“Huh,” I grunt. I’ve never played a team sport, only the things they have you do in PE, which are more like fooling around. I’ve been good at reading for a long time and never had to work at it.
I think about the kids at school being picked up in their shiny new SUVs and driven to their fancy lessons and sports practices, and a pit of jealous rage opens up in the center of my chest. “Not all of us have had the privilege of doing sports.” I move away from Jay, ashamed of the bitterness in my voice but unable to keep it out.
Jay gives an incredulous snort. “Privilege? Who do you think I am?” His face, under its brown tone, turns red. “We live on your aunt Shell’s property, you know. Me and my sisters and my mom and mi abuela, all in that tiny house. I sleep on the couch.”
I cross my arms, not wanting to admit I’m wrong. That fire leaps from my skin straight to my tongue. “At least you have a house. At least you have a mother and a family. My mother’s dead. My father’s in jail.”
Jay’s face changes, goes mad. As mad as I am. He takes off his apron. “That’s true. But do you know where my father is? What happened there? Or do you even care? You’re not the only one bad stuff happens to, you know.” He pivots on his heel and walks away from me, calling to his mother, “I’m going to school.”
“It’s too early!” Jay’s mother cries.
“I’d rather sit outside the school than stay here.” Jay leaves out the back, slamming the door.
María gives me a questioning look. I stay by the sink, staring at the cracked dough stuck to the tins, and a memory comes to me of Jenna trying to read to me in kindergarten and getting frustrated. “I don’t care!” she’d cried, and flung the book. I’d picked it up and told her to try again. I’d encouraged her, like Jay was encouraging me. Jay’s being a good friend and I’m not.
Remorse floods through me. Wait! I want to yell. Nothing comes out. I stay where I am, staring at the scummy water. I wish I hadn’t thrown a fit or been mean to Jay. Biting my lip hard, I pull on a big pair of orange rubber gloves and do a really good job washing up.
Chapter 10
It takes me over an hour to get through the weekend mess. María shows me how to rinse the plates and coffee mugs and stack them in the big industrial dishwasher. I wash the mixing bowls by hand. Then I clean out the sink until it’s gleaming. After that, I mop the floor. This place probably hasn’t been so clean since it opened.
A while later, Shell comes into the sink area. I’m hoping she’ll tell me I did a good job, but instead she says, “Cady, let’s talk about what happened.”
I hunch my shoulders up to my ears. “What about it?”
“That kind of behavior is unacceptable. There are better ways to manage your anger.” Shell begins a mini-lecture about what those might be, but I’m not listening. My blood thumps around my temples.
I bet Shell’s thinking about calling the foster people or whoever and telling them to come get me. Maybe she already called. I nod once. Am I supposed to apologize? I think I am, but saying sorry makes me feel like I’m bad. I’ve only ever said sorry if a teacher or principal made me. Otherwise, I pretend like nothing happened. It’s worked okay before.
She gestures at the dishes. “Looks like you’re done. Why don’t I run you home?”
Shell still hasn’t said I did a good job, but I sure bet she’d tell me if I messed it up. “Can I stay?” I want to see Jay when he comes here after school. Besides, the thought of being alone in the house all day makes me super anxious. I’ll just be watching the clock, waiting for someone else to get home.
“Why don’t you go out front? Your face is all red and sweaty.” Shell leans against the wall. I can’t tell what she’s thinking any more than I can tell what a piece of stone thinks about our current president.
I release a breath I was holding for too long. “Can I try to make another pie instead?”
“Not today.”
I sag, trying to hide my disappointment.
“How about later, at home?” Shell suggests. “No big mixer, but I have the basics, and a recipe.”
I nod. “I guess that would be okay.”
Shell’s face softens. “Cady, I was your age when I started baking. And I can tell you getting every pie right, every time, then trying to make each one better than the one before, takes longer than one day.”
I know she’s right. Of course I do. On Bake Off they mostly show them during the competition. They don’t show much of the contestants before they got there, when they were practicing baking their breads and desserts hundreds or thousands of times. “It’s too bad that pie went to waste.”
