Page 33 of The Do-Over

“Hey, she’s coming back. I gotta go.”

“Well, thanks for your crummy advice.”

“Perci Mayfield. Time to take charge of your life. You can do this.” The words cracked through the line; they carried weight that found its way into my brain. Maybe, just maybe, he was right. Maybe I could do this, become this new person who didn’t care what others thought, who wasn’t concerned about making them happy all the time.

It was time to start living like New Perci.

I woke with a jolt the next morning, heart racing at the thought of being late to work. Then all of it came back to me at once. No work today.

I was New Perci and New Perci was unemployed.

“What was I thinking, Sal?”

The World’s Best Betta Fish swam about serenely.

“I think I’m having an early midlife crisis here. Tell me I’m going to be okay.”

He nodded. Okay, fine, I know he didn’t nod in the traditional sense, but I could tell he was listening. Did other people have emotional support fish? They should.

After dressing, I made pancakes. With chocolate chips. And whipped cream. I piddled around, read a little, watched television. I ignored five calls from my mother, two from my father, one from Brent, but answered when Mathias called. By afternoon, I feared even Sal was bored with my presence.

Having reached my limit, I went for that walk Mathias had suggested. The air was cool and dry, a small breeze adding a bite to the mix. Rain overnight had left behind its mark in the small puddles dotting the sidewalks. I’d never, in the almost six years I’d lived at The Lofts, taken more than a handful of walks. It surprised me now, as I strolled the sidewalk, how adorable this area was.

The Brewer Street neighborhood had been built just after WWII and it showed in the line of tiny brick storefronts, most with bright awnings. Big box stores and chains had been kept at bay, leaving the mom-and-pop shops to thrive.

There was a quaint little café named Rita’s anchored at the corner. Three little tables with wide white and red umbrellas squatted out front. I made a mental note to come back for lunch soon. On the next block, I discovered a florist called Sunshine Flowers. Out front, a woman with curly auburn hair scribbled on a blackboard set on the sidewalk under a blue and white awning: A peony saved is a peony earned. —Benjamin Franklin

I laughed when I read it.

The woman smiled. “Nice day for a walk, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I said, feeling lighter than I had in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe Mathias was right. A walk was just the thing.

Three storefronts down was Fancy, a vintage clothing store. It was the one shop I had visited a handful of times, drawn in by The Dress displayed in the front window. It was knee-length with a sweetheart neckline, nipped in at the waist, with off-the-shoulder cap sleeves and a full skirt. Dark red with a matching bow in the back, it resembled something a 1950s housewife would wear to a cocktail party. It just needed a string of pearls and high heels.

I loved it. I wanted it. But I couldn’t bring myself to go inside and try it on. If it didn’t fit, I’d be devastated.

Eventually the streets narrowed, and oak trees and small homes lined the way. It was the last house on the corner that caught my eye—bright yellow, surrounded by a white picket fence. In front, a sign read: Miss Marge’s Preschool and Daycare. From my spot on the sidewalk, I could see the enclosed backyard contained a wooden play structure with a miniature slide and two swings. Right now, a passel of children ran wild, climbing and chasing, giggling and shrieking.

A ball sailed over the fence and landed near my foot. I retrieved it and eyed the playground until I saw a tiny girl with uneven pigtails staring at me.

“Is this yours?” I asked.

She popped her thumb in her mouth and nodded, making her pigtails bounce in the most adorable way. I tossed the ball back, and she rewarded me with a blinding smile.

With a little wave, I turned and walked around the corner. The yellow house had a cobblestone walkway leading to a bright red door, a large window to the right of it. I could make out a desk behind lacy sheer curtains. Something else caught my eye. There, taped to the window was a HELP WANTED sign.

My heart sped up at the sight of it. I told it to chill out. I couldn’t get a job at a daycare. For one, my experience with kids was limited to watching Toddlers & Tiaras. For another, my mother would have the fit to end all fits if I did. I could already hear her lecturing me.

Besides, I was going to have to face facts. I had a bit of savings to get me through a couple of months, but woman could not live on reality television alone. Money was important to my survival. The truth was obvious—it was inevitable I would end up back at Mayfield Home Mortgage. Once I worked up the courage to grovel, my old desk would be waiting for me.

I’d been a rebel for a whole twenty-four hours, and I was already losing my confidence. So much for New Perci.

My phone vibrated—MOM CALLING. I sent it to voicemail, where I imagined she left a lengthy diatribe about my common sense, my duty to the family, Brent, and probably my hair.

But, as it turned out, of all people, it was my mother who forced me to call Miss Marge’s Preschool and Daycare about that job.

FOURTEEN