From the Desk of Zoe Washington

by Janae Marks

  In the middle of watching my second episode of Kids Bake Challenge!, I finally heard the boys go inside Trevor’s house. I paused the episode so I could sprint to the mailbox.

  I was covered in sweat when I was done, but at least my letter to Marcus was on its way.

  Chapter Six

  If I was going to keep Marcus’s letters a secret from Mom and Dad, I had to make sure I checked our mail before they did. This wasn’t hard during the week when they were at work and I was home with Grandma. I paid special attention to our mail delivery for three days, and figured out that our mail carrier always came to our house between twelve and twelve thirty p.m. I set an alarm on my phone for noon so I could look through the mail as soon as it arrived.

  On Saturdays I would have to make sure I got to the mail before my parents did. On the first Saturday after I mailed my letter to Marcus, my parents and I went to breakfast at the Broken Egg. It was a hole-in-the-wall place in Davis Square whose menu had twenty different egg dishes and another twenty pancake varieties. We always got there early, before it filled up with college students. The three of us squished into a tiny wooden booth in the corner of the restaurant. When our food arrived, it took up the whole table. Dad got eggs Benedict with a side of potatoes, and Mom got a veggie omelet with fresh avocado on top. I got the triple-berry pancakes, which were sprinkled with powdered sugar. They were the fluffiest pancakes ever, and I loved that they were both sweet and tangy—my favorite combination.

  “I want to ask you something,” I told my parents between bites.

  “The answer’s yes,” Dad said.

  How did he know what I was going to ask?

  But then he said, “You do have powdered sugar on your nose,” and smiled.

  “Dad! That wasn’t my question!” I laughed. Still, I wiped my nose off with my napkin. “Okay, so, you know Ruby Willow, the girl who wrote the cookbook Trevor gave me, is twelve like me,” I said. “Well, actually, I think she’s thirteen now, but she was twelve when she won the baking show.”

  Mom picked up the creamer and poured some into her coffee mug, which had the restaurant’s logo: an illustration of a cracked egg with a smiley face. “Of course. She won the Kids Bake Challenge!”

  “Yes! That’s her.”

  “That’s the show where that one kid made a brownie look like a hamburger, right?” Dad asked. He didn’t usually watch the show with us.

  “Right!” The episodes where the contestants had to make “dessert impostors”—desserts that looked like savory foods—were always my favorites.

  “So Ruby Willow won. And she got twenty. Thousand. Dollars.” I said it slowly, for effect.

  Dad almost choked on his orange juice. “Did you say twenty thousand dollars?”

  I smiled. “Yup. The winner also gets to publish their own cookbook. Like Ruby Willow’s.”

  “Wow. Well, that is impressive.”

  “I know. She’s amazing. Remember how I said I wanted to be on the show? Well, I just found out that the Food Network is about to cast the next season, so you can apply until the middle of September. I’m finally old enough. Will you fill out the application for me?”

  Mom and Dad gave each other a look, like they weren’t sure how to answer.

  “It would be an amazing learning experience,” I added. “I’ve been baking at home for so long, but if I got on the show, I could learn from the mentors and judges—real, professional bakers.”

  “You’re sure you want to be on TV?” Dad asked.

  “I want to win the competition, and it’s on TV, so yeah . . .” To be honest, I was a little nervous about the being-on-TV part, but I was pretty sure I could handle it. It wasn’t like I would be acting in a sitcom or something. I’d just be myself.

  “I know I said we could talk about this when you were old enough, but I’m not sure . . . ,” Mom said.

  “Why not?” I asked. “If I won, the money could go into my college fund.”

  “True,” Dad said. “When does the filming happen? During school?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “And I assume you have to travel somewhere for the filming?” Mom asked. “I didn’t think they filmed in Boston.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” I said.

  “Hmm,” Mom said, giving Dad another meaningful look.

  “Before you say no, let me get you more of the details,” I said. “You always say you can’t make an informed decision until you know all the facts, right?”

