I wipe my forehead and shuffle away from the oven before I melt into the tile.
As if on cue, the timer blares and my phone vibrates at the same time.
I yelp, nearly launching out of my chair. I fumble for my phone and nearly drop it twice before I see the caller ID: W.H.M. Construction.
Oh my God.
“OH MY GOD!” I’m screaming, and not just in my head anymore.
Tiana rushes back in, fanning smoke. “What’s going on? Did you burn the cookies?”
Shit. The cookies. I forgot them.
I try to answer the phone as I wave what I hope is an apologetic hand at her, but my fingers don’t work. I’m panicking. Sweating. Possibly dying. Eventually, I press accept and croak out, “Hello?”
A woman starts speaking on the other end. “Is this Mya Dessen-Jones?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
She starts shooting information at me, but I have no pen or paper. TJ has her back to me, salvaging the baked goods. I flail my arms to get her attention. Nothing.
I whisper-shout her name. Still nothing.
So I do what any rational adult would do—I throw my shoe at her.
It hits her square on the butt. “Ow!”
No time for apologies. I wave her over.
She hurries to me, and I grab her phone, typing furiously into her Notes app.
“Okay. Thank you, Shaina. I’ll be there. Goodbye.”
I hang up, hands shaking. My heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Tiana just stares at me. “Well?”
“I just got a call from W.H.M. I have an interview in two days. I can’t breathe.”
We scream. We jump. I cry.
My sister hugs me tight, and I feel relief and pride in my bones.
“I’m so proud of you, MJ. You’re going to kill it.”
I wipe my tears and nod, trying to savor the high before the nerves creep back in.
“Thanks, sis.”
After another hug, TJ heads back out. As she reaches the kitchen door, she throws a grin over her shoulder.
“Oh, and MJ?”
“Yeah?”
“You messed up again. The cookies. You’re out.”
3