Page 7

When Life Hands You Sour Lemons . . .

. . . you spiral out of control!

It’s two weeks before we depart for Italy when a handwritten postcard from Ricky shows up. In the mail. Like, from the mailman. With a stamp!

I shriek, and Nonna thinks the Russians are bombing us.

Turning over the card in my hands like it could catch fire, I study the picture on the front and actively avoid reading his message: it’s a cheesy postcard of the Space Needle in Seattle, one you can get at any souvenir shop or corner bodega.

The art is very 1950s “space race” with bold colors and a cheesy “Reach for the Stars!” slogan splashed across the front.

Nonna waddles into the kitchen behind me and peers over my shoulder. She sucks in a deep breath. “From Ricky ?! Madonna mia. What’s it say?”

Without a word, I quickly run out of the house.

My hands tremble, the postcard flapping.

Do I?

I have to.

Right?

Okay, Fielder. Deep breaths. You got this .

Maybe it’s a love letter and everything I’ve wanted to happen is about to happen and the way to win Ricky back literally landed in my hands, and and and—

And the actual words he writes? “Hi. Hope you’re well.

” With periods! He might as well just come out and say, “We’re complete strangers”!

A shiver runs down my spine as I realize Ricky’s voice, that of a poet, is gone here, his words so cold, yet measured.

To end it with, “Olive branch extended” and saying neither of us want to talk to each other?

I mean, if anybody would not want to talk to anybody, it’d be me not wanting to talk to him. I was the dumped party, after all.

Where is this coming from?

Maybe we are strangers now.

Winning Ricky back is going to be a lot harder than I thought. Impossible with a cold-ass postcard like this.

My head is spinning.

Sweat trickles down my temple and pools at my chin.

I can’t think about this and how it might be a wrench in my plan to win him back.

The worst part of this postcard is that—

—I just want to feel wanted.

By Ricky.

The need to not feel alone is overwhelming, like I’m suffocating, unable to breathe, and, wow, I sound dramatic, but as sweat beads my forehead and trickles down the small of my back, I reach for my phone.

I want so desperately to text a friend, a reliable make-out buddy from the football team, or hit up Rye on Snapchat, my hot semi-straight neighbor friend who is only “gay” after homecoming, prom afterparties, and summer Thursdays.

No. I can’t. Ricky swims through my mind, so I do this trick Ma taught me when she feels like she’s drowning: I pause and feel the ground beneath my feet. I touch the side of the house, feel the rough brick beneath my fingertips. Take a deep breath. In. Out.

I sulk into the shed behind Nonna’s house, which I’ve converted into my Clock “studio” (hold your laughter, please). It’s precisely the size of a small pantry, but it allows me privacy when editing content or hanging with friends.

The air in here is hot and thick, made worse by the intense early July heat wave outside and lack of AC. It’s enough to make me woozy and heady, yet Ricky and his passive-aggressive (or was it just passive-passive, as if he never cared about me at all) postcard keep me hyper-fixated.

Whispers of Ricky whirl around my head like too many goldfish in a fishbowl.

“We did everything backwards.”

“I feel like I don’t have any control.”

“Time apart will help you find direction, what you want out of life.”

“You have to want more than to define yourself in followers and views.”

“ I need to know who I am without you.”

“The world is yours , Fielder Lemon.”

“But not ours ,” I whisper.

I nibble my cuticles.

Check my Snap, texts, Clock notifications. Swipe up, switch apps, wait for anything, anyone, to distract me.

Notifications, views, comments, sex, restaurant reviews, food truck reviews, reviews, reviews, reviews, DMs, taps, taps, taps, hook-ups, Ricky, Ricky, Ricky, from two thousand to over a million followers, somewhere, somehow, everything blurred together, and now I don’t know what’s real.

My followers define me based on what I curate, and I crave their validation, the instant gratification that comes with, well, how I’ve curated my life in Ricky’s wake.

An unsettling thought percolates in my brain:

Am I good enough for him now? Have I done enough? Or have I just avoided—

Nope. Not going there.

This is fine, everything is fine.

My forehead plonks down on my desk, and my chair wobbles as I wallow.

An email alert buzzes through my phone. I pause my spiraling thoughts to read.

subject: Congratulations, You’ve Been Selected As a “FOOD FOR CAUSE” Finalist!

July 1

Greetings, Fielder!

We’re writing with wonderful News! Your channel @LemonAtFirstSight and your compelling content featuring the Sinking Venetian and the awareness you raised about the impacts of climate change on Venice, Italy, has been voted by viewers as a finalist in Food for Change’s sustainability awareness contest. Here, influencers across the Clock App will be using their platforms to share content aimed at raising awareness about sustainability, green-eating, and conservation.

As a finalist, your job is to post up to three long-form videos relating to food sustainability, green-eating, and conservation by August 1 st .

Please tag @FoodForChange and hashtag #FoodForChange in your captions.

One winner will be chosen to intern on the set of the new TV competition cooking series Out of This World hosted by world-renowned Michelin-star chef and online sensation Mars Lyon in London, England.

The winning content will not only spotlight efforts of sustainability, but will highlight the importance of the hard work of conservation efforts, something Chef Lyon and Out of This World is passionate about highlighting, all while showcasing the viral, yum-worthy, drool-inducing food content that @FoodForChange is known for!

Along with your content, please submit a 500-word personal essay outlining your personal goals, how the mentorship would benefit you, and about your efforts toward sustainability as a content creator.

We can’t wait to see what you’ve “cooked” up!

Sophia Brookes @FoodForChange

I suck in a breath and hold it. This is a sign. It has to be.

This contest from @FoodForChange is exactly what I need to change my life.

There is a link to more information about the coveted internship and how it’s an opportunity to work behind the scenes in promotion and marketing, making content for a real show and their social media accounts and guest on the actual show as a special mini-challenge judge.

This is the type of real-world experience that is sure to appease Ma, and, who knows, maybe I’ll learn something, too.

Except. I don’t know anything about sustainability, but I know food, so I can fake it until I make it.

Hell, it’s a better bet than bankrupting myself with school loans and taking classes for a major that would be useless in practicality, right?

If I can win this thing, I might actually have a chance to show Ricky that I’m more than my Clock account.

Nonna always says, “Pasta Dolce, when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. La Famiglia Limone è forte!” But I’ve never been a glass of lemonade. I’m not watered down or overly sweet. I’m a Lemon. Sour, bright, electric. A versatile ingredient.

I can make my family—and Ricky—proud.

Content. Contest. Internship. Wedding. Italy.

Ricky. Two weeks to prepare myself for Ricky.

Another great commencement, hold the massacre.

Four until the contest content has to be posted.

Stay focused. Figure out my shit.

I may not have always done things the “right way,” in the “correct” order, and I may not know how to cook or have much direction beyond @LemonAtFirstSight, but I know I need this.

Here’s hoping I can make something better than lemonade.