“It’s ruined!” Jillian cried. “I’ve ruined the rugelach!”
“On the contrary, your triangles are perfectly imperfect! Absolutely wonderful.”
Starting at the wide end of the triangles, they took turns rolling the wedges of dough. When done, Jillian pouted.
“Look, Jillian. Each one is unique—flawed, oddly shaped, and curious. That’s what makes them delightful.”
“No, they’re ugly!”
“How could anything made with love be ugly? You cut them exactly the way they were supposed to be.”
“But I want them to be perfect.”
“Perfection only comes when you realize that perfection is unattainable. Someday you will understand.”
Jillian turned off the bedroom light and drifted to sleep, thinking about her grandmother’s perfectly imperfect blueberry pie.
With Chad’s help, Jack completed the five-minute video. Now, he faced one last hurdle: getting one of his parents to sign the application.
“I’ve been studying extra hard,” Jack pleaded during dinner. “I got an A minus on my social studies quiz. I’ll take out the garbage until I’m forty-five. Pleeeaaaasssse!”
Bruce remained silent, secretly plotting a way to get revenge for the “cricket calamity,” as the incident had become known around the Fineman house.
“We’ll see,” Mrs. Fineman said.
“Look, I’ll even eat my peas!”
“Jack, you always eat your peas,” Mr. Fineman said. “You love peas. And Brussels sprouts and fried cabbage. That’s not going to work.”
Bracing himself for another buckle-down-at-school lecture, Jack brought the application paperwork to his father’s study later that evening. Mr. Fineman took the questionnaire and read out loud:
Is there anyone else in your household who bakes?
No. Jack tried to teach us, but he gave up after one lesson. He said it was like trying to show an alpaca how to ice a Napoleon.
“An alpaca?” Mr. Fineman said. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, an alpaca doesn’t have an opposable thumb … ” Jack began.
“We were supposed to write this, not you. I would never have said this.”
“I thought I’d save you the trouble.”
Mr. Fineman read further:
Does your child have a favorite pastry or cookie they recently prepared?
Jack’s Oatmeal Cricket Cookies were delicious—a stunning combination of a traditional grain and chirping insect. His brother Bruce was crazy about them.
The more his father read, the more he became convinced there was little chance Farnsworth would pick Jack. So he signed the application.
When Mrs. Fineman found out, she was furious.
“I can’t believe you let him enter!” she said. “You know how I feel about Phineas Farnsworth III. I’ll never trust anything that man touches. What if Jack gets chosen?”
“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” Mr. Fineman said. “In the application, he mentioned the crickets.”
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“You’re right. We don’t have anything to worry about. But what if he doesn’t get picked? Then his lifelong dream will be over. What will we say to him? He’ll be devastated.”
“I know. I guess this is what you call a no-win situation.”
Chapter 14
Jack had always been confident about his baking skills, but the days leading up to Farnsworth’s announcement of who would be picked filled him with doubt. From the buzz around his homeroom and the cafeteria, Jack estimated that most of Ms. Riedel’s sixth-grade class had applied to be contestants.
Jack dismissed the idea that Jillian had entered. After their class project, she returned to her seat in the back, where she remained quiet unless called upon. The girl who had laughed so hard about the cricket cookies didn’t seem capable of even a faint smile now.
During the evening news, Farnsworth mentioned that the deadline for sending in applications had ended. The camera panned to a stack of papers reaching from the top of his desk to the top of his bald head.
“Well, young bakers of Ardmore, it looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me,” Farnsworth said. “It won’t be easy whittling this down to only six contestants, I assure you.”
The size of the stack staggered Jack. It never occurred to him so many kids in his hometown were interested in baking. And Ardmore was only one town in a state teeming with towns just like it—in a country with thousands of Ardmores and hundreds of thousands of kids like Jack. He would have to rise above the seven billion inhabitants of Earth to become the planet’s top pastry chef. But first he had to rule his own little corner of the world.
Have my parents and Bruce been right all along? Maybe I am wasting my time.
