Melissa graduated with a degree in health sciences, focus on exercise and training. Her plan was to leverage that for a job with some famous athletes. Marry a football star, maybe, or a basketball player （they made more and played longer, but did she want to be married to someone who was six foot eleven?）。 She researched teams and sent out emails. Soon, she thought. Soon her real life would begin. Her job would be a stepping-stone. It wasn’t what she wanted to do, though what that was, she couldn’t exactly pinpoint. She was good at exercise. She liked feeling healthy and fit and beautiful. Otherwise, her goal was to . . . well, to have everything she wanted.
Her parents came to graduation and complained about everything. “We din’t even know it was you,” her father said. “Melissa Something Spencer? Last I knew, my daughter was Missy-Jo Cumbo. I ain’t got no daughter named Melissa.”
Melissa sighed. “I’m still your daughter, Daddy,” she said.
They talked about Kaitlyn and Harminee; Kaitlyn was in rehab again, hoping to get custody back. Harminee’s father had left jail, joined the military, and was stationed in Korea. His parents were happy to take care of the baby. Melissa’s own parents babysat once in a while so they could have a break.
There wasn’t much discussion about Melissa herself, though. Her parents were dubious about her ability to get a job, told her she’d wasted her money “becoming a liberal” and wanted her to move back and “help out.”
She declined. Hugged them goodbye, telling herself she’d probably never have to see them again, then went for an eight-mile run to cleanse her energy of their negativity, followed by meditation and yin yoga. Salina had a yoga studio, and she worked there, cleaning up and scheduling the classes, getting free studio time as a perk. Her faith in God morphed into faith in the universe. Same thing, more or less, she thought. Plus, it made her seem more worldly.
She stayed in Salina while waiting to get responses from the sports teams she’d contacted. Once they saw her, she was sure she’d get a job. The universe would provide. Her looks had only improved since her early teens, and she knew she was very beautiful now. She was well-spoken and good at making conversation. （Thanks, Emily Post!） For the time being, she got a job at a bar, which helped her learn about wine and spirits, another tool in her toolbox. She was a natural flirt and made excellent tips. She and three fellow graduates from Kansas Wesleyan rented an apartment, and it was all quite nice, really.
Except Melissa was bound for greater things. She felt that in her bones.
But eight months after graduation, she hadn’t heard back from a single team, even with polite follow-up emails. Maybe her plan was flawed. And yet, it couldn’t be! She would get where she wanted to go. She always did. She was special; she just knew it. She hadn’t put in all this work, these eight and a half years of focus, for nothing.
She’d been researching elite gyms in LA to see if anyone might hire her, giving her proximity to the stars, when she got an email for a medical conference. It was because of a website she’d visited during her Anatomy and Physiology class. She’d gotten on their mailing list and had never bothered to unsubscribe.
Two months from now, the email said, there was a conference for orthopedic surgeons, and there was still space available.
Her hand moved to delete it, but stopped midair.
Doctors, especially surgeons, were also wealthy and, unlike professional athletes, had many more years of earning.
Huh.
To Google she went. Orthopedic surgeons were among the top earners of all surgeons, she learned, especially if they owned a surgical center or had invented some new tool or perfected an artificial joint.
Melissa had studied medicine, in a way. The human body was the human body, right? She had a lot in common with these surgeons, probably.
Melissa looked up the conference, which was in New Orleans, a city renowned for its beauty and food. She called the registration number. “Hello,” she said, lowering her voice a bit. “I’m considering attending the conference in March.”
“Wonderful!” said the man on the other end. “Are you a doctor or a vendor?”
“A doctor.”
“An orthopedic surgeon, obviously?”
She thought fast. She was twenty-two years old, almost twenty-three, and she looked younger, thanks to her skin care regimen. “Yes, but I’m still in my residency.” Thank you, Grey’s Anatomy!
“Fantastic. This conference will be so helpful.”
“Is there a hotel you’d recommend?” she asked. “Where some other doctors might be staying? You know, so I can pick their brains.”