“You know, I have no idea how housing works atACE,” I said. “Especially since I am considered an international student.”
Hannah nodded. “Plus, you’ll need to sort out a work and student visa application. Flights and . . .” She paused, her face breaking out into a huge smile. “Forget all that for now. This is really happening. I am so happy for you.”
While she pulled me into a backbreaking hug, I made a mental list of what needed to be done.
I broke the hug, but kept my hands placed on her shoulders. “I’ve got my good news. Now we need to manifest your dream college acceptance.”
“Deal,” she said. “For now, come and give me a hand out there. We’re swamped.” She pulled me toward the door, and sure enough, there was a line backing up into the dining room.
Tomorrow was the first day of a new start.
Chapter 2
Waking up before sunrise on the couch in my shoebox apartment above the Latin market, I had the worst crick in my neck and a headache from falling asleep with my contacts in. Last thing I remembered, I was watching a Korean cooking competition on Netflix. Now I had a throw pillow full of drool and mascara crusted on my eyelids.
On the rare occasion I had the chance to sleep in, I found it impossible. I was too accustomed to the routine of waking up at four to open the coffee shop promptly at five, with just enough time to shower, slam down a quick breakfast and get to work. My body was a machine that found habits hard to break. Add in the excitement, stress and apprehension about theACEpacket that would arrive by first-class mail today, and it was a miracle I slept at all.
After I dragged myself to the bathroom then gulped down a cup of coffee, I reflected that I probably should’ve listened to Hannah and gone into work, if only to save the linoleum from my pacing footsteps. I occupied myself by mindlessly scrolling Instagram. Next, I bagged up some clothes for a trip to the Laundromat later. I even dusted the apartment from top to bottom, before I stopped short of talking myself into stripping and waxing the floors like a psychopath.
Instead, I pulled three eggs from my fridge to prepare an omelet.
A proper French-style omelet was deceptively simple. It started with soaking the eggs in warm water to bring them up to room temperature. Warm eggs meant a shorter cook time, which was part of the secret to a perfect, slightly custardy center. When the eggs were ready, I cracked them into a small bowl, gave them a good whisk and seasoned with salt and pepper before pouring them into a buttered nonstick pan. I stirred slightly with a silicone spatula until they started to curd and then folded the omelet over one third of the way as the bottom began to turn golden brown. I folded another third, tilting the pan and tucking the remaining curd inside the envelope I had created, before sliding the whole thing onto my plate to garnish with a little fresh chive and tarragon.
As I ate, I sat with my phone to look up everything I could about the London neighborhood whereACEwas located. The website described London in six zones.ACEwas in Zone 1, where the rents were some of the highest in the city. They suggested venturing out to Zone 2 or 3, but it would add a significant commute to my day, and even those neighborhoods looked like a stretch for my limited budget. The alternative was looking for a roommate situation. Though after living on my own for a while now, I wasn’t enthused about the idea of sharing.
While rents in Denver weren’t cheap, I managed to get by. The coffee shop owner let me pick up overtime shifts when I needed them and I had even started taking the occasional pastry gig for catering events to bolster myACEtuition fund.
My current apartment was what creative realtors would call “cozy” or “snug.” Meaning tiny. The bedroom was barely large enough for a queen mattress and dresser, and the living-dining combo room made my two-seater couch look enormous. The winning feature for me had been the kitchen, with generous counter space and new appliances. The former landlord had been in the middle of a renovation to flip the place until they went bankrupt and sold off the building.
It was like a metaphor for myself. A little worse for wear and held together by bubble gum and grit, but every extra penny I had went into that damn kitchen, from quality pans to better ingredients than had any right to be found in these humble surroundings.
Around lunchtime, I was curled up on the couch watching the street outside when I saw the mail truck pull up to the curb. I darted to the door and quickly shoved my feet into a pair of shoes. I realized as soon as I made it to the stairwell that I should’ve grabbed a coat too. It was an especially frigid day in November and the landlord didn’t turn on the heat in the lobby until Thanksgiving.
By the time I skidded into the foyer, the mail carrier was just beginning to drop off the packages near the cluster of mailboxes. I waited anxiously while he nodded his head to the music playing in his earbuds, completely oblivious to my presence. The moment he stepped away, I unlocked my box and grabbed the small bundle of envelopes before hurrying back upstairs.
I tossed every other piece of mail onto my coffee table before settling back onto the couch with my legs tucked underneath me, and gingerly opening the thick, white envelope, clearly marked with theACElogo. I slid out the stack of papers and skimmed through the pages, searching for the financial aid letter, while a tiny seed of panic began sprouting in my gut. My eyes widened at the first glimpse of a pound sign. I swallowed hard.
The letter stated that the program had received an especially large number of requests for financial assistance for the upcoming term. To accommodate as many students as possible, approved applicants would receive a smaller portion of total tuition than previous years. They were pleased to inform me that I was awarded £20,000, or roughly half of the total tuition. And that still didn’t include my flights, visa applications or accommodation in London. Even with my hard-earned savings, I was going to come up short by almost thirty grand.
“Damn,” I spat.
I jumped to my feet and resumed pacing. My nerves were frayed. I needed a massive influx of cash, and fast, or I’d lose my spot and my dreams would be up in smoke. All the overtime shifts and catering gigs in the world wouldn’t cover the gap soon enough. This was knocking-over-a-bank levels of urgent.
As my pacing reached the kitchen, I paused at the fridge, where a tattered business card was held beneath a magnet.
Megan Wheelan, Hannah’s mom, was the founder and director of Culinary Connection, a specialized recruitment firm in Denver for industry professionals that was growing fast. Starting out as just a boutique business that served the Greater Denver communities, it had since expanded its network and reach to the West Coast. Megan’s hope was that in two years she would be in half the states in the country. It was the perfect home-based business she’d started while recovering from cancer treatment, a way to ease herself back into the workforce without the stress of a commute and with flexibility to make her doctors’ appointments. Essentially, Megan and her team served as a culinary job-placement service. Hospitality workers in hotels, sous, executive, and pastry chefs, managerial staff, you name it. She was also instrumental in throwing catering jobs my way when she came across them.
I padded back into the living room to find my phone. Megan picked up after a few rings.
“Elle, hello!”
“Hey! Not sure if you’ve spoken to Han yet, but I got intoACE!”
“Yes, she told me when she got home last night. Congrats! I’m so happy for you.”
I tucked myself back on the couch and slid the packet of papers to the side. “Yeah, well, now comes the hard part.”
“Oh? What’s the hard part? Leaving Denver behind while you work your magic in Jolly Old England?” She laughed to herself at the cartoonish accent she affected.
