“Gotta dream big. Gotta dream big,” Jack said, gaining confidence.
“Smart boy. I’d say you’re well on your way. And from your video, it’s rather clear to me you have a fine chance of winning the Bonanza. I could almost taste your cannolis with pumpkin spice and pistachio filling. I might even have to steal the recipe,” he said, letting out a laugh.
No way! Phineas Farnsworth III liked my cannolis. Boom!
“Just wait until tomorrow. Jillian and I will be making something even better for the Bonanza!”
Farnsworth rose from the chair and slowly began pacing around Jack. His expensive shoes echoed off the concrete floor.
“Ah, Jillian. She’s the problem—the fly in the batter. The one standing in your way.”
“Jillian’s not a problem,” Jack said, confused. “She’s an incredible baker.”
“That may be true, but she has refused to honor my simple … innocent … harmless request to talk about her mother. I instructed Liz to make this crystal clear to Jillian, and she blew her chance at the press conference.”
“But why does it matter?” Jack asked. “We’re going to rule at the contest tomorrow whether she talks about her mother or not!”
“The Bonanza is about more than baking. Our contestants’ stories are equally important. And Jillian has a great one to tell about how she learned to bake. But she is unwilling to share it. How could anyone throw away so much for so little?”
So little? Jack thought. It’s not little to Jillian.
“How do you know about her mother?” Jack asked.
“Oh, you can learn a lot from a simple Google search.”
Jack didn’t know what to say.
“You need to convince Jillian to talk about her mother … the wooden spoon … her memories. Doing so will truly make this the greatest Bonanza in our seventy-five-year history. You can make this happen. Plus, there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It will help your chances of winning.”
“You mean if Jillian does what you ask …”
“As I said, there are no guarantees in life, but yes,” Farnsworth said, winking. “Imagine this—the Culinary Education Center for your school, seventy-five thousand dollars in your pocket, and all the fame an eleven-year-old from Ardmore, Ohio, could ever handle.”
Jack sat mesmerized by Farnsworth’s hypnotic voice—the same one he used on his commercials to persuade bakers to purchase every glimmering gadget the company produced. Farnsworth continued to prowl around the table.
“I see myself in you, Jack. Your dreams are too big for this small town. In fact, if it were up to me, I’d take Ardmore apart brick by brick and rebuild it from the ground up. Many years ago, the city let me tear down some old buildings on a couple of streets and no one seemed to mind. I’m sure that once you’ve opened your Fineman’s Fine Pastry Shops in New York, Paris, and Rome, you won’t think twice about Ardmore.”
“Fineman’s Fine Pastry Shops?”
“That’s just a name I came up with off the top of my head. It helps to know people who operate a successful business, people who can get you started off on the right foot. For example, you might need a logo for your pastry shops someday. I employ the finest art department in the food industry.”
“You mean you would help me?”
“That all depends …” Farnsworth glanced at his watch. “On that note, I must move on to other matters. I trust you will keep our little chat between us.”
“Yes, oh, yes,” Jack said, edging toward the door. “It was nice meeting you.”
“You as well, my boy. Remember our deal about Jillian. A good friend like you can help her make a smart decision—one that can benefit you both.”
Standing by the exit, Jack blurted out the lines he had rehearsed over and over the night before. “I have dreamed about being in the Bakerstown Bonanza my whole life. I will not disappoint you.”
Jack bolted from the 4-H Building, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. He sprinted through the silent rows of carnival rides and concession stands, a swirl of thoughts ping-ponging inside his head.
One hundred thousand views! Farnsworth liked my cannolis! Fineman’s Fine Pastry Shops! Paris, Rome, New York! You may need a logo. A good friend like you. It will help your chances. That all depends …
Jack zoomed into the parking lot. He frantically flung open his parents’ car door to find Jillian sitting quietly in the backseat.
“Hi, Jack. My dad has to get to work and Grandma Rita has a meeting at the university, so your mom offered to drive me home,” she said, scanning Jack’s face. “Hey, is everything alright? You look kind of … frazzled.”
“Fine. I’m fine. Can we just go?” Jack begged, trying to make sense of his meeting with Farnsworth.
How am I going to convince Jillian?
Liz entered the 4-H Building as Farnsworth brushed dust off his suit jacket.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Very well, as I expected. I believe our issue with Jillian is resolved. I take it that you’ve handled the necessary details on your end?”
“Yes, I gave her the script you wrote.”
“Good. Jillian has one final chance. All she has to do is talk about her mother and that spoon on camera. We’ll rerun the video of her confession so many times in our advertisements that every man, woman, and child from Ohio to Australia will be able to recite her speech by heart.”
“Then what?”
“Jack and Jillian win. And I sell five million Junior Cookie Scoops in less than a week. End of story.”
“What if she doesn’t cooperate?”
“That will not be a problem. I guarantee it.”
Chapter 26
On the ride home from the fairgrounds, Jack realized that Jillian had not told him the whole truth again.
Farnsworth asked Jillian to talk about her mother! Jack thought. Why didn’t she tell me? I thought we were partners? Did she think I would force her to share her mother’s story? Then again, would bringing up her mother be such a big deal? Maybe just once or twice? Think of all that we’ll lose if she doesn’t.
