Project 17 Read Free

life," I say, correcting him. I'm Elizabeth Blackwell Miller, for God's sake, named after the first American female doctor. "This is what I'm meant to do."
    "This is what you're meant to do, or this is what you want to do?"
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    I feel my face scrunch, taken aback by the question. "This is all I've ever dreamed for myself."
    He studies me a few moments, as though trying to figure things out--when it seems so clear to me. "Okay," he says finally. "Get involved in some team activity and then come see me. Maybe I can make another phone call ... see if we can get you off that waiting list."
    "For real?"
    He nods.
    "Oh my God, that would be amazing."
    "But no promises, okay?"
    "No promises," I say, suddenly feeling the proverbial weight float off my shoulders. I grab one last tissue and dash out of his office, making a point to smile extra wide at the guidance secretary, since I may not have been the most cordial before. I even take one of her sugarcoated lard ball offerings and eat it in front of her, surprised at how good it tastes.
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    DERIK
    AFTER MY TRIP to the loony bin, I end up going in to school late, muttering something to the school secretary about having car trouble. It's not like it matters anyway. I mean, it's senior year. My grades suck. And I'm not going to college. People know this about me, my parents included, which is why every day after school I find myself elbow deep in tuna freakin' salad.
    Today when I get to the diner, my mom's waiting tables. It was her idea that I go full time here on the weekends and come in every day after school. I've been doing food prep up the ass-- that and working behind the grill, learning how to do the books, and how to run the place. She and my dad want me to take over the family business one day. This grease bucket is three generations old, and they'd sooner be found guilty of tax fraud than shame the family and let this place go.
    Lucky me.
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    I think my parents are actually happy about the suckage of my grades, that I have no prospects unless I find myself some sugar mama to take me away from all this burger grease. I'm their meal ticket, so to speak. It was either me or my brother, Paul, to keep this place going. But he's already three years through dental school. The guy's gonna be a freakin' dentist--like it wasn't enough that he's first generation college--so it doesn't take a rocket scientist to guess who the suckah is in this whole messed-up scenario.
    "After the tuna," my dad hollers, "I'll show you how to make them blueberry scones." He's got this huge-ass grin on his face which only makes me feel worse. I know the old man's proud of this place, of the idea that one of his sons will be around to keep it going.
    "I got a date tonight," I tell him, trying to get the image of that psycho security guy out of my head--of that stupid finger-drill joke of his. "I gotta leave early." It's not entirely a lie. I do have plans. I'm going to the gym and, let's face it, there's bound to be a decent helping of datable girls there.
    "Who's the girl?"
    "You don't know her," I say, sticking a glove-covered finger into the tuna for a taste. Way too much mayo--this crap is heinous. I add in a few squirts of horseradish mustard--my parents' secret ingredient--to see if that does the trick. But it only makes it worse.
    "Everything okay?" my dad asks, noticing how I look like I'm gonna heave.
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    "Just freakin' dandy," I tell him.
    "Why don't you go along. I'll finish up here."
    "You sure?"
    My dad nods, taking a good look at the tuna--a soupy white mess that reminds me of bird crap. He dips his finger in to take a taste. "Like shit," he says.
    "Yeah," I laugh, passing him the jar of mustard.
    He lets out a growl, mutters something in Canuck-- something about me, brains, and a baby pea--and then shakes his head since this means he has to whip up a brand-new batch.
    "Sorry, Dad."
    He gives me a pat on the back and moves over to his special drawer that's reserved for old diner relics. He