCafe (Top Pick, 5 Hearts)
~*~
“I highly recommend this book to other readers!”
~Diana Coyle, Night Owl Reviews (Top Pick, 5 Stars)
~*~
“This is a great story with some wonderful laugh out loud moments.”
~Sarah L., Romancing the Book (4 Roses)
Relatively Crazy
by
Ellen Dye
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Relatively Crazy
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Ellen Dye
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by RJ Morris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
Previously published by LLDreamspell, 2010
First Last Rose of Summer Rose Edition, 2017
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1764-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1765-6
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Nan Swanson,
fabulous friend, kindred reading spirit,
fellow furbaby mom,
and without a doubt the Mary Poppins
of the world of publishing who makes everything as
“practically perfect in every way” as she is herself.
Thank you for believing in me!
Other Books by Ellen Dye
available at The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Three’s the Charm
His Saving Grace
~
and a Free Read:
Happy Coincidences
Prologue
A long, long time ago, in a state thankfully far, far away…
“Wanda Jo Ashton, you have arrived,” I said to my reflection in the cheap full-length mirror attached to Mr. Plower’s office door.
I did a small twirl, admiring the swish of my short red-and-black pleated skirt, and then settled on one of the two chairs allotted the counselor’s waiting room. After crossing one leg over the other, I rotated a foot to better admire my painstakingly self-restored, bought used, black-and-white saddle shoes.
I’m thinking it’s both a Yes and a No. Yes, Varsity Cheerleader is a good look for me. And no, as in No One would know I’m wearing strictly secondhand.
I shifted, taking another peek in the mirror, this time admiring my freshly self-highlighted, and now golden blonde, mane and making sure not a single lock was out of place. And more importantly, no dark under-eye circles were in evidence.
Maybelline cover stick. Why use anything else?
Most thankfully, I didn’t actually look as though I’d worked a double diner shift, followed by clean-up duty at Mama’s salon yesterday. Nearly twenty hours on my feet, and no telltale red eyes. Amazing product, Visine.
Today was The Day—the one I’d waited for all my life. And if it went the way I’d always dreamed, twenty-hour weekend workdays and long after-school shifts would be a thing of the past for me.
Abruptly my reflection swung away to reveal a very angry-looking Bobby Reilly, dressed in the Pep Rally standard of red-and-black football jersey and jeans. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, and then he quickly dropped his gaze to the floor. He took a step, grasped the door, and gave it a vicious swing that should have shattered—but fortunately didn’t—the mirror before striding away.
It was then I noticed the folder clutched in Bobby’s right hand. Poor Bobby. In his case, The Test had spoken most unfavorably. And now Poor Bobby, as he would be known from this day forward, had been sentenced to the underworld of Buckston County High, more commonly known as Vo-Tech.
The Mountain State Achievement Examination—The Test, as we students called it—could do some wicked things to a person.
According to administrators and teachers alike, The Test was a wonderful tool used to help students realize their full potential. And when these scores were combined with a student’s grade-point average, the administrators had an infallible formula for student success.
But we students knew the truth: The Test separated the Winners (Superstars/College Bound) from the Losers (Vo-tech/Life of Humiliation).
Being shuffled into the Vo-Tech/Life of Humiliation pile was a terrible thing. It could mean the beginning of a lifetime spent slogging through assorted, and largely unidentifiable, poultry parts at Backhill’s Turkey Processing Plant, the county’s only true place of employment.
There were those who completed Vo-Tech with no skill other than to ask, “Want fries with that burger?” This, my current form of employment, was pretty much as low as one could go. Especially when one considered this profound question was to be asked while wearing a shirt with your name stitched on a pocket as a reminder in case this important tidbit should slip one’s mind.
Oh, yes. Vo-Tech was the high school equivalent of a Roach Motel. Students checked in, but they never checked out.
The squeal of rusty hinges jarred me from my musings, and I looked up to see Mr. Plower, the junior-year guidance counselor, standing in the doorway Poor Bobby had just vacated.