“That’s not the first time some pie ended up on the floor, and it won’t be the last. Don’t worry about it.” Shell boxes up a pie.
And Jay—he’d tried to help me and I’d said all those mean things to him. What had happened to his father? “When does school get out?”
Shell’s eyes crinkle. “Jay doesn’t hold grudges. He gets out a little after two and he usually stops by here.”
I swallow, thinking of school. “Will I go to school here now, too?”
“Not this year.” Shell cocks her head at me. “You just have to finish the packet with this year’s work.”
I remember Ms. Walker’s neat classroom. The bookcase stuffed with board games we can play during free time. The baskets and baskets of books she has from fifteen years of teaching. The beanbag chairs on the carpet that you have to earn the privilege to sit in.
Ms. Walker had been my favorite teacher ever. She’d give me granola bars and apples to take with me. If a field trip required a fee, other teachers wrote on the permission slip, “Please see the teacher if paying this is a problem.” Dad would never admit to needing help. “We are not a charity case, Cady,” he’d say, and throw away the form no matter how much I cried about it. He’d call me in sick that day, or I’d have to go sit in another classroom.
This had happened only once with Ms. Walker. She knew. Maybe the other teachers talked, but Ms. Walker knew. After that, she always paid for me. I was grateful for it, though I never told her so. Because of her, I got to go on the Star of India overnight trip, the zoo, the county fair, and the tide pools—all places I’d never been. It makes my stomach ache to think of all the field trips I missed out on.
I wish I could tell Ms. Walker thank you. “Can I go to my promotion, though?”
Shell gives me a half smile. “I’ll ask.”
The front of the store consists of a small café, with wooden benches and tables and yellow cotton half curtains hanging on paned windows. Cartoony-looking apples splatter across old-fashioned wallpaper. A glass display case full of pie divides the eating space from the cash register. A pretty teenage girl stands there chomping gum, doodling a cartoon figure of a man on a motorcycle in a little notebook. She’s got long black hair pulled into a ponytail and covered in a hairnet. Her brown eyes are covered in thick black liner that look like sharp apostrophes on her lids.
“Cady, this is Jay’s older sister, Claudia.” Shell puts her hands on my shoulders, making me flinch. “She’ll show you what to do.”
Claudia sighs, a long-drawn-out sound that begins in her lungs and seems to come out through the top of her head.
Shell gives her a look.
“What?” she says.
“Spit out the gum.” Shell returns to the back.
Claudia leans over the trash can, spits, then stands there looking at me. Not in any kind of mean way, but like I’m a particularly boring plaid couch.
“I’m not going to have to do the register, am I? I mean, I could. Though I’m not that good with change. But I don’t even know if it’s legal. Is it legal?” Something about her silence is making me babble. Maybe I’m a little scared of her. Maybe I want her to like me. I haven’t decided yet.
Claudia’s mouth turns sideways. “Yeah, no, I’ll do that. You’ll clean the tables when people are done. And you can serve them more coffee. They get free refills.” She gesture
s to two coffeepots on burners. “The orange handle is decaf. The other is regular. Don’t confuse them or you’ll give one of these old people a heart attack. Okay?”
I swallow. That seems like a lot of responsibility. “Okay.”
María brings a pie in and puts it into the case. “Ma.” Claudia leans against the counter. “I’m going to take the bus into town this week. There’s a concert.”
“You know I don’t want you on the bus.” María slams the slider closed.
I wonder why. “I ride it all the time. It’s not bad.” I think I’m being helpful, but Claudia shoots me the death stare.
“That’s not why, Cady,” María says gently. She takes a breath, like she’s going to tell me something, but instead she goes back into the kitchen.
“I can’t take the bus, and you don’t want me on the motorcycle! How am I supposed to do anything?” Claudia yells after her.
“You should have gotten yourself a boyfriend with a car!” María yells back.
On cue, a motorcycle roars outside. The bell on the door tinkles, and a young man enters. His brown hair is shaved on the sides and thick and long on top. He’s wearing button earrings with roses on them and swings a plastic grocery bag. “Claudia! Here are your paints.”
