Chapter 1: The Mac and Cheese Queen’s First Stir

I run a little mac and cheese stand on the edge of campus, and I call every customer "hon." The breeze carries the scent of fresh-cut grass and the chatter of students hurrying by, sneakers slapping the sidewalk, laughter echoing off old brick buildings. This college town never really sleeps, and my little cart is right at the crossroads of it all.

It's become my signature move, you know? The moment someone steps up, I just can't help but toss out a warm "hon." It's the kind of thing that makes people smile—even on a bad day. Sometimes, when the wind's just right and campus is buzzing, I feel like the whole world could use a little more "hon."

One afternoon, the school’s resident tough guy stopped by. “How come you didn’t call me hon?”

He towered over the cart, arms folded, eyebrow cocked like he was daring me to say the wrong thing. I blinked, spatula in hand, not sure if he was joking or about to start something. The air got thick for a second, like the moment before a summer storm.

Wait—does he actually want me to? Seriously?

I mean, is this a trap? Or does even the toughest guy on campus want a little sweetness tossed his way? Suddenly, I was rethinking everything I'd ever known about bad boys and southern hospitality.

After that, he showed up every day, hanging around to count how many people I called hon.

He’d lean against the lamppost, pretending not to watch, but his eyes would flick over every time I said it. Like I wouldn’t notice. It was like I was on some reality show called “How Many Hons Can You Serve in an Hour?” I tried to act cool, but I could feel the pressure—like a judge at a pie contest.

Pretty soon, the other customers started refusing to let me call them hon anymore. People started getting competitive about it, like it was some secret club. “Don’t call me hon,” they’d say, grinning. “Save it for the next person.” Suddenly, I was rationing affection, and I had no idea how things got so complicated. Weird, right? When did mac and cheese get so political?

On nights when I didn’t have class, I liked setting up my mac and cheese cart at the school gate. It wasn’t about the money—I just enjoyed it.

The campus would glow under the streetlights, the air thick with the smell of grass and late-night fries from the diner down the block. I’d hum to myself, flipping elbow macaroni and feeling like the queen of my tiny world.

Right next to me was a guy selling fresh-squeezed lemonade. It was his first night too. He made a sale; I didn’t. I was so thirsty, I ended up buying from him and even ate two servings of my own mac and cheese. Day one, total flop.

We exchanged awkward first-night glances, like two freshmen at orientation. I nursed my lemonade and tried not to look too disappointed. At least the mac and cheese was comforting—creamy, cheesy, and just salty enough to feel like a hug.

Day two, I got bolder. “Hey, good-looking! Hey, beautiful! Come try some mac and cheese—best in town!”

I put on my best used-car-salesman voice, hoping someone would bite. I even tossed in a little hip sway for extra flair. Go big or go home, right?

A gorgeous girl walked over, but after just one glance, she turned and left.

She was all flowing hair and confidence, and for a second, I thought I had her. But nope—one look at my hopeful grin and she bailed. Ouch.

“Hey, beautiful, don’t go!”

I called after her, but it came out a little too desperate, like a last-minute bid at an auction.

I got too excited—my cart tipped over. Mac and cheese everywhere. The noodles scattered like confetti, and I just stood there, mortified. Great, just great. The lemonade guy tried to hide a laugh behind his cup.

Day two: epic fail.

I sat on the curb afterward, picking cheese off my sneakers, thinking maybe I should've gone into something safer, like accounting.

I’m not one to give up. So I went home and watched a bunch of street food TikToks for tips. Turns out, a lot of folks pulled in business by calling everyone “hon.”

I watched video after video—folks in aprons, slinging burgers and tacos, all with that “hon” charm. It was like a secret handshake for food vendors. Suddenly, I saw my mistake. I’d been trying too hard to be cool, when I should’ve just been myself. Classic Maddie move.

Alright, fine—calling people hon isn’t a big deal. I was determined to become the queen of Snack Street.

I stood in front of my mirror, practicing my “hon.” Yeah, I was that desperate. I wanted it to sound easy, natural, like I’d been doing it my whole life. “Hon, want some mac and cheese?” I even tried it with a wink, just to see how it felt.

