“Good,” I said. “Because most guys—guys like me, honestly don’t care about that. And seeing as though you probably won’t be having sex for another eight months, I’m just trying to save you some money. Maybe take the money you’ll be spending on a wax this weekend and buy a better vibrator instead?”

She slammed the door to my room, and I laughed until I fell asleep.

Track 2. Wildest Dreams. (3:54)

Why don’t they tell you that the major you declare your sophomore year may be the one subject you end up loathing by your senior year? And how can people honestly expect a nineteen year old to know what she wants to do for the rest of her life and be happy with her decision?

Ridiculous…

Somewhere between Small Business Accounting and Tax Law 101 my junior year, I realized that I hated business only slightly less than I hated the idea of working in an office for the rest of my life. Even though I could draft a spreadsheet and integrate statistics like no one else could, I was bored. Excruciatingly and utterly bored.

I didn’t realize my true passion in life until I started baking “Fuck this major” cupcakes to cope with an intense tax law class. I’d brought them to a study group and they were devoured by my classmates in seconds, so I made more. Then I started branching out and making other things.

At first, I mastered the simple treats—different cupcakes, cookies, and brownies. Then I started to attempt the more intricate recipes: frosted éclairs, upside down sorbet style crescents, stuffed cream waffles.

The more I baked, the happier I became, but it wasn’t until my mom brought it to my attention one day that I actually considered taking it seriously. I’d made her an orange soufflé for Christmas and she loved it so much that she took pieces of it over to her neighbors—demanding that they try it. She even called my then-boyfriend over and asked him to have some, to which he said, “Hmmm. It’s edible.”

Still, I’d realized my love for the culinary arts far too late. So, instead of switching majors, I remained in the business school and whenever I had free time, I stole classes from the number one culinary school on the beach: Wellington’s Culinary Institute.

Every Saturday and Sunday, I went downtown and sat in the very back of the classroom—taking notes like I really belonged there. On the days that the class met in the actual cooking room—one stove per “paying student,” I would simply pretend to be a high-schooler who was doing a research project.

It was what I was currently doing at this moment.

“Don’t forget that you’ll be graded on how you create the layers on your croissant.” The professor said from the front of the room. “They’ll need to be crisp, but not too flaky—soft, but never sticky…You’ll also need to make sure your own personal design is something you’ve never created in this class before. Do not replicate any previous assignments or you’ll receive an automatic demerit.

I watched as the woman standing in front of me stirred her batter and mixed in a few sprinkles of sugar. She tasted the dough and shook her head—sprinkling in even more.

“Hey…” I whispered to her. “Hey…”

She looked over her shoulder. “What?”

“You don’t need any more sugar in that.”

“How would you know, thief?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because you still have to fry it and coat it with a sugar blend, and that’s before you even inject the sugared filling into it. If you use anymore, you’ll give the taste-tester early onset diabetes.”

She set down the bowl of sugar and got back to work, gratefully stepping over a bit so I could see the rest of her setup.

As I was writing down the list of ingredients, I felt someone tapping my shoulder.

“Yes?” I didn’t look up. I was in the middle of writing down a brand of specialty dough. I was on the last letter when the notebook was snatched out of my hands and I found myself face to face with a woman dressed in all black. The word “Security” was etched across her chest in huge block letters and she was crossing her arms.

“What are you doing here today, Miss Turner?” she asked, pursing her lips.

“I’m uh…” I cleared my throat and sat up. “I’m here doing a book report.”

“A book report?”

“Yes,” I said. “A very important book report for my school. My high school.”

“And what high school do you supposedly go to?”

“Pleasant View High.”

“You go there even though it’s been abandoned for fifty years?”

Shit. “I meant Ridge View…” I’d looked it up on Google earlier.

“All high schools are currently out for the summer. The last day was this past Friday.” She snapped her fingers and motioned for me to get up. “Let’s go. You know the routine…”

I stood up and took my notebook back, following her out of the room and into the hallway. “Is stealing lectures and taking extra notes in a class really a crime?” I asked. “Who am I really hurting here?”

She waved her key card over the pad at the door. “Out.”

“Wait.” I stepped outside. “If I give you twenty dollars, will you go back and tell me what type of dough they’re using for the specialty cronuts? Maybe I can give you my email address and you can send it to me?”

She slammed the door in my face.