“They’ve adopted you into their pack.” Suzanne comes into the living room.
I shrug. “They probably like me because I gave them some of my dinner.” But I’m secretly pleased. A pack is close to a family. I scratch Tom’s chin, which makes Julia huff jealously, so I pet her with my foot and Jacques with my other foot. Or they like me because I’m a sucker for petting them.
“What kind of shows do you like to watch?” Suzanne shows me the remote buttons to get to the TV menu.
“Cooking. And, um, nature documentaries.” I like SpongeBob SquarePants, but I want Suzanne to think I’m mature.
“Let’s see what’s on Food Network.” Suzanne reaches out as if to ruffle my hair, but I pull away. I’m not one of the dogs. She puts her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry we were busy today. We’re really glad you’re here. There’s just . . . a lot going on with the shop right now. Stuff we have to deal with.”
“It’s fine.” I don’t tell her I’d rather not talk, because it’d probably hurt her feelings. Shell and Suzanne only took me in because they had to. I’ll try not to bother them while I’m here.
The show that’s on now isn’t too interesting. Some kind of grocery store food competition. If I were on that show, I’d fill up my cart and run out the door. I’d also lose the contest because I don’t know where anything is in a grocery store. My dad and I mostly shop at gas stations.
My stomach wobbles. I cross my arms over it. “Suzanne?” My voice is smallish. I try to speak up. “Where’s my dad?”
I want the truth. Instead she gives me the same answer the other adults have. “I don’t know right now, but I do know he’s getting the help he needs.”
I focus on the grocery game. If I look at an actual human person, I might start crying. “Okay. How long do I have to stay here?”
“I don’t know.”
So it’s the same not-real answer. Typical. My anger makes those bubbling tears dry up. I change the channel. “This show is boring.”
She reaches out as though she’s going to pat my knee and then thinks better of it. I don’t meet her eyes, but I know they’re oozing with sympathy. Poor Cady. I hate that.
Suzanne’s voice is upbeat. “Try not to worry, okay? Everything’s going to be fine.”
I feel a little bad for her then. Suzanne reminds me of my teacher, Ms. Walker. A really nice person. I look up at her. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.” I should have said it at the table, but I didn’t think of it. I guess I was too busy being sorry for myself.
Suzanne holds her hand over her heart. “You’re welcome. Oh, that makes me happy.”
She’s not going to cry just because I thanked her, is she? Embarrassed, I turn up the volume.
I scroll down the DVR list. They’ve saved a bunch of episodes of a show called The Great British Bake Off from the BBC. The British Broadcasting Company. Twelve amateur bakers are on a quest to be named the U.K.’s best baker. Baking? I want to watch that. I scroll down to the oldest one on the list and hit play. Season six, episode six.
Shell appears with a canvas bag. “Do you mind if I sit there, Cady?”
Suzanne makes a small noise.
“It’s the only place I can put my feet up so my back doesn’t hurt,” Shell says. “I need the arm.”
“I didn’t say a word,” Suzanne says.
“You made a noise.”
I scoot over. “It’s fine.” That explains the Shell-shaped divot. She sure is particular about stuff. I hope I can do everything correctly. Where to sit. To say “please.” It’s a lot to remember.
Shell takes out a long pair of wooden knitting needles and perches a pair of reading glasses on the tip of her nose. Part of something forest green hangs off the end—a sweater or a scarf—it has no shape yet. “This is my favorite competition show.” The needles fly as Shell works. “You should watch ‘Bread Week.’ You’d never guess bread could be sculpted into, like, the head of a lion.” Shell seems way more relaxed with this show on TV and her knitting needles in her hands.
Two perky British ladies named Mel and Sue start talking and a huge white tent appears on the greenest green lawn I’ve ever seen, surrounded by trees and baaing sheep. It’s a circus. A baking circus. I sit up, taking my feet off the dogs.
The contestants are all ages and genders and sizes and races, which is pretty cool. This week, the challenge is pastries. The first part is the Signature Bake—they all have to make something called a “frangipane with shortbread pastry.” FRAN-gee-pane.
