Turning onto Beryl Street, I passed by the blue bungalow, where Trey was outside hanging his wet suit from the eaves.
The click of the bike gears caught his attention, and I slowed to a stop in front of his fence. “Sweet ride,” he said.
“Thanks.” I tucked my hair behind my ear as he approached, his hazel eyes scanning me from head to toe.
“I guess your foot’s feeling better.”
“A lot better. It’s still a little sore to the touch, but compared to last night, it’s nothing. Thanks again for everything.”
He waved away the gratitude. “Like I said, it was my pleasure.”
We stood in silence, on opposite sides of the white picket fence, but close enough to touch. There were words trapped in the base of my throat, pinned in place by fear. Fear of failure, fear of judgment, fear of rejection.
But if I was ever going to make any progress in this life, I would have to pretend those fears didn’t exist.
“I’d like to take you up on your offer,” I said. “To help me get more comfortable in the water.”
A smile spread across his face, eyes crinkling. “Awesome! Let’s do it. I’m booked with lessons pretty much all day tomorrow, but what about Monday?”
I was about to say yes, until I remembered my virtual onboarding session with HandyMinion. “I have a meeting on Monday morning. It’s a new job, so I’m not sure how long it’ll take or what my schedule’s gonna be like.”
“Okay, no worries.” He pulled his phone from the pocket of his board shorts. “What’s your number? I’ll text you later this week and we can figure something out.”
He tapped my number into his phone, then I walked my bike back home with what felt like a million fairy wings fluttering in my chest.
Inside, I put my groceries away, then trimmed the stems off the peonies and arranged them in a vase I’d found while I was cleaning out my cabinets. I removed the aloe plant from the windowsill, and replaced it with the flowers, adjusting the petals against the backdrop of the darkening sky. Then I stepped back and took in the scene.
It wasn’t quite like the photo on my vision board—not quite Instagram-worthy—but it was a pretty good start.
Chapter 11
Monday morning marked the beginning of a brand-new phase of my life: the HandyMinion phase.
The onboarding process began at 9 a.m. and was easily completed from the comfort of my futon. All I had to do was attend a webinar explaining the ground rules of HandyMinion life—Don’t harass your clients! No swearing on the job! Keep your PayPal account active to ensure timely compensation!—and then take a few multiple-choice quizzes with glaringly obvious answers.
Only sociopaths would’ve failed this test, but I still took pride in my perfect score, doing a little happy dance when the words Welcome Aboard, Minion BREE! splashed across my screen.
I started out where every other newbie Minion does, on level one. I’d be competing for jobs with more experienced Minions, many of whom had extensive work histories and lots of customer reviews. Needless to say, I was at a disadvantage.
Oh, how I missed my five-star GrubGetter rating! I’d worked so hard to maintain that Top Grubber badge, rolling through countless stop signs to make sure deliveries were on time and smiling through countless doorstep diatribes.
Ultimately, it had gotten me nowhere, since my GrubGetter account was now officially “on hiatus.” But there’d been something so satisfying about being Top Grubber. It meant hundreds of people had cast their votes, and the decision was unanimous: Bree Bozeman was not mediocre.
Determined to achieve Level Ten Minion status quickly, I planned to accept as many jobs as I could and kick ass at every single one. Those bottom-of-the-barrel assignments no one else wanted? I’d revel in them.
For the next few days, I was up to my eyeballs in busywork. I packed boxes for an impending office move. I pulled weeds in an overgrown garden. I deep-cleaned a Winnebago. I waited for three hours in someone’s home to sign for a furniture delivery.
No task was too small or too tedious. I completed them all on time and with a smile, and by Thursday, I’d already achieved Level Six Minion status, with a perfect five-star rating. In my humble opinion, that was quite an un-mediocre accomplishment.
When I arrived home after my final assignment that night, there was a small padded envelope on my doormat, addressed to “Bree Bozeman c/o @breebythesea.” The lip gloss!
I raced inside and tore it open. Out fell a tube of Burgundy Wine and a note card with the handwritten message, “Thanks for supporting Kissy Face!” Smiling, I unscrewed the top to examine the glob of gloss dripping from the applicator wand.
Yick.
This color was...not my favorite. It was more puce than burgundy, and had this weird iridescent sheen. Plus, it seemed kind of thick. More like a nail polish than a lip gloss.
Maybe it would look better once I put it on.
First, I’d have to make myself selfie ready. I grabbed my makeup bag from the bathroom and put on a thick coat of foundation, then eyeliner, and a wispy coat of mascara. I blew my hair out so it had kind of a windswept look, too. Far from perfect, but if I angled the photo right, I’d look okay. Plus, I could always retouch it.
Finally, the lip gloss. I spread a rich layer of Burgundy Wine on my lower lip, then my upper lip, and pressed them together ever so gently before checking my reflection in the mirror.
Man. This color was really ugly.
Nothing a filter couldn’t fix, though.
I snapped about two dozen selfies from varying angles, then selected the best one for fine-tuning in my photo editing app. After applying a filter called “Breezy,” I made some minor adjustments to the saturation, warmth, and contrast of the image.
Fortunately, once I muted the colors, my lips didn’t appear quite so hideous. Other parts of my face could’ve used a few tweaks, though. So while I was at it, I added virtual contours to my cheekbones and smoothed out some wrinkles under my eyes. I whitened my teeth and brightened my eyes. I deepened my suntan.
Satisfied with the final result, I uploaded it to Instagram with a caption.
Feeling fine in Burgundy Wine.
(#collab with #kissyfacelipgloss)
Tapping the “Share” button sent a little thrill through me. I was officially collaborating with a brand on Instagram. Me! A week ago, I’d been daydreaming about crafting a life that resembled the carefully curated feed of an Instagram influencer. And now, I actually was one.
Sort of.
The point is, change was happening. Slowly, but surely, I was moving forward. Maybe I’d been wrong to doubt the power of Demi DiPalma’s four-step manifesting process.