“What about you, Tris?” Dad called over his shoulder. “You come up with a project yet?”
There it was. The question I’d been dreading.
“Yeah,” I said, drawing out the word to buy time.
The truth was, I had nothing. I blamed the doughnuts. I’d tried. I really had. I’d sat for hours staring at a blank sheet of paper, but nothing came. Nothing, but those stupid doughnuts. Even now, with my brain spinning to give me something, anything, that’s still all there was.
“So? What is it?” Mom said.
“Chocolate cream doughnuts,” I said before I could stop myself.
“The ones you were telling us about?” she asked.
“Uh-huh?” I said hopefully. It had been an explanation, not an answer, but if they were willing to accept it as one, that worked for me.
“How can a doughnut be a project?” Jeanine said.
Excellent question. How can a doughnut be a project?
“Sounds like a project to me,” Mom said. “Tell me more.”
“I can’t. I’m still figuring it out.”
“Can’t wait till you do,” Mom said.
“Yeah, me neither,” I said into my jacket.
At least now I had a good excuse for spending every waking second thinking about chocolate cream doughnuts.
When we got to town, I told my parents that I had some “research” to do at the General Store and that I’d meet them at the library.
The store looked the same as it had the first time I’d been there: dark and empty except for Winnie. She was in the back stacking egg cartons.
“Hi,” I said.
I waited for her to say something back, but when it was clear she wasn’t going to, I went on. “Those eggs were really good.” I paused again, but Winnie just kept stacking cartons like I wasn’t even there. “My whole family thought so.”
Still nothing.
“And you were right. Those yolks were orange. I mean, like really orange. I’ve never seen that before.”
That’s when she finally stopped and turned around. “It’s because my chickens spend their days outside in the sunshine eating plants like God intended.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant. Did God bless you with better eggs if you were kinder to your chickens? I must have looked as confused as I was because then she said, “See, the sunlight and the chlorophyll from the plants give the yolk that orange color. Those nasty, pale, tasteless yolks mean the chickens don’t go outside.”
“Wow, that’s really interesting,” I said.
Winnie rolled her eyes. “You going to buy some more or what?”
“I actually wanted to ask you some questions about those doughnuts you used to make,” I said, pointing to the sign.
“Oh, goodie.”
“I just wanted to know if maybe, uh, if maybe I could have the recipe,” I said quickly.
“My doughnut recipe?” She poured herself a mug of coffee from a thermos on the counter.
I nodded.
“Why?”
It was a simple question, but I panicked.
As she watched me stammer, she smacked a packet of sugar against her hand like Danny Delaney from Little League used to do with his bat right before he tried to hit you with it.
After a couple of false starts, something began to spill out. “See, I know they’re your doughnuts, but since they were so popular, they’re also part of the town too, you know, like its history, and I just moved here and I thought that making the doughnuts would be a way of sort of getting to know the town.”
I’d barely finished talking when Winnie burst out laughing, spewing coffee all over me. You’d think if you laughed in somebody’s face and spat a hot beverage at him, you’d apologize, but no. Winnie just went right on laughing till she was gasping for breath like she was having a heart attack. And I just had to stand there and take it while she laughed in my face with the coffee all over it.
“Oh, I needed that,” she said when she finally came up for air. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a napkin, then handed one to me. “Now, why do you really want the recipe?”
“Fine. Fine!” I snapped. I was over trying to get on her good side. What was the point? She clearly didn’t have one. She was the evil doughnut witch of Petersville. “I just want one! Okay? My parents forced us to move here, and as far as I can tell, the best thing about this place is those doughnuts, so I just want one, okay?”
“Okay, okay. You just want one.” She looked like she might burst out laughing again any second.
“That’s not all,” I said.
“There’s more? You going to tell me now you think you can cure cancer with my doughnuts?”
“No. I was going to tell you that my parents are forcing me to come up with a project I can work on till I start school here, and I’ve decided your doughnuts are it.”
“A doughnut’s not really a project.”
“I know! I know! A doughnut isn’t a project. I get it.”
“So I’m still not clear on how my recipe would help?”
Neither was I exactly, but an idea had begun to form right there as I’d been talking. “What if my project was bringing the chocolate cream doughnut back to Petersville?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you don’t want people to forget the doughnuts, right? But eventually they will, unless they can still have them.”
“I guess, but I told you I’m not making—”
“I know. But I could make them. I could make them and sell them. Like a hot dog guy. Only I’d sell doughnuts.”
“Let me get this straight: You want to make and sell my doughnuts?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And how are people gonna know they’re my doughnuts?” she asked like she’d just caught me cheating at cards.
“We can say it right there on the sign.”
“Say what exactly?”
“Whatever you want. Winnie’s Chocolate Cream Doughnuts. The General Store’s Famous Doughnuts. Winnie’s Heavenly Doughnuts.”