Jillian also saw the mountain of applications on TV. She imagined countless other kids making rugelach, or macaroons, or paczkis with their grandmothers. Even in a town the size of Ardmore, she figured there were lots of kids like her with families who could use the prize money.
I’ll probably get passed over. If so, I’ll have to think of another way to help Dad.
Over the last few days, Jillian watched her father drag himself into the house. His hands and lips were cracked from the brutal cold. Last Sunday he had skipped their Scrabble game and fell straight into bed.
Jillian figured that if her father knew she was entering the contest to help him with money, he might discourage her from applying. So, when she had handed him the forms, she told him it was a permission slip for a school field trip.
Her stomach clenched thinking about the lies that had begun to pile up.
Sorry, Mom, she thought. I have to do this for the family. I know you would understand. I’m just being perfectly imperfect.
Jack fidgeted in his chair. He doodled on his math quiz and repeatedly cracked his knuckles until there was no crack left. To his teacher’s annoyance, he asked to go to the restroom three times before lunch.
“What’s wrong with you, dude?” Chad asked.
“Farnsworth is announcing the contestants tonight. Channel 25 is running a special on the history of the Bonanza. And at the end of the show …” Jack trailed off, glancing at the clock. “Ugh, seven more hours of agony,” he said.
“What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“I don’t get picked.”
“Nope, you’re wrong. There’s something worse. You don’t get picked and Bruce forces you to wear his pair of lilac-and-jade pants. Oh, and then he attacks you with a pitching wedge.”
Jack laughed. “Can you come over? I’m going to need someone rooting for me.”
“I’ll be there, Chef Fineman. And I won’t let Mr. Checkered-Pants-Golfing-Stupid-Guy get you, either.”
After dinner, Jack and his family gathered around the television. Bruce agreed to join them, certain he would be performing a victory dance when Jack’s name wasn’t called. His parents tried to get comfortable on their recliners, hoping for the best outcome, though they weren’t entirely sure what that would be. Chad secretly brought a bag of blue and gold glitter and an air horn—the kind with explicit instructions saying, Not for Indoor Use.
Jack remained unusually quiet. His father kept glancing at his watch while his mother frowned every time Farnsworth appeared on the screen. Bruce pretended to ignore the show and practiced putting a golf ball across the living room into a glass lying on its side. The plinking sound was driving Jack nuts.
Finally, it was time. All eyes in the Finemans’ living room turned to the towering man in the three-piece suit holding six pieces of paper.
“Before I begin, let me say, Ardmore, Ohio, you have done yourself proud,” Farnsworth said. “As I had predicted, it was extremely difficult finding the best two candidates to represent each of the three schools in the Bakerstown Bonanza. There were many exceptional applications.”
Mr. Fineman shot a nervous look at his wife.
“An
d now the finalists.”
Jack leaned in.
“The team from Feldspar Math and Science Institute will be made up of twelve-year-old Quentin Lindenberg and thirteen-year-old Marcia Thorne.” A short clip from each of their videos played, showing Quentin baking treats for his cats and rescue ferret, and Marcia decorating cakes for her one-year-old triplet brothers.
“Representing Old Harbor Academy will be twelve-year-old Veronica Hartman and eleven-year-old Reginald Nestland.” Veronica’s video showed her at the Ardmore Nursing Home giving a cooking class to the elderly residents. Reginald decorated the top of a cake with a lifelike portrait of Phineas Farnsworth III.
Jack tried to swallow. Bruce put down his club and practiced a jig. Chad clutched the bag of glitter and positioned his finger on the trigger of the air horn. Jack’s parents gripped the arms of their recliners.
“And finally, the eleven-year-old bakers from Sieberling School are …”
Mr. and Mrs. Fineman reached out and grasped hands.
“Jillian Mermelstein and Jack Fineman.”
Jack let out a piercing shriek five times louder than his yelp after first tasting solid food. Bruce covered his ears. Mr. and Mrs. Fineman nearly fainted, wondering how the cricket cookies had not instantly disqualified Jack from consideration.
