SUMMER

Is there a correct way to prepare for your own murder? Eating a good last meal? I had a chicken salad sandwich for lunch. Talk about ordinary.

If I'd known it was a last meal, I would have had something sweet. Red velvet cupcakes, obviously. But it's too late. So how about wearing a nice outfit to die in? Running shorts and a sweaty tank don't exactly cut it.

I know—saying goodbye to your loved ones. No worries there, I can squeeze that in before my own father eats me alive.

Okay, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic. But with the news I'm about to hit him with, it sure as hell feels like I'm walking into the lion's den.

I knock on his sacred study door.

"Yes, come in, come in," my dad's irritable voice calls.

As I expected, he's stooped over his wide desk and surrounded by stacks of papers. Behind him, shrouded in darkness, are shelves of leather-bound books and antique ornaments. His workspace is the only area illuminated.

"What is it, Summer?" He doesn't look up, his hand continuing to graze over a paper and mark it periodically. He knows it's me because Mom is showing an open house, and he doesn't know Ella's back from the library.

I cross over the dark rug and place my laptop on his desk, breath hovering in clenched lungs.

Dad now watches me open the lid and turn the screen to him. By my stiff movements, he'd never guess that I was celebrating with my sister like a five-year-old on a sugar high less than twenty minutes ago.

"What's this?" He peers over thin rims, hazel-green eyes flitting over the email.

They're the same as mine, his eyes. The only thing I got from him, appearance-wise, that is. We're both as stubborn as mules. I pretty much take after my mom in every other aspect. Especially regarding the creative streak both my dad and sister aggressively lack.

"An acceptance letter?" He drags the laptop over his papers, the light of the screen reflecting rectangles on his glasses.

I'm waiting for it. The waver of his smile. The moment he realizes what I'm really showing him. His eyes stop darting—and there it is.

"Cloverbrook College of Culinary Arts," he reads in a monotone.

"Clocul for short, that's what they call it. And I start in September."

"Oh, you do?" He chuckles dryly, returning to his work. "I'll be sure to mark the date on my calendar, then."

I pick up the laptop and sit across from him. "I'm serious, Dad."

His amusement melts away as he takes in my expression. "Summer... no."

"Yes."

His fingers weave together. "Listen, if you applied to see if you could get in, then great, you did. But culinary school,"—his mouth twists, tone sour—"is not the plan."

"You're right, it's not the plan. Your plan. But it's very much mine."

"Since when?" He picks up the half-eaten cookie next to his coffee mug. "Law school has always been where your head is at."

"Your head," I mutter.

I screw my eyes shut. Annoying him with backchat will only make this worse. I sense him staring at me, waiting for me to correct myself.

"Sorry, but it's true," I say, forcing myself to meet those darkening eyes. "Culinary school has always been where my head was at. You've just never acknowledged it. Who do you think made that, huh?"

I nod to the round sugar cookie he's started munching on, taken from a batch I baked in the middle of the night. They're based on a drawing in my baking sketchbook I'd been eager to try. The sketchbook I spend way too many hours doodling in. Some things I come up with are too advanced for me at this point, but I'd successfully managed to replicate the wildflower watercolor design I'd drawn.

I spent a painstaking amount of time on them, waiting for them to set and painting over the hard royal icing with food coloring. Each cookie became better with practice, and I was more than happy with the result. I've already stuck the Polaroid photo of my favorite one next to the sketch. One day there'll be a Polaroid on every page. One day.

Dad tosses the cookie down as if it's laced with poison. "I thought your mother bought those."

"Well, she didn't."

"Can't blame me for assuming she did. They aren't that great."

Liar. "Didn't stop you from eating most of them... or anything else you find in the kitchen that I've made."

He gives a heavy exhale and runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

"Look, it's all good and well to do your little hobbies and projects at home. Painting and baking and god knows what else." He says it like that's the most disgraceful use of time. "But cooking is just that, a hobby. Not a viable career option."

"It can be, Dad. And Clocul is one of the top culinary schools in the country. Do you know how many students have gone on to thrive in their careers? To work at or even own Michelin star restaurants?"

"I raised you to use your brain, Summer! And cooking is a waste of potential!" I jolt when his fist thumps on the desk, rattling everything it holds. "The answer is no."

The appearance of that bulging vein on his temple is my cue to leave. I slam the door behind me, dump my laptop in my room, and head down the hall to my sister.

He has no idea how hard it is to get into this school, and maybe if he actually paid attention to anything in the last ten years he'd know it's become my biggest dream. Forcing me into every possible extracurricular was all he cared about. Whatever looked good on college applications.