“The General Store’s Famous Doughnuts sounds pretty good,” she said, nodding.
“So it’s a deal?” I held out my hand for her to shake.
Winnie crossed her arms. “Not so fast. I can’t just give you the recipe.”
“Why not?” I should have known it couldn’t be that easy.
“’Cause I don’t know if you can bake. You need to make me something.”
“You mean like a tryout?”
“That’s right. Like a tryout, so I know you’re good enough.”
“Uh, okay. What do you want me to make?”
“Some kind of sweet. If I like it, I’ll give you my recipe.”
“Deal,” I said, and this time, she shook my hand.
8
I found everybody sitting around a table in the library’s reading room. Jeanine was deep into a book called Rodents of North America, while Zoe, Mom, and Dad were flipping through cookbooks and old cooking magazines.
“Mmm. Let’s put this on the menu,” Zoe said, holding up a photo of a glass filled with pink cream.
“Oh, I love fool,” Mom said. “But it’s only good when raspberries are in season, so I wouldn’t put it on the regular menu.”
Mom had decided to spend the winter experimenting with recipes for her restaurant, and then she’d look for a space in the spring.
“Couldn’t you just make it with other fruit?” I asked.
“Not really. It only works because the raspberries fall apart when you mix them into the whipped cream.”
“Are we leaving soon?” I wanted to get home to plan what to make Winnie. I’d already nixed chocolate chip cookies. Not enough wow. Maybe I’d email Charlie and ask him what he thought I should make since he’d tasted all my greatest hits.
“I want to stay for at least another hour,” Mom said. “These old magazines are great, and I can’t check them out.”
“Go find something to read,” Dad said. “Kids’ Room is in the back.”
On my way to the Kids’ Room, I stopped at a computer to check my email. Since we’d moved, I couldn’t stop checking it.
Big surprise: nothing from Charlie this time either. He was acting as if I was asking him to send smoke signals. It’s not as if he couldn’t check his email right there on his cell phone. So I couldn’t text. What was the big deal?
I’d been trying to keep myself from sending him another email until he emailed me back, but I really wanted to know what he thought I should make Winnie.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hey
Guess what? Since we’re not starting school, my parents are making me and Jeanine do these projects so I’m starting a doughnut business. Long story. I’ll tell you everything at Thanksgiving. Maybe you can help??? For now, I just need to know which of my desserts you like the best, not including the peanut butter–white chocolate chip cookies.
The peanut butter cookies were definitely Charlie’s favorite but plenty of people don’t like peanut butter or white chocolate, so they were way too risky. You’d be surprised. There are some serious white chocolate haters out there. I don’t get it.
When I got to the Kids’ Room, I headed straight for a pile of lumpy beanbags by the windows. I’ve never been a napper, but I hadn’t been sleeping. It wasn’t just the doughnuts. The house, also known as the Purple Demon, talked a lot more than our apartment ever did. Clanging, creaking, moaning—different nights, different sounds. But her message was always the same, and I heard it loud and clear: Get out!
Halfway to the beanbags, I stopped in front of a table with a bunch of books on display to look at one with a basketball on the cover.
“It’s good,” someone said.
I looked around the room.
Tucked behind the door was a boy, lying on a bunch of beanbags, several books open on the floor in front of him. Everything about him was long from his arms and legs to his chin and his shaggy, black hair.
“Oh, thanks. Uh, what’s it about? I mean, you know, other than basketball.” I was hoping he didn’t think I sounded as dumb as I thought I did. I couldn’t have cared less about the book, but I was pretty excited to be speaking to a real-live kid in town.
“This high school basketball team that’s really awful and how they end up winning the state championship. It’s the fourth in the series. They’re all really good though.” The kid spoke like someone was timing him. “Each book follows a team in a different sport, and each time the team has to get through something hard, like an injury or a scandal or something, so they can come together and win, but then sometimes they don’t win, and then that’s sort of the point too, you know?”
He stopped and waited for me to give some sign that yes, I did know, and as soon as I did, he started right back up where he’d left off.
“I think the first one was about a swim team or maybe that was the second.” He kept speed talking, but as he did, he stood up, crossed the room, and pulled a book from a shelf like he’d had its location memorized. “Yeah, this is the one. Both Hands. You should start with this.” He handed it to me.
“Great. Thanks.”
“So, you into basketball?”
“Yeah.” I was relieved we were moving on from books to sports.
“Yeah, me too, but mostly just to watch. I really only play ice hockey.”
“On a team?” Nobody I knew played ice hockey. Up until that point, I honestly thought the only kids who played lived in Canada, Minnesota, or one of those other states where it’s cold like ten months a year.
“Uh-huh. It’s pretty big here.”
I could tell by the way he said “here” that he knew I was from somewhere else.
“I don’t play,” I said. “I was hoping that maybe there was a basketball team I could try out for.”
