Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 173(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 173(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
One in particular, Cameron—who Papa would definitely not approve of—has even stuck with me to help grow my audience and be my sidekick and producer of sorts.
Libertine and I finish up the dishes as the older ladies file out of the kitchen and back to their homes, where they will continue their days in the traditional ways.
“Okay, I’m off.” I look at my watch and rummage through the change of clothes in my backpack, hunting for the keys to the 1967 orange Ford pickup I drive. “And thanks for the clothes. They fit great, and I love them. I’ll be back after seven if you want to come over.”
“Makes me feel like a sneaky sinner shopping for vampy clothes for you. I’m lucky I have an allowance, and my parents don’t inspect everything I buy.”
“Very lucky.” I sigh.
Papa lets me stray from the strict traditional dresses of our community, but not far. I still have to wear a skirt or dress, mid-calf length, not too tight, not too low cut and if it’s a skirt, a button-up blouse fastened all the way to the top. But I do get to wear colors and patterns instead of the traditional white, gray or beige and I have to make everything myself.
When I started going to school, I tried to get him to let me buy some store bought clothes but he said absolutely not., If he were to see the clothes that Libertine brings me, I would get the ‘you’ve got the devil inside you’ speech, and it’s just too much to bear. So, Libertine helps supply me with more modern clothes, and I keep them in a locker at school.
No harm, no foul, right?
Libertine nods. “Not sure about tonight. Mom said she might want to go into Cleveland for some shopping, get our nails done, have dinner... I’ve been promising her some mom-daughter time.”
A stab of envy pierces my heart. I know it’s a sin, but I can’t help it. I wish that I could go with them, sure, but I also wish I still had my own mom too. As different as we were, from what I remember, it would have been nice to know her the way Libertine knows her mom.
“Sounds great. Tell her I said hello.”
“I will. Wish you could come.”
I shrug on a deep breath. “Me too, but you know Papa, and it’s not worth the fight.”
The effort it takes to go to class four days a week is epic. I have to be sure all my chores are done, or at least at a stage where I can finish them the same day. His meals have to be not only cooked but prepped in such a way that he can re-heat them in one dish for exactly thirty minutes at three hundred degrees.
“I’ll be waiting to watch your next blog post tonight.” She leans over and gives me a hug, which I enthusiastically return. “Have fun in class.”
“I will. Thank you.”
We make our way together out to our cars, and I shoot her a small smile before we pull away, still feeling that pang of jealousy.
The entire drive to school, I’m planning the banana, nutmeg and kiwi torte I’m going to blog and film the how to video for before my one evening class.
I haven’t told Papa the entire truth about my schedule. I could be at campus a lot less and just attend classes, but my blog isn’t hurting anyone, and for the first time in a long time I’m doing something for me that I love and no matter what God I think about, there can’t be anything wrong with that.
I stop at the grocery in town on my way and get the ingredients I need for today’s recipe, then change into my new outfit before continuing the drive to Patriot. I’ve developed this sort of alter-ego for my video blog, and she’s a lot more fun than the usual Selma. Her name is Anastasia Snow, and she’s got a flamboyant streak I would have never imagined would come out of me.
As I make my way into the culinary building where I’ve reserved a sample kitchen for my video shoot, I see Cameron sitting on the floor with a few other students I give him a wave to catch his attention, and when he sees me he’s up on his feet and sprinting down the hall in my direction.
He grabs my arm.
“What the heck?” I giggle as he tugs my arm into the small, dark kitchen, and I reach over to flick on the lights. “You okay?”
He’s panting because he wouldn’t usually run unless someone was chasing him. He’s a culinary student, and he loves his work, and it shows. He’s funny and as unlikely as it seems, we became fast friends the first week of classes. He’s a freshman, except he’s eighteen as is the norm and I’m almost twenty-one.