Never Getting Back Together

SIX

"What's that?" I laugh. Janet is very extra, but her enthusiasm is contagious. I always feel at least sixty-three percent happier after talking to her.

"I'm sending you an email," Janet says, clicking at her keyboard.

My laptop pings with a notification. I click over to my inbox and read the subject line—'Application for Happy Spoons Grant.'

My forehead scrunches. "What's a Happy Spoons Grant?"

"I'm so glad you asked," Janet chirps. "Every year, the Happy Spoons Grant is awarded to one graduating student planning to use their nutrition certification to help people with chronic illnesses."

Ah, the name makes sense. People with health issues like mine call themselves spoonies. It's a reference to a lupus blogger named Christine Miserandino, who explained the lack of energy most of us experience using spoons. The idea is that you start the day with a handful of metaphorical spoons. Everything you do takes up a certain number of your spoons, so you have to plan your day to avoid running out.

"The grant's for ten thousand dollars," Janet says. "And I think you'd be an excellent fit."

My mouth drops open. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. I could easily launch my business with that kind of cash. It's more than enough to pay for the licenses and insurance I'll need. I could even self-publish the cookbook of autoimmune protocol treats I've been secretly daydreaming about.

"I don't know what to say." I blink at the computer. "That sounds like such a great opportunity."

"Well, why not be the girl who decided to go for it then? It can't hurt to try."

I bite my lip. Janet would think I had a chance at getting this grant no matter how slim the odds were because, well, that's Janet. It's hard for me to muster that kind of optimism, but she has a point. "What would I need to do?"

"Just turn in the application before the deadline next Wednesday. You'll definitely want to include some examples to demonstrate how you're implementing what you've learned to make a difference in the lives of people with chronic conditions."

"I post my AIP recipes on Instagram," I say. I share recipes and cooking tips that comply with the autoimmune protocol diet, which most people with serious chronic illnesses have to follow. I create recipes for delicious baked treats that allow people to eliminate foods from their diets that cause flare-ups. I put a ton of work into those recipes because baked goods were what I missed most when I first started the diet. Figuring out how to replace ingredients I reacted to has taken me years to master, and I love sharing what I've learned with others.

"That's amazing," Janet says. I'm sure plenty of people find your posts incredibly helpful. The judges for the grant do usually like to see some real-world examples, though. You teach baking classes in your town, right?"

"I do, but my classes don't exactly draw a big crowd here in Rosedale." My class this morning had a whopping one attendee, Jenny Jenkins. And she only came because she thought the word Paleo meant white chocolate. Tapping my fingers against the counter, I try to think of an example of how I'm helping people IRL and come up empty.

"Well, two heads are always better than one. Let's brainstorm. What about those events you're participating in this week?" Janet asks. "Is there a way you can incorporate an activity that could improve the wellness of your community?"

I frown. There isn't a way to work dealing with dietary restrictions into the karaoke night, kickball game, or rain gutter regatta. Especially with how competitive the people of Rosedale get at those things.

"We're having a bake sale?" I say like it's a question. "I could bake batches of AIP and regular cookies and have a contest to see if people can guess which is which. Maybe I could convince people you don't need added sugar to make food taste good."

I'm already getting excited about the idea. It would be fun, and my carob chip cookies are incredible if I say so myself.

Janet starts to nod, but then her eyes flick to the corner of the screen. She freezes. I've never seen Janet look unenthusiastic about, well, anything. She must think the bake sale is a terrible idea, which surprises me. It might not be ground-breaking, but I didn't think it was that bad.

"Or I could come up with something else?" I ask, confused.

"No, no. The bake sale would be perfect," Janet says, still looking rattled. Her eyes keep darting to the side, and her eternal smile has vanished. "It's just, uh," Janet drops her voice to a whisper, "why is that man in your backyard green?"

"What?" I swivel around on my barstool to look out the windows. Sure enough, standing beside the pool is our next-door neighbor, Gary Andrews. He's wearing a pair of pineapple-patterned swim trunks, and his skin is as green as grass from the tip of his head to his calves. He has on white socks with his sandals, so I can't see his toes, but I'm guessing they're Hulk-colored too. What I can't guess at is why.

I turn back to Janet. "Um, I should probably go."

"That seems like a good idea." Janet recovers some of her usual effervescence. "Keep me posted on your application, though. And remember, always choose joy."

"Right. You too, Janet." I flip the lid of my laptop shut and hustle to the door. This week just keeps getting weirder and weirder.