  “That’s true,” Mom said.

  “Great. I’ll show you the website when we get home,” I said. It would be the perfect distraction while I snuck off to check the mail. “In the meantime, it’s not a no, right?”

  “It’s not a no,” Dad said.

  “But it’s not a yes either,” Mom added.

  It was a maybe. I could work with that.

  The next morning, Mom and I headed to the farmers market, which we did most weekends during the summer. We’d get to the market right when it opened at nine a.m., so we could see the best selection. We’d learned our lesson two summers earlier when we got to the market later in the morning and all of the best produce was gone. Sometimes there was live music. Today, a girl was playing a pop song I recognized from the radio on her violin.

  “Are Jasmine and Maya gone yet?” Mom asked me as we walked along the different tables, keeping our eyes out for free samples.

  “Yeah. I miss them.”

  We stopped in front of a fruit vendor. On the table were little blue cardboard cartons of blueberries, blackberries, and raspberries, and the tarts on the cover of Ruby Willow’s cookbook sprang into my mind. Then I remembered the recipe for lemon blueberry pie that was inside it, so I picked up a container of the blueberries.

  “Can I get these?” I asked Mom.

  “Sure. Let’s get some of these cherries, too.” She grabbed a carton of those and walked to the guy behind the cashbox to pay. “I know you hate when they go away, but you still manage to have fun during the summer, right?”

  I did, back when I still had Trevor.

  “I guess,” I said.

  I grabbed one of the blueberries before Mom put the carton in her tote bag and popped it into my mouth. It was perfectly juicy.

  Mom turned to me and pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Okay, so I have some good news.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Your dad and I looked at the website for the cooking show you want to be on.”

  I gripped Mom’s arm. “And?”

  “And . . . we’re not sure you’re ready for something like that.”

  I let go of her and frowned. “I’m ready!”

  “Just listen. We’re not sure right now, but we’re going to give you a chance to prove it to us.”

  “Do you want me to bake all of the recipes in Ruby Willow’s cookbook? Because I can.” I’d already thought that it would be good practice. “That’s what the blueberries are for.”

  We were still standing right next to the fruit vendor, which was getting more crowded by the second, so Mom and I moved out of the way. We ended up in front of a table with different homemade soaps and lotions that smelled like vanilla and lavender. Some of the soaps had pressed flowers.

  “That sounds great,” Mom told me as she smelled one of the soaps. “But what do you think about doing an internship at a bakery this summer?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I talked to Ariana last night, and she said she can always use extra help during the summer, since the bakery is extra busy. You can go over and help her out once a week, and she can also teach you some of her baking tricks.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yup. If you do a good job—if Ari gives you a positive review—then at the end of the summer, you can apply to the Food Network show.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I could be on the Kids Bake Challenge! and intern at a real, professional bakery.

  “Thank you so much!” I tac
kled Mom with a hug.

  She laughed as she hugged me back. “You’re welcome. But don’t get too excited yet. You still have a lot of work to do. Working in a bakery is not easy.”

  I could totally handle it.

  “When do I start?”

  “Tomorrow. Dad will drop you off on the way to work, and you’ll stay for the first half of the day. Then he’ll pick you up around lunchtime. How does that sound?”

  “Amazing!” I grinned.

  If I was gone for only half a day, then I could still check the mail for a letter from Marcus when I got home.

  I hated that I had to pay so much attention to the mail. But maybe I wouldn’t have to.

  We continued our loop around the market and passed by four vendors before I built up the nerve to say, “Mom? Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Would you ever let me speak to Marcus?” I asked. “Like, maybe send him a letter in prison?”

  Mom stopped walking and her expression got serious. “Marcus?” She said his name like it tasted rotten. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Because he’s my dad. I mean, you know. My birth dad.”

  “He may have had something to do with your birth, but that’s it.” Mom’s voice hardened. “He’s never even seen you.”

  “Because I’m not allowed to visit him. Right?” I asked.