“I knew it! I knew it! Farnsworth had to pick me! He just had to! BOOM!”
Chad unleashed the bag of glitter and blasted the air horn: HOOONNNNK! HOOONNNNNNK!
Jack paused to view Jillian’s video clip, which showed her making rugelach with Grandma Rita and talking about her special wooden spoon.
Mr. Fineman watched in shock as his son’s video played. Jack shouted out lyrics to a Zombie Brunch song and threw ingredients into his Farnsworth Deluxe 5000 Food Processor. The camera zoomed in. “Get a good look at the next big thing from Ardmore, folks! Remember the name—Jack Fineman. I rock! I rule! I am the king! Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!”
“Congratulations, Jack,” Mr. Fineman said, vigorously patting him on the back and reminding him not to forget to finish his report on the Civil War. “Remember, it’s due next week.”
Mrs. Fineman gave her son a warm hug. “We hope this lives up to your dreams, Jack,” she said. “We know this means a lot to you. Now go get ’em.”
Sweat covering his forehead, Jack bounded around the room. Then it dawned on him. He finally had his answer about the chocolate rugelach.
Jillian made it! But she had help—her grandmother.
Jack was about to share this news with Chad when Mrs. Fineman thrust a vacuum cleaner into his hands. “We are really proud of you,” she said. “But before you celebrate anymore, I suggest you and your friend clean up every speck of this glitter. It’s everywhere.”
When Jillian and Grandma Rita heard Farnsworth’s announcement, they fell into each other’s arms and jumped up and down. Then they clinked glasses of sparkling grape juice that Grandma Rita had saved for the occasion.
“A toast to Jillian Mermelstein! You’re going to be great!” Grandma Rita said. “I’m sure of it.”
“But why … why would they put me with Jack Fineman?” Jillian asked. “We had fun doing the science project together, but did you see his video? We couldn’t be more different in the kitchen.”
“He’s the cocky contestant—the one everyone wants to see go down in defeat. I’ve watched some of these cooking reality shows. They often pair a Jack with someone like you—the person everyone roots for. It makes for good drama and higher ratings.”
“Then how am I going to win? We’re on a team!”
“Maybe the answer is in your mother’s recipe book.”
Chapter 15
When Jack and Jillian arrived at school the next day, their classmates froze as if a pair of Hollywood’s hottest celebrities had just casually ambled into homeroom. Two soon-to-be baking stars sat amongst them, no longer mere sixth-graders concerned about everyday worries like story problems or science projects.
After an awkward moment, their classmates swarmed Jack’s and Jillian’s desks, giving them high fives and fist bumps.
Frieda Johnston asked Jack for an autograph.
“For my little sister,” she said.
The clique of popular girls who had never uttered a word to Jillian shoved phones in her face and took selfies with her. They did the same with Jack, who stuck out his tongue and held up a victory sign for the cameras. One of them was Amy Eppington.
Crush back on! Jack thought. Best … day … of … my … life!
Jillian revived her wish to be a seventeen-year cicada. Deep underground.
Chad stood by Jack’s desk. Flecks of blue and gold glitter dotted his red hair.
“Yeah, I was the guy behind the camera,” he said, as if accepting an Academy Award. “I’d like to thank my family for their support, all my friends in the Sieberling Audiovisual Club, the guy at the electronics outlet who helped me pick out …”
Everyone returned to their desks when Ms. Riedel appeared in front of the class.
“Well, this is certainly an exciting day, isn’t it?” she said, looking at Jillian and Jack. “I am so proud to have two of my students representing Sieberling School in the baking contest. Congratulations!”
Jack stood and bowed. Jillian sheepishly raised her right hand and gave a slight wave.
“Now open your grammar books. Today we’re going to learn the difference between a colon and a semicolon.”
That’s it? Jack thought. A few selfies, a round of congratulations, and, boom, we move on to punctuation?
Ms. Riedel drew a colon and a semicolon on the blackboard.
“These two little marks may look similar, but don’t be fooled.”