I lean forward. “That seriously just looks like a tart to me.” They’re all topped with fruit and have something they call a shortbread crust.
“Frangipane has an almond cream filling.” Shell’s fingers continue.
“And this first challenge is the one they get to practice at home,” Suzanne adds. “Thus, the term ‘Signature.’”
We each say which frangipane looks the best to us. I forget to pretend like I don’t care about anything. This show is too interesting. I eat my popcorn.
The frangipane made by the contestant named Nadiya looks good to me. It’s got pears and something called Rong tea in it, plus bay leaf.
“What’s a bay leaf?” I say.
“I love how she combines the sweet and savory,” Suzanne says. She gets up and returns with a packet of leaves. “This is bay.”
I smell it. It’s familiar. “What do you usually use it for?”
“You cook it with soups and sauces. But you don’t eat the leaves—you just want the flavor.” Suzanne crumbles one under my nose. It definitely doesn’t smell sweet, but sort of like eucalyptus, which grows all over San Diego. “Nadiya’s my favorite, too.”
The judges are two more British people named Paul Hollywood and Mary Berry. The name Mary Berry sounds musical and I doubt it’s made-up, but “Paul Hollywood” most definitely is made-up. He has grayish hair and bright blue eyes and seems slightly grumpy for no reason. I can’t tell how old he is—pretty old, but younger than Mary Berry.
Mary Berry has a nice grandmotherly smile. Her hair is very neat and smoothed into a blond bob. She reminds me of the librarian who erased all my late fines because she said she wanted me to read, so I automatically love her.
It’s time for the judges to try the frangipane. I hold my breath. Now’s the part where the judges will rip into all of them. That’s what usually happens on competition shows. Nadiya’s worried about her bottom not being done. Mary Berry will yell at her. Paul Hollywood will throw the pastry on the floor and stomp on it. Nadiya will cry.
I hate this part. I get ready to cover my eyes.
The judges eat Nadiya’s frangipane. They compliment her pear arrangement, the flavors. Then Mary pokes at it with her fork. “It’s got a bit of a soggy bottom,” she says. And that’s it.
Then Paul adds, “Your pastry’s underdone.”
The “presenters,” Mel and Sue, comment on everything and go around and talk to the bakers as they’re working. These ladies do things like stealing contestants’ bowls and licking them clean, or pocketing extra chocolate for later, as if they’re two kitchen elves. The kind of stuff I’d probably do.
Paul Hollywood usually tells them exactly what’s wrong, but Mary Berry always finds something positive to say, no matter what. “It just didn’t work for her today,” she says about one baker, instead of saying that lady had no talent. It’s like she believes in them.
I wish Mary Berry were my grandma.
One of the contestants, Alvin, made a plum frangipane that didn’t turn out so great. They interview him afterward. He says, “Failure is not an option. You need to move on.”
I think if it were me, I might have run away.
In The Great British Bake Off tent, everything is clean. Everybody helps each other, even though they’re in a contest. They always have lots of treats to eat.
Most important, everything is fair. Not like the real world. I want to live there.
We watch the end of the show in silence.
I notice Shell and I both make noises at the same parts, either a chuckle or little grunts. I wonder how else we’re alike. Suzanne’s head tilts back as she falls asleep.
“You ready for bed, Cady?” Shell yawns. It’s nine already.
“Do I have to?” I decide I’m going to watch all of the episodes. Who knows when I’ll have the chance again?
“I suppose not. You don’t have school tomorrow, but you do have the work packet to do.”
“It’ll take me like five minutes to do that whole packet.” I’m only half joking. Schoolwork is a lot easier to get done without a bunch of kids making noise.
“Don’t stay up too late. Turn out the light when you’re done.” Shell nudges Suzanne awake.
“Good night, Cady. I’m leaving early, so I may not see you in the morning.” Suzanne bends down like she’s planning to give me a kiss, but I lean away and she stops.
“Good night,” I say. Who knows how late too late is? It could mean all night. Suzanne and Shell leave me alone. I cuddle up on the couch and get ready to watch as many episodes as I can.
