Page 28 of Bringing Home the Bacon
She takes her spot in the tech booth. I take mine at the stove. But before I power my phone down and the lights come up, I have to check something. I open my search engine and type in “Fork Lick elementary schools.” If her grandmother lives there, it’s not absurd to assume she might too.
It’s apparently a very small town, so I only get one hit. I pull up Fork Lick Elementary’s official website. It’s rudimentary at best, but they do have a staff page full of smiling teacher photos along with their bios.
There she is.
The woman I’ve been fantasizing about for four months.
She’s as bright and beautiful as ever, but that’s where the similarities end.
Colleen Bedd
Kindergarten Teacher
My name is Colleen Bedd. I am a lifelong Fork Lick resident. This is my seventh year teaching at FLE, and I love it. My favorite thing about teaching kindergarten is watching kiddos learn to read. It’s like an amazing magic trick that I get to see every day. My superpower is having a book recommendation for every mood. Fork Lick Elementary kiddos are always welcome to borrow stories from my shelf! Just give a knock on Room 101. My idea of a perfect day is taking an adventurous day trip to visit New York City. Here’s to hoping we all have a fantastic year!
Well, she had an adventurous day in New York City alright.
I guess that’s all I was to her: a quick trip. She never had any intention of exploring more. She couldn’t even be bothered giving me her real name.
Maybe some guys wouldn’t be bothered by this. They might even get off on the idea that a woman wove a false story and used them for a day. But when you grow up with a father whose entire life was a lie, your tolerance for untruths is low, nonexistent even.
“Places, everyone.” April’s voice comes over the loudspeaker.
I do one more thing before I power down my phone.
I open the MTA app for trains and buses leaving Manhattan and cancel my trip to Fork Lick tomorrow morning.
Colleen Bedd? I’m done with you.
Chapter 10
Colleen
After a good cry session, I finally get out of my car, tiny box in hand. I know I should go in the house and enjoy dessert with my family—I really missed these Sunday dinners when they petered out, and I’m thrilled by their resurgence—but I can’t be surrounded by all that energy right now. Whatever the outcome of this test, I need to process it alone.
Or perhaps with a really cool sheep.
Call her coddled. Call her out of control. But over the years, I’ve come to call her my confidant.
I make my way over to Baabara’s pen and find her in a rare moment of repose. “Pen” isn’t exactly accurate, though. A palace is more like it. Now that I think about it, this sheep sister of mine has more space than I do in my tiny childhood room in Gran’s house.
A few years ago, I finally struck out on my own and got a small studio apartment in town. I told everyone it was awesome. I asserted to anyone who’d listen that I was thrilled to be on my own. But the truth was, I struggled. Big time. Here’s the thing about big families: they’re so loud, you can’t think. It wasn’t until I was all alone in my little bachelorette pad that I realized I’d come to depend on that noise. Because when it gets quiet enough, you know what happens? You start to hear yourself. That little voice in your head that tells you something has to change. That you’re not living your life as fully and authentically as you can. That voice whispered to me at first and got louder by the day until I couldn’t stand it anymore. So, when Grandad passed, I acted like I was taking one for the team by moving back to Bedd Fellows Farm to care for Gran. But the reality is, I was relieved. Because that wily old woman has always taken care of me.
And right now, I can’t bring myself to face her.
“Hey girl, hey.” I give Baabara my usual greeting when I need to talk. She looks up at me but doesn’t deign to saunter over. I go to her instead and sit down beside her. “I know Jackson is your favorite, but do you think you have a few minutes to hang with little ole me? Oh, don’t give me that look. We all know it’s true.” Baabara lets out a sad bleat. “I know, girl. I miss him too. But he’s on tour now, living his dream. Hopefully, we’ll see him again soon.”
Baabara nudges the small box in my hand. “‘What’s that,’ you ask. Oh nothing. Just a little test that will determine the course of the rest of my life. No biggie.” A cold wind brushes my cheek and reminds me how absurd what I’m about to do really is.
“Here’s the deal, Baabs?—”
Baabara snuffs at me.
“Sorry. I know you hate that nickname. I don’t love when the guys call me Collie either. If it makes you feel any better, people say that having nicknames is a sign you are loved.”
Baabara’s not buying it.
“Fine. I’ll go easy on the ‘Baabs’ from here on out. Here’s the deal,” I say again as I tear open the box and pull out the test. “I need to pee on this stick. I can’t do it inside the house with our crazy family around. Sam’s twin sense will go wild the second I enter the bathroom, and I won’t have a moment to myself to process. So, I thought maybe you could be my sidekick for this operation. You pee outside, right? How hard can it be?” She snuffs at me again. “No offense.”
