ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

02. yolo, i guess

BY THE TIME I get back home, my blood is buzzing, platform docs taking me up the complex steps two at a time.

Rude customers are rarely a problem at Crafty Corner, especially considering the fact that we very rarely get customers in the first place, but Mr. Prick was simply on another level.

I'm still angry when I'm slamming open the mailbox, pausing when my hand closes around a thick, orange manila folder.

Anger wanes into curiosity while I flip it over, thundering into excitement as I take in the seal on the front.

No fucking way.

My hands are shaking as I shove the key into the lock, pushing the door open with the force of a baby elephant before sprinting inside.

My mom looks up from the coffee table in shock, hand holding a paintbrush that drops onto her canvas as she stands up. "Are you okay?"

I probably look insane right now, huge grin splitting across my face before I rip into the package with an acrylic nail.

The folder falls to the ground as my eyes fly down the first page, pausing at the word accepted.

Accepted.

Holy hell.

I'm jumping up and down before I can even process my own movements.

Momma follows my lead like we're playing Simon Says, grabbing my hands before bouncing with me. "Why are we jumping, Cleo!"

"Because I got in!"

"Got in where!"

"Fish Tank!"

"What's Fish Tank!"

We both collapse onto the sofa at the same time, laughing and tired out already.

"The writing workshop I told you about with the publishing company, remember? For high school graduates who want to major in English, but didn't get the chance."

My mom gasps. "The super selective one with the full-ride competition?"

"Yeah," I nod excitedly, smile returning with full force as she crushes me into a hug.

"Baby, I'm so proud of you!"

"Thanks, Ma," I mumble into her shirt, my air supply slowly cutting off the tighter she squeezes. "Now do you think you could let me go?"

She chuckles, finally letting me catch a breath as she leans back into the couch, silky pink pajama set standing out against the chocolate fabric.

My mother is what some would call (and unfortunately have called—part of the reason I hated high school so much) a MILF. We get mistaken for sisters constantly, and the sad part is that most of the people asking for numbers want hers instead of mine.

It's understandable, though, considering the fact that she's the most gorgeous woman I've ever met. And I guess the good part is that those impeccable genes have been passed on to me. If there's one thing I'll never doubt it's that black don't crack.

"Man, I don't know where you got all that brain from, Cleo. I didn't give it to you, and your daddy sure as hell didn't."

My mom hadn't seen the appeal of going to college, opting for self-taught art and building a name for herself through social media while my dad is, in her words, a good-for-nothing deadbeat who'd split on us when I was two.

He's tried to contact us a few times after leaving for cash, but Momma never let him come back, and eventually he'd faded into the past, ultimately becoming a no-no topic in our house.