"Wanda Jo Ashton, you have arrived," I said to my reflection in the cheap full-length mirror attached to Mr. Plower's office door.

I did a small twirl, admiring the swish of my short red and black-pleated skirt, and then settled on one of the two chairs allotted the counselor's waiting room, directly across from Mr. Plower's door. After crossing one leg over the other, I rotated a foot to better admire my painstakingly self-restored, bought used, black and white saddle shoes.

I'm thinking it's both a Yes and a No. Yes, Varsity Cheerleader is a good look for me. And no, as in No One would know I was wearing strictly second hand.

I shifted, taking another peek in the mirror, this time admiring my freshly self-highlighted, and now golden blonde, mane and made sure not a single lock was out of place. And more importantly, no dark under-eye circles.

Maybelline cover stick, why use anything else?

Most thankfully I didn't actually look as though I'd worked a double diner shift, followed by clean-up duty at Mama's salon yesterday. Nearly twenty hours on my feet and no telltale red eyes. Amazing product, Visine.

Today was The Day--the one I'd waited for all my life. And if it went the way I'd always dreamed, twenty-hour weekend workdays and long after school shifts would be a thing of the past for me.

Abruptly my reflection swung away to reveal a very angry-looking Bobby Reilly, dressed in the Pep Rally standard of red and black football jersey and jeans. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, and then he quickly dropped his gaze to the floor. He took a step, grasped the door and gave it a vicious swing that should have shattered the mirror--but fortunately didn't--before striding away.

It was then I noticed the folder clutched in Bobby's right hand. Poor Bobby. In his case The Test had spoken most unfavorably. And now Poor Bobby, as he would be known from this day forward, had been sentenced to the underworld of Buckston County High, more commonly known as Vo-Tech.

The Mountain State Achievement Examination, The Test as we students called it, could do some wicked things to a person.

According to administrators and teachers alike, The Test was a wonderful tool used to help students realize their full potential. When these scores were combined with a student's grade point average, the administrators had an infallible formula for student success.

But we students knew the truth. The Test separated the Winners--Superstars/College Bound--from the Losers--Vo-tech/Life of Humiliation.

Being shuffled into the Vo-Tech/Life of Humiliation pile was a terrible thing. It could mean the beginning of a lifetime spent slogging through assorted, and largely unidentifiable, poultry parts at Backhill's Turkey Processing Plant, the county's only true place of employment.

As ugly as this option was, others were even uglier.

There were those who completed Vo-Tech with no skill other than to ask, "Want fries with that burger?" This, my current form of employment, was pretty much as low as one could go. Especially when one considered this profound question was to be asked while wearing a shirt with your name stitched on a pocket as a reminder in case this important tidbit should slip one's mind.

Oh, yes. Vo-Tech was the high school equivalent of a Roach Motel. Students checked in, but they never checked out.

The squeal of rusty hinges jarred me from my musings and I looked up to see Mr. Plower, the junior year guidance counselor, standing in the doorway Poor Bobby had just vacated.

Mr. Plower had been the bane of my high school existence for the past two years. Always popping around corners, alternately reminding and berating me about things like proper study habits and academic diligence, usually after I'd worked the late shift.

"Okay, Wanda Jo. Let's get this over with," he sighed in a tired voice.

He had on his usual daily uniform of ratty tweed that always looked a bit moldy, white shirt with button-down collar and bow tie that only drew further attention to his scrawny neck and prominent Adam's apple. He wore his thinning salt and pepper hair clubbed back, ala Bella Lugosi, with massive dollops of Dippity-Do. A seriously not good look for a painfully thin man standing only an inch or so above my own petite five feet-two inches.

As I crossed the threshold, I realized with an excited flush of anticipation that once I next set my feet here, I would be not only leaving this office but leaving my old life behind.

I took the seat across from the desk and crossed my legs. Mr. Plower dropped down with a sigh. Ah, I realized, Mr. Plower was about to eat a healthy serving of, as Mama called it, Humble Pie. He pulled a stack of papers and folders from a desk drawer and plopped the lot in front while heaving another sigh. "I suppose we'll start with your grades."

I nod. Best to get the unpleasant stuff out of the way.

"Chemistry." Mr. Plower shook his head. "Barely passing. It would seem you're not taking the subject seriously."

Why would I? It's simply not important to know all that nonsense about electrons and protons and how all those little-bitty things come together to make water. You turn on the tap, fill your glass, and drink up. End of subject.

Mr. Plower ran through my course load, making the occasional remark, until he got to algebra. "Are you aware of your near failing marks?"

I shrug.

"What steps are you taking to improve your grades?"

I shrug once more.

"Determined not to take this seriously, I see." Mr. Plower scribbled something across the paper.

Serious? Algebra was nothing more than a twisted mishmash of numbers and letters clearly developed by some very sick people. Letters are letters and numbers are numbers--and they have no business floating around a page together.

"In fact, your overall grade point average clearly shows you don't take academics seriously. Or my warnings."

Well, honestly I had planned to. But it seemed as though I was always working and never got around to it. Geesh, wasn't it supposed to be old people who wondered where the time went?