  “Right,” she said. “I’m not taking you to a prison.”

  “But shouldn’t I get to decide if I want to know him?” I asked.

  “When you’re an adult, if that’s what you want, I can’t stop you. But right now, you’re still a child,” Mom said.

  I frowned. “You act like I’m a baby. I’m twelve now, practically a teenager.”

  Mom shook her head. “There’s still so much you don’t know.”

  “So tell me!”

  I didn’t mean for it to come out so loud. A few people turned their heads to look at us.

  Mom pulled me away from the center of the market, and we ended up next to a big oak tree. She put her hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eyes. “Listen to me. Marcus is not a good man. He lies and manipulates people. And he’s a convicted murderer. I don’t want him in your life. You have to understand.” She paused. “Where is this coming from? Why are you asking about this now?”

  “No reason,” I mumbled.

  “Are you sure?” Mom asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She exhaled. “Let’s go home.”

  I silently followed Mom to where we parked our car. My chest felt tight.

  Mom wasn’t being fair. I wasn’t a little kid anymore. I was old enough to figure out for myself how I felt about him. Besides, Marcus couldn’t hurt me from behind bars.

  I had no choice—his letters would have to stay secret.

  Chapter Seven

  Dad and I got “the look” again on our way to my first day at Ari’s Cakes. The look we got sometimes when we were out together, just the two of us. Dad parked the car a block away from the bakery. As we were getting out, an older white lady walked by and stared at us a little too long, her face twisting into a confused and judgmental glare. I knew exactly what that look meant. She was wondering why a Black girl was getting out of a white man’s car. What we were doing together.

  My face got hot.

  “Hey, Dad?” I said, extra loud so the woman would hear.

  “Yes, kiddo?”

  “Do you have quarters for the meter?” I asked.

  “Yup, right here,” he said.

  I peered behind me to see if the woman was still staring. But she had gone back to walking.

  I shook my head at her. Good riddance.

  When Dad and I walked into Ari’s Cakes a few minutes later, I could see why Ariana had said she needed extra help. The place was packed, with a line weaving around the front area of the shop.

  “Do you think it’s always like this in the morning?” I asked Dad as we squeezed around customers to get to the counter.

  “Maybe it’s because everyone’s off for the Fourth of July,” he said.

  “Um, there’s a line,” someone said, and when I turned toward the voice, I saw it belonged to a teenage girl with glasses. She glared at me.

  I said, “Oh, I’m not . . . I’m actually . . .”

  “Zoe!” I whipped around toward Ariana’s voice. She waved me over to where she stood behind the counter in a pale-blue apron—the shop’s signature color. She was also wearing a pale-blue baseball cap with the Ari’s Cakes logo on it, her wavy brown hair tied back into a low bun. “So glad you’re here. It’s super busy today.”

  I glanced back at the girl with the glasses, so I could show her that I wasn’t cutting the line, that I knew the owner. But now she was staring at her phone. Oh well.

  When Dad and I reached the counter, Ariana pulled us behind it and gave me a hug. “Nice to see you, lady. Hey, Paul,” she said to Dad.

  He was holding up his travel mug. “Mind if I grab some coffee before I go?”

  “Sure thing.” Ariana took the mug from Dad and filled it. “On the house.”

  Once he had his mug back, Dad said, “Thank you. Zo, I’ll see you at noon. Have fun.” Since it was a holiday, he didn’t have to go to work, so he’d be the one to pick me up when I was done.

  After I said goodbye, Ariana brought me to the back. It was less hectic than the front, but not by much. There were fewer people back there, but they were all bustling around, getting work done. The kitchen smelled amazing—like cake batter and chocolate. I’d bottle it up if I could.

  “This is our busiest day of the summer,” Ariana told me. “Everyone wants cupcakes for their Independence Day barbecues.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “I’ll introduce you around and give you a quick tour, and then I’ll set you up with a project.”