“Sorry.”
“No team?”
“No, there’s a team, but all the good kids play hockey so the basketball team’s…um, kind of…”
“Sad?”
“Pretty much.”
Great, I was going to play on a sad basketball team with all the unathletic kids. Perfect.
“Can’t you skate?” he asked like he’d never met somebody who couldn’t.
“A little, but I don’t even know the rules of hockey.”
“You play soccer?”
I nodded.
“Not that different. I could show you. There’s an open sticks and pucks session every weekend at the rink in Crellin. No rink here, but plenty of places to skate when it gets cold enough. Hey, you hungry?” he asked like it was part of the hockey conversation.
It took me a second to catch up. “Uh…” I wasn’t hungry at all. Mom had made apple pancakes that morning. “Sure.”
The boy led me back through the library to a small office behind the circulation desk.
“My mom works here,” he said as he poked around the shelves of a mini-fridge in the corner of the room. “I’m Josh.”
“Tris.”
“Like for Tristan?”
“Yeah. My parents found it in some name book I wish they’d never bought.”
“I don’t know. Tristan was a knight at King Arthur’s Round Table, which is pretty cool, and he was a better fighter than just about all the other knights except Lancelot.”
“Who?”
Josh’s face went tight, and he ducked his head behind the fridge door. “Sorry. He was just another big-time knight for King Arthur.”
Josh went quiet for the first time since we’d met, and it was clearly not a good sign. What had I done and how could I fix it—quick?
“I guess you end up reading a lot if your mom’s a librarian, huh?” I said. “We end up eating a lot ’cause my mom’s a chef.”
It must have worked because when Josh pulled a block of cheese from the fridge, he was smiling again.
“Get this. I know a guy named Michael Michael,” he said.
It took me a second to retrace our conversation back to names. Ideas seemed to ping around Josh’s mind like balls in a pinball machine.
“So, wait, Michael is his first and last name?”
“Yup. Mr. Michael Michael.” Josh pulled a cutting board and box of crackers off the top of the fridge.
“I can top that. I know a girl named Sailor.”
“Like on a ship?” he asked as he sliced cheese.
“She was in my sister’s class.”
“That’s not right. Sailor’s not even a real name.” He handed me a cracker with cheese.
“I know. It’s like child abuse.”
“Yeah, like what if parents wanted to name their kid something like…Snot? That should be flat out against the law.”
“Why would anyone want to name their kid Snot?” I said, laughing so hard bits of cheese flew out of my mouth.
“I don’t know.” Josh was laughing now too. “Why would someone want to name their kid Sailor?”
Josh and I spent the next hour eating cheese and crackers and coming up with a list of names we thought should be outlawed. A few times, we laughed so hard his Mom had to come in to tell us to keep it down.
When it was time to go, Josh filled out a library card for me and checked out Both Hands on it. He was sure I was going to love it. I wasn’t, but I thought I should at least give it a shot.
“Hey,” I said as I was leaving. “You know the General Store?”
“Sure,” he said.
“You ever taste those doughnuts she used to make?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Were they really that good?�
�
“Not good,” he said. “Life changing.”
Life-changing doughnuts?
I had no idea what that meant, but I had to find out.
• • •
When we got home that afternoon, I finally had an email from Charlie:
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Hey
What are you talking about? Kids can’t start businesses. It’s like against the law or something because businesses need insurance and have to pay taxes. How many twelve-year-olds do you know paying taxes?
I slapped the laptop closed.
The first email Charlie sends me in days, and he’s telling me I can’t start a business? And what did Charlie know about taxes? This had Zane Kramer written all over it. Why did Charlie have to tell his dad what I was doing anyway?
In my head, I wrote back: What about lemonade stands? Why can’t kids pay taxes?
I opened the computer and hit Reply. But then I just stared at the screen. What was the point? Charlie would just keep repeating whatever his dad told him. I wouldn’t even really be emailing with Charlie then.
I hit Delete and shut the computer.
He hadn’t even told me what dessert I should make for Winnie.
9
The day after we went to the library, it was so cold I could see my breath. I’m not talking about outside. I’m talking in my room, still in bed.
I ran to the window to close it, but it wouldn’t budge, obviously part of a new plan by the Purple Demon to freeze us out.
I shoved my pillow in the window, layered up, and let myself down to the ladder through the hole in the floor.
Mmm. Mom was baking bread.
We never had homemade bread before we got to Petersville, but then Mom figured out it took her almost as long to drive to the nearest bakery as it did to make her own. At first, she just made simple stuff, like sourdough and whole wheat, but soon we were having sweet potato rolls, pumpkin biscuits, and hazelnut scones with homemade peach and strawberry butters. None of us were surprised when she announced she’d decided to serve a different homemade bread and butter every day when she opened the restaurant.
The Doughnut Fix Series, Book 1 Page 5