Mr. Plower had been the bane of my high school existence for the past two years, always popping around corners, alternately reminding and berating me about things like proper study habits and academic diligence, usually after I’d worked the late shift.
“Okay, Wanda Jo. Let’s get this over with,” he sighed in a tired voice.
He was wearing his usual daily uniform of ratty tweed that always looked a bit moldy, a white shirt with button-down collar, and the bow tie that only drew further attention to his scrawny neck and prominent Adam’s apple. He wore his thinning, salt-and-pepper hair clubbed back, a lá Bella Lugosi, with massive dollops of Dippity-Do. A seriously not good look for a painfully thin man standing only an inch or so above my own petite five feet two inches.
As I crossed the threshold, I realized with an excited flush of anticipation that once I next set my feet here, I would be not only leaving this office but leaving my old life behind.
I took the seat across from the desk and crossed my legs. Mr. Plower plopped down with a sigh. Ah. I realized Mr. Plower was about to eat a healthy serving of, as Mama called it, Humble Pie.
Mr. Plower pulled a stack of papers and folders from a desk drawer and plopped the lot in front of himself while heaving another sigh.
“I suppose we’ll start with your grades.”
I nodded. Best to get the unpleasant stuff out of the way.
“Chemistry.” Mr. Plower shook his head. “Barely passing. It would seem you’re not taking the subject seriously.”
Why would I? It’s simply not important to know all that nonsense about electrons and protons and how all those little bitty things come together to make water. You turn on the tap, fill your glass, and drink up. End of subject.
Mr. Plower continued running through my course load, making the occasional remark, until he got to algebra.
“Are you aware of your near-failing marks?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“What steps are you taking to improve your grades?”
I shrugged once more.
“Determined not to take this seriously, I see.” Mr. Plower scribbled something across the paper.
Seriously? Algebra was nothing more than a twisted mishmash of numbers and letters clearly developed by some very sick people. Letters are letters and numbers are numbers—and they have no business floating around on a page together.
“In fact, your overall grade-point average clearly shows you don’t take academics seriously. Or my warnings.”
Well, honestly, I had planned to. But it seemed as though I was always working and never got around to it. Geesh, wasn’t it supposed to be old people who wondered where the time went?
Mr. Plower stuffed a sheaf of papers into a folder and picked up the green-and-white booklet that held the key to my future.
“It’s finished!” I chirped. “What did you think?” I leaned forward.
Mr. Plower squeezed both eyes shut as though he were in pain. “Wanda Jo, I’ve honestly never seen anything like it.”
I practically jumped from my chair. “I did great! I knew it!”
He held up a bony hand. “No.”
Huh?
Mr. Plower scrubbed a hand across his face. “In nearly twenty-five years of administering the Mountain State Achievement Examination, I believe you are the very first student to receive an overall score of zero.”
My mouth flopped open, but I quickly recovered. “But what about my special talents? Potentials? Abilities?”
“Apparently, you don’t have any.”
Mr. Plower flipped the booklet open and selected a question. “Thelma needs a haircut. The beauty shop will charge her twelve dollars. But Thelma only has nine dollars. Therefore she should a) wait until she has saved another three dollars, b) select a different salon, or c) borrow the money from a friend.” He leveled a glare at me. “Each of these answers reflects a potential strength. A strength that can be evaluated and used to the student’s advantage.”
“But my answer was—”
“Written in the margin. And I quote, ‘Learn to do it yourself, that always saves money.’ ” He finished with a look of sheer bafflement.
Now I understood. Mr. Plower was in need of enlightenment. “It’s really easy, all you need—”
He waved his hand. “Spare me the hairdressing lesson.”
Mr. Plower continued to flip through the booklet, his agitation growing, until he finally reached the last page and snapped the cover closed.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Wanda Jo?” He sighed and began drumming his bony fingers on the desk.
“My answers showed creativity and thought. Surely that’s enough to show my special talents and abilities…”
“Your answers show nothing more than your complete inability to follow instructions—”
“But—”
“And a total lack of ability to be a rational, thinking young woman.” He flipped the lot of paperwork into his desk drawer and pulled out the dreaded red-and-black folder labeled Vo-Tech at Buckston High.
