Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase Read Online Free PDF Page B

the only clunkers in the bunch. They tend to be dry and the chip-to-cookie ratio is less than desirable. Regardless, I thank her for her patronage and I move on. I get a few more orders and a handful of refusals.
    Refusals?
    Seriously?
    How do you say no to the Girl Scouts? How do you not support an organization that instills such values in young girls? Frankly, I’m appalled when I begin to receive far more nays than yeas.
    The afternoon drags on and I’m discouraged by my results after the initial few sales to friends and neighbors. Honestly? I’m ready to call it quits. I’ve moved an adequate amount and have more than satisfied any sales requirements. Besides, I’m tired, and after all this cookie talk, I’m getting really hungry. Granted, my mother will tell me to have an apple, but even fruit would be better than the rumbling going on down there right now. I’m going to make one more stop and that will be it.
    I’m at the gray house with black shutters on the crest of the hill that leads down the street and into the rich neighborhood one block over. I don’t know these folks, but their landscaping is lovely. When I walk Samantha, I’m mindful to never let her drop a bomb on their lawn.
    I knock and a middle-aged lady I’ve never seen before opens the door. She’s wearing a sweat suit and a big gold cross around her neck. I give her my whole pitch and she’s totally into it, nodding and smiling. But before I get her to commit to any boxes, she begins to ask me about my sash, because, really, who wouldn’t? I’m talking glorious here, people.
    The lady points to a badge on the third row, second one in. “That’s a pretty badge. What does it stand for?”
    Primarily red and purple, this badge depicts people doing . . . something. Archery maybe? “Um . . . ,” I stammer. “I kind of forget.”
    “Oh. Well, then, how about that one?” She gestures toward a sunny yellow one at the bottom of the sash. There’s a cup on it with steam rising out of it.
    “Tea making?” This comes out as a question and not a statement.
    She scrunches up her forehead and her hand idly adjusts her necklace. “And this one with the flag?”
    I scramble to come up with a reasonable-sounding answer. “I, um, got that one because I love America.”
    “What about this one with the boiling cauldron?” Her lips begin to flatten into a straight line.
    I draw a total blank. A cauldron? I’ve got a merit badge with a cauldron on it? Think, self, think. When would someone use a cauldron? I mentally snap my Hawaiian Punch-stained fingers. I’ve got it. “Witchcraft!”
    Her friendliness begins to dissipate. “I see.”
    Desperate to change the direction of this conversation, which is so clearly getting away from me, I ask, “Which cookies would you like?”
    She hesitates before answering. “I’m going to pass today.” She thanks me for stopping by and then quietly closes the door.
    As I retreat down her driveway, my sash begins to feel a lot less impressive. It feels . . . heavy, kind of like it’s pulling down my neck and shoulders with the weight of all those new badges. And suddenly those small pangs of guilt I’d been able to sweep into the corner of my mind come to the forefront. The guilt’s now too big to push aside with a broom. It sits there right in the center of my mind and my chest, immobile as a boulder.
    I feel like a fraud and there’s nothing I can do to change that.
    Or is there?
    Could redemption really be an option?
    I stand there with the chilly New Jersey wind whipping the hem of my dress up and nudging my beret out of place. Yes, I believe I could fix this, but I’d have to commit to putting in the work. Am I willing? Am I able? Would it even be worth it?
    A current of air lifts my sash practically to eye level. I might only be eight, but damn it, I know when fate is trying to get my attention. So I square my shoulders and tuck my order sheet under my arm. My mission is clear. I adjust my beret