  A project. I couldn’t wait to see what Ariana had planned for me to do. Would I get to help decorate cupcakes? Or use all of their huge equipment to mix batter? Or maybe Ariana would use my help at the front, since it was so busy. I could take the cupcakes out of the case and box them up to hand to the customers. That could be fun, but I really hoped I’d get to help with baking.

  Ariana went into a closet and pulled out another pale-blue apron that matched hers, with the Ari’s Cakes logo embroidered on it. She also handed me a hat. “Here you go. Now you’re an official employee.”

  The apron was a little big, but I adjusted the neck strap and tied the belt in a bow. I got to wear an apron when I had my birthday party at the bakery, but that one had been plain black. Now, I felt like a real pastry chef. I looked down at it and beamed. I thought about asking Ariana to take my picture, but I didn’t want to seem like an amateur.

  When I was here for my birthday, I only got a quick look at the bakery’s kitchen. We spent the rest of the time in the party room, which had its own professional ovens. This main kitchen wasn’t super big, but it seemed well organized. On one side was a wall of ovens, a commercial stove with six burners, and a large sink. On the opposite wall was the biggest stand mixer I’d ever seen in my life. It was practically as tall as me! I bet I could fit inside the mixing bowl. Next to it was a table with large containers of flour and sugar underneath. Against the middle wall were a few tall cooling racks, and in the center of the room were two long stainless-steel tables.

  On one of the tables were several pans of dark-red cupcakes; they had to be red velvet. An employee—a pale girl also wearing an Ari’s Cakes baseball cap, with a shooting-star tattoo on her forearm—held a huge piping bag of white frosting, which she piped on the rows of cupcakes faster than I’d ever seen before.

  “That’s Liz,” Ariana said. “She graduated from culinary school a couple of years ago. She’s our second-best icing froster. The best being me, of course.” She winked.

  Liz looked up briefly to give a quick wave and smile before going back to pip
ing.

  “Next to her is Corey,” Ariana said. Corey was tall and skinny, with dark-brown skin. He followed behind Liz, carefully sprinkling red and blue star sprinkles on top of the cupcakes she’d just iced. “He goes to Boston University. This is his second summer with us.”

  Corey said, “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here,” I said.

  “This is Zoe,” Ariana told them. “She’s helping us out on Monday mornings.”

  I could stare at the Liz and Corey assembly line for hours. It was so mesmerizing to see plain cupcakes become beautifully decorated within seconds. But I couldn’t keep watching them because Ariana was already moving on to the next thing. I followed her to the stand mixer. An older man wearing a white chef’s coat and a black-and-white bandanna on his head stood in front of it, peering inside as the huge beater spun around to mix the batter.

  “Hey, Vincent—this is Zoe. She’s our new helper on Mondays.” She turned to me. “Vincent is our head pastry chef. He takes care of most of the baking, along with Rosa.” She pointed halfway down the room to a woman dragging a huge bag of flour across the floor.

  “Hello,” Vincent said, barely making eye contact with me.

  “Where are we on red velvet?” Ariana asked him.

  “Next batch is out of the oven in about five minutes,” he told her. “And I’m mixing more batter right now.”

  “Great.” Ariana turned to me. “Our signature Fourth of July cupcake is red velvet with cream cheese frosting. You saw Liz and Corey decorating them. We’re selling a ton this morning. Want to try one?”

  A cupcake for breakfast? “Yeah!”

  Ariana handed me one of the cupcakes Liz and Corey just finished decorating. I took a bite and broke out in a grin. It was delicious. The cake was rich and moist, and the cream cheese icing was so smooth. I gobbled it all up in a few more bites.

  With a laugh, Ariana said, “So I guess you didn’t like it?”

  “It was amazing,” I said, reaching for the bottle of water in my backpack.

  “Okay, back to work.” She led me to a walk-in closet in the corner of the kitchen. Inside were a bunch of shelves holding cardboard boxes. Ariana grabbed a large one and led me back into the kitchen to an empty table. Then she went back and got a few more.