Ella's sitting at her desk, idly browsing through Spotify. I slump onto her bed and fall back.

"Ew, sweaty clothes." She waves me up, so I slide onto the floor like a noodle. "Didn't go well?"

A groan leaves my lifeless body.

"Wait till Mom gets home. I bet she'll convince him."

Ella's probably the only college student who isn't on spring break in some beach town right now. She'd rather come back to freezing Philadelphia and spend her entire break hitting the books. Sometimes I wish I was like her. That I could follow the road my dad paved out with no problem. That I could just be content and get on with it, but that's not me. There's always conflict between me and my dad, always comparisons between me and Ella. The diligent daughter versus the difficult one. He'd prefer it if we were carbon copies. Life would be easier for all of us.

"What are you doing?" I mumble. "Distract me."

Ella lights up, flipping her chocolate hair to the side. "Making a playlist for Drew."

Of course. The guy she's been in love with forever. Literally since they were kids. And they both ended up studying at Columbia in New York, Dad's alma mater.

In school, Ella and Drew were those friends that everyone just knew would get married one day. He'd carry her bag between classes, she'd be cheering him on with a decorated sign at every single one of his football games. The high school sweethearts, except for the fact that they've never officially dated. I still believe she'll marry him, though.

It's a perfect love story, and it's only a matter of time until he wakes up and realizes how crazy he is about her.

I listen to her jabbering on about him until the front door shuts downstairs. What unfolds in the next hour all depends on Mom, because Ella's right, she's the only one who can reason with the lion in his den. And lucky for me, Mom is in my corner.

Ella and I listen at her bedroom door as the arguing ensues. Dad throws around phrases like waste of money, Podunk town, and over my dead body. Mom debates everything he says.

I collapse on the floor again. My stomach turns, contents curdling. The wait is unbearable. A vision of myself drowning in law textbooks edges into my head. All those stuffy people discussing politics for fun, writing stressful theses', studying something I have absolutely zero interest in. I bury my face in my hands, only for them to be taken away. Ella is sitting opposite me.

"It's going to work out." She holds my hands in hers.

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do, I can feel it."

I try to pull away, but she grips tighter. "Sun, you are going to go to that culinary school. You're going to meet amazing people who love being in the kitchen as much as you do, and everything is going to line up. And when you've been there for a few months and you come home for Thanksgiving, your cooking stories will have everyone hooked, and Dad will eat his words. Well, and the delicious dinner you make... my mouth's already watering thinking about that pumpkin pie."

The image of law textbooks has vanished, and I smile. Ella is only two years older than me, but sometimes it feels like twenty. Like a wise old owl, she always knows what to say. Even if I don't really believe it, I believe it in the moment. I latch onto the comfort before reality crashes in. I've had highs and lows with my sister, what siblings don't? But in the highs, those moments soar.

She lets me French braid her hair while we wait for the verdict from downstairs. The combination of braiding and listening to her talk about a true crime documentary she watched last night is enough to sidetrack me.

About half an hour later, I'm finally called to the kitchen. I bound down the stairs, guts twisting with each step. Dad's sitting on a stool at the marble island, arms folded, face pinched. He looks like a sulking toddler. Mom is standing by the fridge and casually eating a baby carrot.

"You're going to culinary school, Summer," she tells me.

The force of my hug almost knocks her slight frame to the ground, but she steadies herself and squeezes me back.

"With a compromise," Dad adds sternly.

Mom gives me an apologetic look, and I let go.

"Consider it a trial year, Summer."

"A trial year?"

"Yes," he says. "But before I explain, are you sure culinary school is a smart choice given your past... troubles?"

Troubles, AKA eating disorder. He avoids directly referencing it like the plague. I know an eating disorder and culinary school sounds like a recipe for disaster, but it's been two years since I relapsed. Two years of health. Like Dr. Fraser had told me back then in therapy—You can't change that this is a part of who you are, but that doesn't mean it defines you.

My drive for this career path is stronger than anything.

"I've thought about it, and it's fine. You don't have to worry."

"All right." Dad removes his glasses, rubbing his eyes before he talks. "We'll allow you to go to culinary school with a compromise of this being a one year trial to see how it goes. If you get through with flying colors, if there are no incidents or hiccups, you can continue. Then I know you're serious, then it can be a career. But if you slip up, if you don't finish your first year as a top student, you drop out and apply for law school. Is that clear?"

I look at Mom. She has that small smile of encouragement on. The one that says, this is as good as it's gonna get.

"Crystal."

A/N: Thanks for reading the first chapter! Please tap the star and vote, and remember to add the story to your reading list :)