Still under Farnsworth’s spell from the meeting, he made a decision: As Jillian’s friend, it’s up to me to help her make the right choice about the Bonanza—for both of us.
After a few minutes of silence, Jack eased into the conversation.
“Big day tomorrow,” he said.
“Massive,” Jillian replied. She looked out the window at the rows of office buildings zipping by in downtown Ardmore.
“I know we’re ready for the Bonanza. We’ve made the Mixed-Up Scrabble Babble Cake so many times we could blend the ingredients in our sleep. The competition is going to be tough, though. We’ll need every edge we can get to win. One slip and, boom, Old Harbor or Feldspar takes home the top prize.”
“What do you mean, ‘edge’?” Jillian asked, peering closely at Jack.
“You know, anything that would make Farnsworth choose us over the other teams.”
Jillian turned away. For days she had considered telling Jack the truth. She wrestled with the hard fact that she hadn’t decided what she would do tomorrow in front of the microphone with Farnsworth glaring at her on stage. Talking about her mother would give them an edge, but would that be fair to the other contestants? The money would change her family’s life … and Jack would get to live out his dream. But … there were so many buts to think about …
“Let’s bake our very best and see what happens,” Jillian said, still unable to tell Jack the complete story.
“If you can think of anything that will give us an advantage, now’s your chance,” Jack said. “I know you don’t like Farnsworth, but he’s really not such a bad guy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Just a feeling I get,” Jack said, looking down at the bumpy brick street passing by. “He’s counting on us to put on a good show tomorrow. We probably should do what he asks.”
“What do you mean?”
“Easy things, like reading the scripts Liz gave us about his new products. Stuff like that. The smoother everything goes, the easier it will be for us to bake—and win!”
“Right …”
Jack pulled out a bag of Farnsworth Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips, took a handful and offered the rest to Jillian. He dumped half of them in her hand.
“Thanks,” she said. “It was a long day. I must have signed a hundred autographs after the parade.”
“Me too,” Jack said. “Any strange requests?”
“Well, you know that fourth-grader who had me sign his corn chip?”
“Yes! How could I forget?”
“He was there asking for another autograph.”
“He must really think you’re going to be famous.”
“Actually, he needed a replacement chip because …” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Because?”
“His little brother ate it,” she said, letting out a burst of laughter. “Thought it was just a regular corn chip sitting on his brother’s nightstand.”
“Did you sign it?”
“Yeah, but it cost him three dollars,” she said, producing three crisp bills from her pocket and letting out another laugh. Jack joined her. Soon they were giggling as hard as they had in Ms. Riedel’s class during their science project.
After the laughter faded, Jillian gave Jack a serious look.
“I need to tell you something.”
This is it, Jack thought. She’s going to say that she’ll talk about her mother at the Bonanza! We can’t lose. Boom!
“Is it about the contest?” Jack asked, hopefully.
“No, it’s way more important. I wanted to thank you for being my friend. That’s all.”
Before Jack could respond, the car hit a dip in the brick street, violently jarring him in the backseat. He looked out the window as the baking supply factory came into view. Reeling from the jolt, he began recalling details of his meeting with Farnsworth—things he had pushed to the back of his mind.
“Oooh,” Jillian said. “This is where Maple Street intersects with Market Street.”
Old buildings torn down, Jack thought.
“I read about it in my research about the company. Farnsworth expanded the business here in 1980,” Jillian continued.
Jack’s mind was on overdrive. And no one seemed to mind.
Jillian went on. “He had a bunch of old shops demolished …”
“Brick by brick,” Jack said out loud, staring at the Maple and Market streets sign—the same one in the photo of Goldfarb Bakery just hours before it was destroyed. His brain clicked, as if the final piece of a long-unsolved puzzle snapped into place.
“STOP THE CAR!” he screamed.
Mrs. Fineman slammed on the brakes. Jack jumped out of the car and ran to the building nearest the street sign. Jillian followed. “What are you doing, Jack?” she asked.
“Warehouse—Farnsworth Baking Supply Company,” Jack read aloud from the black-and-white sign atop the building. It featured the cartoonish drawing of Farnsworth in a chef’s hat, giving a thumbs-up.
Jack closed his eyes and imagined the smell of chocolate rugelach drifting out of the curtained windows of Goldfarb Bakery. He saw Bubbe Leah holding a tray of macaroons pulled fresh from the oven. He heard the sound of a wrecking ball and the last brick striking the pavement with a thud.
“This is where the Goldfarb Bakery used to stand,” Jack explained. “My great-grandparents Leah and Stan owned it. The city allowed Farnsworth to take the property so he could expand the business. My mom says that once the shop was gone, her grandmother was never the same. Her days of making lemon babkas and chocolate rugelach for her customers were over.”
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” Jillian said.
“Remember how I said that chocolate rugelach wasn’t good enough for the Bonanza? I’ve changed my mind. We have to make chocolate rugelach.”
“Why?”
“It’s something we need to do.”
Once home, Jack grabbed his life-size Phineas Farnsworth III cutout, chucked it into his closet, and slammed the door.