Jack refused to open his textbook. He expected much more—a parade, fireworks, or Zombie Brunch coming out of retirement to greet him at the school’s entrance. Instead, he got a grammar lesson.
Ms. Riedel noticed the closed book on Jack’s desk and his defiant expression.
“Jack, life isn’t going to stop because you’ll be part of the Bakerstown Bonanza. We’ve got work to do. The lesson begins on page thirty-eight.”
“But …”
“Page thirty-eight.”
At lunch, Jack plopped his tray in front of Jillian. She sat in her usual spot in the back right corner of the cafeteria under the A Good Book Can Take You Anywhere poster, where she quietly read. This time, however, she wasn’t alone. A group of fourth-graders milled about asking for autographs.
“Will you please sign my corn chip?” one asked.
Jillian took out a black marker and wrote her initials in the center of the nacho-flavored snack. She carved what faintly resembled a J and M, which was hard to do with cheese dust covering the tip of the marker.
“Thank you,” he gushed. “This is going to be worth a lot of money.”
“Strange day, huh?” Jack asked.
“From now on I’m charging for autographs,” Jillian replied. “One dollar for a chip, two for a banana, three for a pint of chocolate milk, and five for a bologna sandwich.”
“I’ll pass that on to Bruce. Do you sign bags of dried crickets, too?”
“Yes, but that’ll cost you a Hamilton.”
Jack laughed. Of all the students at Sieberling School, he concluded that Jillian was the perfect baking companion, noting that she had a good sense of humor and wasn’t afraid to take some risks in the kitchen. He seized the moment to learn more about his partner.
“Well, looks like we’re teammates,” he said.
“Yep,” she replied, putting down her book.
“Chad and I had a big celebration last night when Farnsworth read my name.”
“I bet it involved glitter. There’s still some in your eyebrows.”
“Who’d you watch with?”
“Grandma Rita.”
“I saw you making rugelach with her in the video. Is she a big fan of Farnsworth like you?” Jack assumed that anyone who enjoyed baking
worshipped his favorite tycoon.
Jillian hesitated before she answered. It would be simple to tell another lie and make things easier with Jack. Instead, the truth spilled out.
“No, she doesn’t like him and neither do I.”
“Yeah, he’s the greatest … Wait, what did you say?”
“I said I can’t stand him. He’s a bully—and he’s mean. Besides, he doesn’t know the first thing about baking. I can tell.”
Jack reeled back as if Jillian had struck him squarely on the forehead with one of Farnsworth’s designer skillets. To him, saying Phineas Farnsworth III didn’t know anything about baking was like accusing Einstein of not being able to solve one of Ms. Riedel’s story problems.
I was wrong! I wouldn’t have chosen Jillian at all!
“Farnsworth isn’t mean. He has high standards. And look at what he’s done for Ardmore. His family name is on half the buildings in this city. My dream is to be as famous as him someday. No, even more famous. My own pastry shops, my own cookware, my own TV show, my own—everything!”
Jillian remembered her mother’s words: If you don’t have a dream to keep you going, you’re just sleepwalking through life. She listened as Jack rambled on about his dream of having his name and face plastered everywhere. To her, it sounded more like a nightmare.
“Okay, if you don’t like Farnsworth, you must have a favorite chef at least?” Jack continued. “I bet it’s Gregory Pritchard—he won the Bonanza in 1996 with his Five-Flavor O’ Fudge Mountain. Oh, it’s probably Melanie Etheridge. After her Razzle Dazzle Raspberry Triple Decker Flan won in 1964, so many people wanted to make it that there was a nationwide shortage of raspberries.”
Jillian looked straight at Jack. “I don’t know any of them. I never heard of Farnsworth or the Bonanza until I moved here.”
Jack gave Jillian another hit-on-the-forehead-with-a-skillet look.
“Then why did you apply? What’s your dream?”
This was what Jillian feared most about being in the spotlight. Questions she didn’t want to answer. The fact was, Jillian did have a dream—an impossible one. She wanted her mother back.
“That’s my business, not yours.”
$150,000 Rugelach Page 6