The show’s organized the same way every time. One person wins the title of Star Baker each week, and then one person wins the whole season. Each episode has a different theme, like “Cakes” or “Pies” or “Breads.” On every episode, the contestants have three baking challenges. The first challenge on the show is always one where they use their own recipes: the Signature Bake. So if it’s “Cake Week,” they get to bring their very best cake recipe. Then comes the Technical Challenge, which is a surprise. Then the Showstopper Bake, always something grand that has to be whatever they’re doing that week.
For a second, in between shows, I wonder what Dad is doing. Where he’s falling asleep. Then I start the next show so I don’t have to think about that. I watch and watch until I fall asleep on the couch.
Sometime later, somebody tries to wake me up. “Cady. Go to bed.” It’s Shell.
“Huh?” I roll over.
Shell grunts. “Come on.” She lifts me up and carries me upstairs. I haven’t been carried forever. A part of my brain wants me to fight the sleep, but the other part tells me everything’s okay. That I can relax.
I listen to brain part number two.
Chapter 8
It turns out I don’t have to hitchhike to the pie shop, because one of their helpers quit a couple weeks ago and Shell says they could actually use another pair of hands. Shell’s Pie sits on a road off the main street, in a small strip of stores that also houses a Realtor’s office. The shop next door is permanently closed, like Suzanne said. I wonder why Shell won’t listen to Suzanne about expanding.
Suzanne already left for the harbor. “I should be back in no more than two days,” she told us. She tried to give me another hug, but I stepped away from her and stuck out my hand.
Shell doesn’t say a word about how she carried me upstairs last night. I’m glad. How awkward is it that she had to do that with a twelve-year-old? But remembering how I felt, how my brain told me I was really safe, makes a warmth flicker in my stomach.
The dogs and Tom looked like they thought we were abandoning them when we left. Tom slept with me last night, his soft purring body warm and reassuring. I’ve only been here a day and already I think I’d do anything for those animals.
Shell told me the pets always look like that when people leave. “Whether you’re gone for three minutes or three hours, they’re tragically pitiful. Don’t worry. They’re fine.”
In town, there are only a few cars around. Shell says those are other bakers, like us, who get to work before dawn. The lights are already on inside, casting slivers of brightness onto the asphalt behind the store. We’re going in the back way, through a narrow alley with Dumpsters at one end.
Shell fiddles with the key. Jay stands beside me. It’s Monday, so he’ll walk to school from here. Both of us shiver. I’m wearing one of Shell’s overcoats, and the sleeves hang down past my hands. “We’re going to have to go shopping for you.” Shell eyes the coat. “It gets real cold here in the fall.”
The fall? Will I be here that long? It’s May now, so that’s a few months away. It depends on what happens with Dad—when I got taken away before, it took a whole year for him to get me back. It feels like I’m turning my back on Dad to wish I could stay until then. Plus, I don’t want Shell to think I’m a burden. “I’ll be fine.”
Shell doesn’t respond, still working the stubborn dead bolt, and for a moment I’m disappointed that she believed me.
I hold back a big yawn. That baking show was worth me being tired, though.
“You’ll meet my mom. She gets here at three in the morning to make the crusts.” Jay unzips his coat and hangs it on a wall hook, then takes a big apron off another hook and puts that on. I do the same. I decide I’m going to imitate Jay all day, since he’s done this before. “Shell makes about one hundred fifty pies a day. Some go to restaurants, and also a few grocery stores, but we sell most in the café.” He hands me a hairnet and puts one on his head. I struggle with mine until he expertly snaps it over my thick hair. I probably look like a dork, but Jay doesn’t look so bad, so maybe I’m okay.
“Wow.” I’m beyond impressed. How many slices does the shop have to sell every day, to stay in business? My brain hurts a little, trying to do the math. Mostly because I don’t know all the facts yet—how much the slices sell for, for example. My stomach flutters a bit, same as it does when I read an exciting book.
