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an option.”
    The options are all horrible. “Oatmeal is gross. I don’t even know what lox is. I’ll have to say croissant, but I’m sensing a theme here,
oui
?”
    She rolls her eyes at my obvious lack of enthusiasm and continues to ask questions clearly designed by the Tourism Committee for French Clichés.
    â€œOkay, now for the big reveal,” she says, pressing the button with a flourish.
    Finally.
    â€œYou’re ideal career would be … oh.” She furrows her brow. “Oh, never mind.” She quickly turns off the phone and throws it on the bed. “What’s on TV?” She grabs the remote and starts clicking through channels.
    â€œYou are not getting off that easy. We didn’t just spend all that time for you to watch
Family Feud
now. What the hell did it say?” I grab for her phone, but I can’t get out of the cushy chair fast enough. She scoops it up and shoves it in her hoodie pocket.
    â€œSeriously? I don’t want to tell you.” She strums her fingers on the bed. “How ’bout them Bruins?”
    â€œGive.”
    â€œOkay.” She flicks the phone on and pouts at me one more time before she starts to read. “Your sense of adventure and love of French cuisine point to …” She looks up to gauge my reaction, but I’m keeping my face impassive. I already know what it’s going to say. “The perfect career for you is … drum roll … pastry chef.”
    â€œYou have to be kidding me.” I burst into laughter and soon the whole chair is shaking. “Well, I guess pastry chef is better than pizza chef.”
    Lori rolls forward on the bed in a fit of giggles. “I’m sorry,” she manages to squeak out between guffaws. “I honestly thought it was going to be international tour guide or something!”
    â€œI can’t believe even your phone thinks I should be a chef.” I throw the puck, but it misses her and bounces off the bed. “Are you sure my dad hasn’t hacked your hard drive?”
    She grabs the puck and inspects it like a specimen. “Please tell me you don’t have visions of being a professional hockey player.”
    I roll my eyes. “No. I’d just like to have a career that gives me enough spare time to do something besides work.”
    She flicks the remote again.
    â€œStop,” I yell, catching a glimpse of a logo as she clicks past. “That’s the show.
Local Flavor
.”
    â€œYou’re kidding.” She hits the Back button and we stare, shell-shocked, at the screen.
    The host is an überenergetic dude with bleached-blond hair and generic Celtic tattoos covering his biceps. He’s jumping up and down in disbelief that the food at the host restaurant is so darn tasty, while the place itself is crap-diddly-tastic. Live-streaming comments run across the bottom from viewers. None of the comments mince words.
    WTF is up with the dirty floor in the ladies’ room? #EverHeardOfBleach
    The waitress is such a B! I’d walk out if she served me! #ChewAndScrew
    The patrons are A*holes. I’d kill myself if I lived in that town. #CityGirl
    A few nice ones scroll past, clearly from people who are related to the owner or who are friends with the staff. But it seems like most of the comments are nasty just to be nasty. Or to make the writer feel witty. Or just plain mean.
    I look at Lori, reading the comments with her mouth open. She looks up at me. “You’d better take down that sign over the toilet that reminds people to wiggle the handle when they flush.”
    â€œWe are so screwed.”

    On Monday morning, Jake sidles up next to me in the hallway.
    The little hairs on the back of my neck bristle when he bumps my shoulder. I shake it off and pretend to be busy searching my locker for a notebook.
    â€œWell? Are you coming this afternoon?” he says, leaning against the locker next to mine. I get a whiff