“Thanks, baby.” She leans over the counter and he kisses her on the lips. For way too long. I have to look away.
He notices me anyway. “Who’s this kid staring at us?”
I draw myself upright. Watch out. Here comes my chin. “I’m Cady. It’s not my fault you’re doing that right in front of me. I was already here.”
Claudia laughs. “Oh, snap. She told you, Gable.”
“Great. Another sassbucket to deal with.” Gable smiles at me, though, and I see why Claudia likes him. In his skinny black jeans and white T-shirt, he reminds me of some lead singer in a band. He’s got tattoos all over his arms, roses winding around and disappearing up into his T-shirt. He and Claudia kiss again.
“No PDA in the store!” Shell booms from the back. “Gable, don’t you have to go to work?”
Gable and Claudia break their smooch. “Yes, Miss Shell.” Gable wipes Claudia’s lipstick from his mouth. “My parents said thanks for the eggs.”
“Tell them they’re welcome.” Shell sticks her head in. “You staying out of trouble?”
He nods vigorously. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Shell nods back at him and disappears again.
Wow. Gable seems like he’s afraid of Shell. Or maybe not afraid, exactly—like he respects her. He rubs Claudia’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later.” He turns and leaves.
Claudia watches him with a dopey, dreamy smile, as if he’s Prince Charming on a motorcycle.
“So that’s your boyfriend?” I say.
She lifts her head up. “We’re artists. We belong to no one.”
I check out her lovesick expression. She’s lying. I shrug. “Why’s he wearing flower earrings?”
Claudia kind of blushes. “Roses are his thing. He uses them in his paintings.”
I gesture at the paint. “You’re an artist, too. I saw your drawing. It’s really good.”
Claudia sticks the bag under the counter. “I’m not as good as he is.”
I remember what Shell said. “You probably need to practice more.”
She snorts. “You don’t know my life.”
The bell tinkles again and an elderly man with white hair and a cane comes in. He’s wearing rough-looking pants and a plaid shirt and vest, old-timey pioneer clothes. “What’s the word on the street, Miss Claudia?”
Claudia perks up to the point where she almost looks normal. “Good morning, Mr. Miniver! Your usual?”
Mr. Miniver nods, easing slowly into a chair, as if his bones are very fragile. “It’s going to be a hot one today. Dry as an old skeleton left in the desert for a dozen years.” He winks. “Better add some ice cream to my order. I’m volunteering at the museum today and I need my strength. The good thing about being my age is you can have pie à la mode for breakfast and nobody can tell you not to!”
Claudia opens the pie case and slices out a piece of apple, then puts it in the microwave. She pours a mug of decaf. “Take that to him.” She turns to help another customer.
Carefully I carry the mug to the table, trying not to spill. A little sloshes over anyway. Mr. Miniver squints up at me. His eyes are light blue, his skin covered in wrinkles and freckles. “Don’t tell me you’re old enough to be out of school. Who might you be?”
“I might be anyone,” I answer, setting the mug down, “but I am Cady.”
“Cady. The Cady? Shell’s niece?”
How does he know? Has Shell been talking about me—and what’s she been saying? Is it Ugh, I have to go get my poor little niece, or more like I’ve been so worried about my niece and I finally get to meet her? I swallow and brace myself for another round of who I look like, but he holds out his hand. “Good to meet you, Cady. It’s nice of you to help out.”
I shake it. His hand is thin, the skin papery, but the grip is strong. “It’s not like I had a choice, exactly. Not that I mind,” I add. Though my feet hurt and I’ve sweated out about three gallons of water, to my surprise, it beats sitting in a dark room and watching television.
Mr. Miniver tears open a tiny canister of half-and-half and adds it to his coffee. Then another, and another.
“We should have given you cream and let you add the coffee to it,” I observe.
Mr. Miniver laughs, a scratchy sound. “Exactly! The coffee gives me a bit of reflux”—he pounds his chest—“and it’s decaf, but old habits. You know how it is.” He winks. “Say, Claudia, would you box me up an apple crumb? Nancy Mason is laid up and I want to drop it by.”