My gaze was riveted to the folder as my stomach fell straight down to the toes of my newly refurbished saddle shoes. I was being banished to the underworld along with Poor Bobby. Doomed.
I sat numbly as Mr. Plower began to point out the various options while running a skeletal index finger down the typed page. Oh, God, not Turkey Gut Pushing. Anything but that.
The finger in charge of my destiny paused suddenly, and I looked down. OhMyGod. This was even worse than the horror of an eternity spent sifting through unidentifiable poultry parts. I wanted to run screaming from the building.
“Cosmetology,” he announced in an evil tone with a matching smile.
I closed my eyes as Mr. Plower recited the wonderful advantages available to those lucky enough to enter the field of cosmetology.
Then I swallowed back the bile as he continued on about the fabulous benefits of graduation in two years’ time with not only a diploma but also a cosmetology license.
“Perfect for your abilities,” he finished and drew a triumphant breath.
I blinked as the full impact of his suggestion hit me. A snapshot of myself dressed in pastel zippered polyester and white NurseMates flashed through my mind.
Oh, God, I was about to become my mother.
No horror on earth could be worse.
I took the folder with numb fingers and left Mr. Plower’s office in a fog. My feet, seemingly aware, although I was not, propelled me out of the school and onto Main Street, turning in the direction of the Dew Drop Inn just as I had been doing each school day in what now seemed an eternity.
What a fool I was. I’d thought today would be different, the beginning of a brand new life.
Well, poop on rye. In its own twisted way, it was. Today it was official. I would be following along in my family’s footsteps, working each day until I was physically ready to drop, for the rest of my born days.
For at least the next two years I’d be asking, “Want fries with that burger?” just as Aunt Nettie had until her arthritis got the better of her and my cousin and I had been drafted into service at the family diner. I wondered if two years would be enough to complete my transformation to my crazy aunt, who currently whiled away her days consumed by her new hobby, wine and
spirit making. Or to be precise, blowing things up during the fermentation process of said wine and spirits.
Or, if Mr. Plower had his way, I’d be transformed into a junior version of Mama. A shiver of pure fear streaked down my spine. I wondered how long it would take me to acquire her frown lines and permanently stooped shoulders.
Then I wondered what other side effects the daily grind of eight-thirty sharp until the last client was firmly doused with Aqua Net would bring.
Mama would retire and leave her salon to me. She would pass me the keys to the smallish building, not much larger than a garden shed, which sat off to the side of our house, along with the sacred responsibility for the Holy Do’s of Buckston County.
A band of cold sweat popped out across my brow.
Or I supposed I could actually go all the way around the bend and end up like Uncle Claude.
No, I decided I wouldn’t even think about that.
I looked toward the library, and a small ray of sunshine crept through my cloud of doom. Book Sale, the banner draped above the oak front doors announced. I turned toward the entrance and made my way toward the carts of books being sold for quarters and dimes.
I may not have been much of a student, but I did love to read, especially romance novels. I began grabbing up older titles of all my favorite authors. And then I saw it. A single cream-colored spine sticking up above the others. I reached out and felt a tingle, something like an electric shock, as my fingers made contact.
Marrying Up, the book’s tasteful cover announced in mauve script surrounded by pale yellow rosebuds. A bit lower it said, “Every Woman’s Guide to Being Rescued by Her Valiant Knight, by Madame Elegance.”
I flipped the book open to Chapter One and read:
Darlings, do not despair because you were born low. It matters not that you have no money, no skills, and are seemingly doomed to toil until exhaustion claims you. A Valiant Knight is waiting to rescue you with the power of true love. You have arrived at a starting point, and with the turn of a single page you will begin the self-improvement necessary to attract your very own Valiant Knight!
I hugged the book to my chest, realizing I’d found my secret weapon, my ticket out of Exhaustion City. I was Galahad holding the Holy Grail; I was Scarlett in the radish patch. I gloried in the wave of hope that washed over me. I would be rescued!