Mr. Plower stuffed a sheaf of papers into a folder and picked up the green and white booklet that held the key to my future.

"It's finished!" I chirped. "What did you think?" I leaned forward.

Mr. Plower squeezed both eyes shut as though he were in pain. "Wanda Jo, I've honestly never seen anything like it."

I practically jumped from my chair. "I did great! I knew it!"

He held up a bony hand. "No."

Huh?

Mr. Plower scrubbed a hand across his face. "In nearly twenty-five years of administering the Mountain State Achievement Examination you are the very first student I've had to receive an overall score of zero."

My mouth flopped open, but I quickly recovered. "But what about my special talents? Potentials? Abilities?"

"Apparently, you don't have any."

Mr. Plower flipped the booklet open and selected a question. "Thelma needs a haircut. The beauty shop will charge her twelve dollars. But Thelma only has nine dollars. Therefore she should a) Wait until she has saved another three dollars, b) Select a different salon, or c) Borrow the money from a friend?" He leveled a glare at me. "Each of these answers reflects a potential strength. A strength that can be evaluated and used to the student's advantage."

"But my answer was--"

"Written in the margin. And I quote, 'Learn to do it yourself, that always saves money.'" He finished with a look of sheer bafflement.

Now I understood. Mr. Plower was in need of enlightenment. "It's really easy, all you need--"

He waved his hand. "Spare me the hairdressing lesson."

Mr. Plower continued to flip through the booklet, his agitation growing, until he finally reached the last page and snapped the cover closed.

"What do you have to say for yourself, Wanda Jo?" He sighed and drummed his bony fingers on the desk.

"My answers showed creativity and thought. Surely that's enough to show my special talents and abilities..."

"Your answers show nothing more than your complete inability to follow instructions."

"But--"

"And a total lack of ability to be a rational, thinking young woman." He flipped the lot of paperwork into his desk drawer and pulled out the dreaded red and black folder labeled, Vo-Tech at Buckston High.

My gaze was riveted to the folder as my stomach fell straight down to the toes of my newly refurbished saddle shoes. I was being banished to the underworld along with Poor Bobby. Doomed.

I sat numbly as Mr. Plower pointed out the various options while running a skeletal index finger down the typed page. Oh God, not Turkey Gut Pushing. Anything but that.

The finger in charge of my destiny paused suddenly and I looked down. OhMyGod. This was even worse than the horror of an eternity spent sifting through unidentifiable poultry parts. I wanted to run screaming from the building.

"Cosmetology," he announced in an evil tone with a matching smile.

I closed my eyes as Mr. Plower recited the wonderful advantages available to those lucky enough to enter the field of cosmetology. I swallowed back the bile as he continued on about the fabulous benefits of graduation in two year's time with not only a diploma but also a license.

"Perfect for your abilities," he finished and then drew a triumphant breath.

I blinked as the full impact of his suggestion hit me. A snapshot of myself dressed in pastel, zippered polyester and white NurseMates flashed through my mind. Oh God, I was about to become my mother.

No horror on earth could be worse.

I took the folder with numb fingers and left Mr. Plower's office in a fog. My feet, seemingly aware, although I was not, propelled me out of the school and onto Main Street, turning in the direction of the Dew Drop Inn just as I had been doing each school day in what now seemed an eternity.

What a fool I was. I'd thought today would be different, the beginning of a brand new life.

Well, poop on rye. In it's own twisted way it was. Today it was official. I would be following along in my family's footsteps, working each day until I was physically ready to drop, for the rest of my born days.

For at least the next two years I'd be asking, "Want fries with that burger?," just as Aunt Nettie had until her arthritis got the better of her, and my cousin and I had been drafted into family diner service. I wondered if two years would be enough to complete my transformation to my crazy aunt who currently wiled away her days consumed by her new hobby, wine and spirit making. Or to be precise, blowing things up during the fermentation process of said wine and spirits.

Or, if Mr. Plower had his way, I'd be transformed into a junior version of Mama. A shiver of pure fear streaked down my spine. I wondered how long it would take me to acquire her frown lines and permanently stooped shoulders. Then I wondered what other side effects the daily grind of eight-thirty sharp until the last client was firmly doused with Aqua Net would bring.

Mama would retire and leave her salon to me. She would pass the keys to the smallish building, not much larger than a garden shed, which sat off the side of our house along with the sacred responsibility for the Holy Do's of Buckston County.

A band of cold sweat popped out across my brow.

Or I supposed I could actually go all the way around the bend and end up like Uncle Claude. No, I decided I wouldn't even think about that.

I looked toward the library, and a small ray of sunshine crept through my cloud of doom. Book Sale, the banner draped above the oak front doors announced. I turned toward the entrance and made my way toward the carts of books being sold for quarters and dimes.

I may not have been much of a student, but I loved to read, especially romance novels. I began grabbing up older titles of all my favorite authors. Then I saw it. A single cream-colored spine sticking up above the others. I reached out and felt a tingle, something like an electric shock, as my fingers made contact.

Marrying Up, the book's tasteful cover announced in mauve script surrounded by pale yellow rosebuds. A bit lower it read, Every Woman's Guide To Being Rescued By Her Valiant Knight, by Madame Elegance.