Claudia winks back at him. “Are you into Mrs. Mason?”
“Far too young for me. She’s only seventy-three. Just being a good neighbor.” He points to his cup. “Ah, Cady. If you please.” Somehow he’s drunk half the liquid already.
“As you wish.” I drop into a bow. It seems kind of British. Mr. Miniver laughs again. I go back to the counter and get the coffeepot.
A few more regulars come in, and Mr. Miniver greets each and introduces me. Then we get two tourist customers, and Mr. Miniver talks to them like they’re his friends, too. I’ve never actually seen anyone act like that—my dad wouldn’t normally greet strangers. I think the tourists believe he’s Shell’s mascot, because of the costume.
Seeing Mr. Miniver act so friendly makes me braver. I clear away people’s plates and ask if they want more coffee, and I don’t spill once. Well, maybe a little, but I cleaned it up right away. It’s not going to be so bad, working here.
Chapter 11
I wait in the café for Jay after school, doing the worksheet packet. There isn’t that much, because testing’s over and we don’t do a lot at the end of the year. Just some math and a note that tells me to read twenty minutes every day, with a heart on it from Ms. Walker. I draw a smiley face on the heart and zip through the work.
It did get hot today, with one window unit futilely pumping air and fans blowing it around. There are zero customers after lunch. Who can be in the mood for pie when it’s so warm? This is ice-cream weather.
It gives me a nervous feeling to see the pies sitting, mostly whole, on the shelves. They should be getting eaten. How long before pies go bad?
“Mondays are always like that, but Tuesdays are worse,” Claudia tells me. “That’s why we’re closed on Tuesdays. Sometimes people stay in the mountains for a Monday, but almost never for a Tuesday.” Claudia goes in the back.
I sit at a table in the empty restaurant, watching the people outside wandering around. Hardly any are coming up this way—do they even know we’re up on this side street? I yawn—I’m so tired from working that I snuck a sip of coffee. Which I immediately wished I hadn’t. It was like drinking hot dirty water.
Claudia plops a bundle of letters down in front of me, secured with
a rubber band. “Here. Take these to the mailbox.”
“I don’t know where that is.” I push them away from me. I don’t want to miss Jay, and besides, it’s really hot.
“Corner of Main and Washington, across from the town hall. It’s only like a block. Don’t be a baby.” Claudia marches back to her spot behind the counter.
I grunt. Jay was right about her. But I don’t necessarily want to fight with Claudia. I mean, I’ve already made her brother mad. The whole family could turn against me. I pick up the letters and head outside.
The sun practically scorches my skin off. I squint against the glare bouncing off car windshields and walk down the hill to Main Street, make a left, and start past the stores.
I can’t help but look at the top letter. These aren’t greeting cards or anything. It’s addressed to “ASI Collections Agency.” I’m not sure what “collections” means, exactly, but I have the feeling it’s some kind of bill. There are three of those and a bunch to other places, like the power company.
I put the rubber band back in place. It felt sneaky to do that, but it’s not like this is a government secret, right? While I’m paying attention to the letters, I almost bump into a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk. GRANDMA’S PIES, it says in blue, listing the specials. Besides apple, they’ve got four other flavors, plus cinnamon ice cream. There’s a line of people inside.
Why doesn’t Shell have a sign like that? If we could just get a few customers, I bet it’d help a lot. A piece of blue chalk lies next to the sign, and I notice there’s a lot of blank space to the right of the specials.
Quickly I pick up the chalk and look around. Nobody’s watching. Then I write, “GO TO SHELL’S” with an arrow pointing in the direction of our store. My heart beating fast, I sprint away, not stopping until I reach the mailbox on the other side of the street, and accidentally throw the chalk in there too with the mail.
I start shaking. Why did I do that? I feel as bad as I did that time Dad told me to shoplift a PowerBar, but it had to be done. Sometimes, Dad says, you have to do things you don’t want to do to survive. This wasn’t illegal. I don’t think. It was just chalk. I walk as quickly as I can back to the shop. Nobody from Grandma’s comes out to chase me.
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 7