Excerpt of Until My Soul Gets It Right by Karen Wojcik Berner

Chapter One
Burkesville, Wisconsin
1985

It takes a lot of effort to be ordinary–looking. Catherine performed the same morning routine the pretty girls did. The same shampoo, conditioner, blow dry, style, spray. The same moisturizer, concealer, foundation, blush, eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. She checked herself out in the mirror. Ugh, still me.

Still a senior in high school who hesitated to use the term "farm girl" for fear of it being too clichéd after her English teacher defined the term as "the lack of thought." Clearly, nobody aspires to be a stereotype, but, really, is everyone that original?

Who hasn't grown up knowing the bitchy cheerleader, a dumb jock, the computer nerd, an overbearing mother, a distant father, a misunderstood old person, or an alienated artist, writer, musician or dancer? If everybody knows these people, are they really clichés or merely categories? Maybe the various cities, towns, neighborhoods, and blocks are really replicating microcosms? The same strands woven together to create one large tapestry of life?

Anyhow.

Still living in boring–as–shit Burkesville, Wisconsin. The entire town consisted of a bank, post office, drug store, gas station, church, two schools and four taverns, all within a four–block area. Anyone could walk through it in about two seconds unless old Ben got a hold of you. Ben practically lived on the third–from–the–left bar stool at Pat's Bar and Grill, Burkesville's only real restaurant.

One day, Catherine and her friends were there for pizza and old Ben started blabbing to anyone who'd listen about how Bart Starr was the greatest quarterback who ever lived. Then this guy, Ernie, who usually goes to Padowski's, but it was closed because the furnace broke, piped up with "Well, what about Dan Marino?"

Ben turned to Ernie like he was going to beat the shit out of him for even thinking of someone besides Starr, (a) because he's a Miami Dolphin and (b) he's not a Packer. Heaven forbid! Like there aren't any other teams in the NFL. Catherine could not have cared less about the Packers. Who would wear green and yellow together anyway? Vomitosis.

***

"Moooooom! I hate sunny–side up." There was something about the way the yolks jiggled, like teasing, googly eyes. Eat me, Catherine. Eat me.

"Everyone else likes them well enough." Vintage Clara Elbert. Don't deviate from what the men in the family want for breakfast. Eggs. Bacon. Homemade bread, toasted. Would it kill her to buy some fruit?

By nine o'clock on Saturday morning, her father had already put down fresh hay for the pigs and milked the cows. "Here ya go, Clara," he said, placing a filled pitcher in front of her.

"Thanks, Hank. Boys, wash your hands."

No matter how old the brothers were, Clara always referred to them as "the boys." Of course, since they acted like little kids, maybe she was right. Catherine fiddled with her eggs, eventually covering the oozing yolks with bread. "So, Mr. Leary is nagging me about ‘my future plans.' How am I supposed to know what I want to do with my life? I'm only seventeen."

Clara scoffed.

Russell smirked. "Yeah, like you're so good at makin' decisions."

"Remember Dairy Queen?" Laughing, Peter pulled his sleeve over his left wrist and ran it across his face. Ma shot him a pulverizing look. He grabbed his napkin and wiped his mouth properly.

"I mean, really, even if I do go to college, what am I supposed to major in?"

Hank glanced at his wife, then at the boys. "You could work with us here."

How could she tell her family that staying on Elbert Farm was the only thing Catherine was certain she could never do?