Not long after I set up, a young woman came over. I jumped right in. “Hon, want some mac and cheese? Just two bucks.”

She hesitated, glancing at the cart like she was checking for hidden cameras. But my “hon” must’ve worked its magic, because she smiled shyly.

“Freshly made, extra cheddar, hon.”

I ladled out the cheesiest scoop I could manage, making sure she saw the gooey stretch. “Nothing but the best for you, hon.”

She got a little shy from being called hon. “Alright, I’ll take one.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, cheeks pink. It was adorable.

“You got it, hon.”

I tossed in an extra sprinkle of cheese for good luck.

Wahoo! Calling people hon really works. Who knew? Maybe Grandma was onto something.

I did a little happy dance behind the cart—just a shimmy, nothing too obvious. But inside, I was celebrating like I’d won the lottery.

A few more people came by. Now, everyone looked like a potential customer to me.

I scanned the crowd like a hawk, spotting anyone who even glanced my way. "Hon, want to try the best mac and cheese this side of the Mississippi?" I was on a roll. Killing it, honestly.

“I’m a little mac-and-cheese noodle, destined to be eaten by ‘hon.’”

A couple more girls walked up. “Hey boss, two orders of mac and cheese.”

They were all smiles and chatter, like they’d just come from a late-night study session. Their energy was contagious.

I grinned. “You got it, hon.”

I gave them my best customer-service smile, the kind that says, "I totally have my life together." Total lie, of course.

One of them teased, “Boss, why are you calling us hon?”

She leaned in, eyebrow raised, clearly enjoying the banter.

I could handle sweet girls. “What’s wrong, hon? Don’t like it?”

I winked, just to keep things light.

“No, you goof.”

She nudged her friend, both of them laughing.

Once the mac and cheese was ready, I handed it over. “Hon, your mac and cheese is done. Careful, it’s hot.”

I used my best southern drawl, channeling every diner waitress I’d ever met.

The teasing girl piped up again. “Hon, do you call everyone hon?”

She had this look, like she was trying to crack my secret code.

“That’s right, hon.”

I said it with a flourish, like I was crowning them with affection.

“I’ll come again tomorrow.”

She waved as she walked away, and I felt like I’d just made a new friend.

“I’ll be waiting, hon.”

I meant it, too. The world felt a little smaller and a lot warmer.

Day three: first win!

I took a selfie with my cart, cheese-splattered apron and all, and posted it with a cheesy caption. It felt like the start of something good.

Every night, I posted my snack cart diary on Instagram. In three days, I’d picked up exactly one follower. Every time I posted, he’d like it.

I called him my "mystery cheerleader." Every like felt like a little high-five from the universe. It was silly, but honestly, it kept me going.

That night, when I got to my cart, there was a line of girls waiting.

They were giggling, snapping selfies, and I swear one had a sign that said "Hon Fan Club." I almost tripped over my own feet in surprise.

I asked, half-annoyed, “You guys waiting for me?”

I tried to sound casual, but inside I was doing cartwheels.

They all answered in unison, “Yep, waiting for you, hon!” It was like a chorus line in a Broadway show. I couldn't help but laugh. What a scene.

Wahoo! I knew it—this world can’t do without girls.

I wanted to hug every one of them. If I could bottle this feeling, I'd sell it for a million bucks.

The line in front of my cart made the lemonade guy next door look like he was about to cry.

He looked so forlorn, squeezing lemons like they’d personally betrayed him. I almost felt bad—almost.

I made mac and cheese for each of the girls.

I worked fast, trying to keep up with the demand. My arms were a blur—noodle ninja mode activated.

“Hon, yours is ready.”

Each time I called out, a hand would shoot up, and I'd watch the smile spread across their faces.

“Yours too, hon.”

I kept the rhythm going, like a DJ spinning out beats.

“Hon, yours will be up soon.”

I even started improvising: "Hang tight, hon, the cheese is almost melted!"

Each “hon” rolled off my tongue smoother than the last.

It felt natural now, like breathing. I was in the zone.