I turn and get my first glimpse of the pie shop. We’re in the back kitchen space. In the middle sit six gleaming, long stainless-steel tables, heavily scratched. Huge silver-colored mixing bowls are stacked on the shelves underneath. One long wall is covered by three units that look like grocery store refrigerators with clear glass fronts and multiple shelves, but there are pies inside, and I realize they’re actually ovens. Along the opposite wall is a big stainless-steel door, and next to that is a counter with big electric mixers and some other machine on it that looks like an extra-large printer. On a short wall are shelves full of bags of flour and sugar. In the back is a sink and dishwasher area.
A woman who’s not much taller than Jay appears from near the sink. Her curly hair is also bound under a hairnet. “Good morning, sleepyheads.” She gives Jay a kiss on the cheek, hugging him to her.
“Ma!” He makes a big show of wiping his face, but I think he secretly likes it. A small stab of jealousy tears at me. “This is Cady.”
Jay’s mother smiles at me. She’s small and trim, with very white and slightly oversize teeth, which makes her look like she’s about to smile even when she’s not. “Cady! Welcome!” She has a thick Spanish accent, so maybe she’s the one who came from Mexico, not Jay’s grandparents. I’ll have to ask Jay sometime.
I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Morales.”
She pulls me in for a hug. “Call me María.” I stiffen awkwardly. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She pats my back and I relax a little. Her hug is different, like she’s giving me some of her energy or something. Plus she smells like sugar and butter and apples and cinnamon. They should make a perfume of that. I relax as if I’m in a warm blanket. I step away. “I was about to put some more dough in the machine. Want to watch?” She points to the printer-looking contraption next to the mixers.
“That’s boring.” Jay sighs.
She waves him off. “Don’t be a naysayer all your life, Jay.” A ball of dough sits in a bowl on the table. She flips a switch on the machine and it roars to life. She feeds the dough into one end and it starts up, then squeezes the pastry through into a thin sheet. It sort of looks like a metal printer, except instead of paper, pastry dough comes out. María cuts a huge circle in the dough with a big cookie cutter. “Voilà,” she says. “The bottom crust.” She presses this into an aluminum pie tin. “Now it’s ready for filling. We don’t make all the pies at once, unless we have a big order. We wait until we’re running low.”
My mouth has dropped open. Ja
y nudges me. “Cady, it’s pie. Not a rocket to Mars.”
“I don’t care. It’s cool!” I grin at Jay’s mom. “Can I try?”
“No.” Shell appears from the front. “Don’t mess with the dough roller. It’s expensive. I want you to learn how to make crust by hand before you use that machine.”
“But the machine is easier,” María points out.
“Cady needs to do it by hand first. Like I learned,” Shell says firmly. She leans against the door frame. “Learning to bake is like anything else. If you’re learning how to draw, you don’t start with Photoshop or oil paints. You start with pencil and paper. You learn the basics. Then you repeat and repeat until you’re good at it.”
I’ve never actually done anything enough to get good at it, though. I look longingly at the ultrasmooth crust. There is zero chance I can make a crust this good. “I guess.” I sigh, kind of dramatically, and Shell and María exchange an amused look. “How many pies do I have to make, anyway, before I’m good at it?”
“A lot. You need hours of practice before you’re really good at anything.” Shell’s mouth works as she considers my question. “But let’s say, conservatively, you need to make . . . about a thousand pies.”
My mouth drops again, this time in dismay. A thousand pies? “That will take me forever.”
Shell relents. “You don’t have to make all thousand of them by hand, Cady. Just a few. Then María will show you the machine.”
“But a thousand?” I squeak.
“It’s not too bad. Ten pies a day for a hundred days.” María smiles at me encouragingly. “I make more than that, if business is good.”
Am I going to be here for a hundred days? That seems like a lot, but it is only a little more than three months. My gut seesaws. I don’t know if I should be happy or sad about that.
“We’d better get to work, huh?” Jay slaps my back. “Come on.”
The phone on the wall rings, and Shell answers. “Hello?” Her face drops, like she bit into a mushy apple. “Yes, I’ll accept the charges,” she says, and glances at the clock. It’s six thirty-five. Who’s calling so early?
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 5