“And don’t come out until I tell you!” he yelled, falling on the bed.
Jack felt betrayed. It was far worse than realizing that Jillian’s chocolate rugelach was better than his butterscotch basil brownies. His dreams of becoming the next big thing from Ardmore had been shattered. Not only did he not want to be Farnsworth, but the mere thought of the city’s most famous resident made his stomach churn.
Grabbing a box, Jack started filling it with everything emblazoned with the Farnsworth logo. When the first box could hold no more, he did the same with a second and a third. He threw a blanket over his seventy-four copies of the Farnsworth Best of the Bonanza cookbooks. The Bonanza chef’s hat went into the trash can followed by the apron that read Little Hands with Big Appetites.
“What are you doing, Jack?” Mrs. Fineman asked, standing in the doorway.
Can’t stop. There’s work to be done, Jack thought. Wherever he turned, another Farnsworth product needed to be removed from his sight.
“Jack! Talk to me!”
“Mom, Farnsworth is a big fake. Jillian was right. He is mean. And he doesn’t really like Ardmore! Why didn’t you tell me Farnsworth tore down the family’s bakery shop? I’m not going to be in the Bonanza. In fact, I’m never baking again. I’m done.”
Mrs. Fineman hugged him tight.
“I’m so sorry, Jack, but you don’t have a choice. Jillian is counting on you. Sieberling School is counting on you, too.”
“But we don’t have a chance!”
“How do you know that?”
Because Farnsworth said so himself. Unless …
“It doesn’t matter,” Jack sighed. “After tomorrow, I’m working toward something practical. Being the best pastry chef in the world was a stupid dream.”
“No, it wasn’t, Jack. It was your dream. We just didn’t want you to get hurt. It’s what parents do. And it’s why we never told you about Farnsworth. Plus, we didn’t think telling you would make any difference at the time. You were so obsessed about the Bonanza. We know you idolized him, but some people can be complicated. And sometimes it’s important for you to find out things for yourself.”
“Now I don’t have a dream. Mom, what happens when someone you admire turns out to be a jerk?”
Jack’s mother put her arm around his shoulder. “Then maybe it’s time to find someone a little closer to your heart.”
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled script he was supposed to read tomorrow.
He had an idea.
Chapter 27
Liz met the three teams in a waiting room outside tthe Samuel P. Ardmore Convention Center auditorium.
“Mr. Farnsworth wants to remind you to give it your best out there. This is not a taped and edited reality show. It’s a live event. There are no retakes. What happens happens—for better or for worse.”
Liz spoke directly to Jillian. “So choose your words carefully, because what you say will be on record forever.”
As Jillian went out the door, Liz slipped a note into her hand. “From Mr. Farnsworth,” she said.
In a restroom stall Jillian unfolded the paper and read: Let’s make this simple. Do as you’ve been asked and I will change your life forever. Refuse and you get nothing.
Jillian shoved it into her apron pocket and joined Jack on stage in the packed auditorium. Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. Fifteen cameras were trained on the teams’ three kitchen units. Three large video screens hung behind the judging table where Farnsworth stood with Liz and the trophies. Jillian turned to Jack. She had never seen her partner look so serious.
Two Sieberling students shoehorned into a ragged wild mustang costume galloped among the spectators. Chad buzzed around like a bee while leading a group of classmates in a chant he had written for the occasion:
At Sieber
ling, we sure can bake.
There’s nothing that our team can’t make.
But I wouldn’t try Old Harbor’s cake.
Take one bite, your teeth will break!
After the third time through the chant, Principal Dobkins rushed over and offered a stern warning. “From now on, all cheers will be limited to GO! SIEBERLING! GO! Violators will be asked to leave the auditorium and serve a week’s detention.” He also confiscated Chad’s air horn and a bag of glitter.
The lights dimmed. A montage of images from past contests flashed on the video screens, followed by clips from the interviews with the contestants and their families.
Farnsworth stood behind the microphone and addressed the crowd. “Before our amazing young chefs begin, let me take this moment to thank all of you, the great people of Ardmore, for making this event such a success for the past seventy-four years. Take a good look at this stage. The future of our fair city is in capable hands.”
The audience gave a rousing cheer.
Jack almost shouted the word his father used when he knew someone wasn’t being truthful. It was a word he wasn’t allowed to say, so he muttered the milder “bologna” under his breath.
“Without further ado, on with the competition! All of our bakers were asked to bring one item to help them today. Reginald, what’s that interesting device you have there?”
“It’s my Farnsworth Multi-Tier Cake Pan Junior,” he said, reading off the teleprompter. “It’s made from heavy-gauge steel and has a nonstick coating for easy cleanup when a budding baker like me gets messy in the kitchen.”
“An excellent choice!”
Farnsworth turned to Veronica.
“And what did you bring to help you on your quest to become a baking champion?”
“I would be lost without my Farnsworth Perfect Pastry Brush Junior,” Veronica said. “I adore its non-clumping silicone bristles, and my little hand fits perfectly around its contoured handle. It makes basting butter on biscuits or glazing donuts a dream.”
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