The Sweetest Thing

by Christina Mandelski

  No cakes for me if I get pneumonia. Then I run—I mean, run—down the alley and up onto Main Street.

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  7:50, by my watch. I can do this. I push through the door of Geronimo’s and wave to Mrs. Davis, who then points to the gigantic wall clock behind her.

  “I know, I know,” I say. “But I won’t make it to second period without some coffee.” There’s a line, but in under a minute, she passes me a cup from around the side of the counter.

  “Now get to school,” she whispers.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I whisk the coffee out of her hand and head for the door. I can feel the warmth of the cup through my mittens and can’t wait to take a sip.

  I round the corner. Only one more block. By the time I can see the building, the front steps are deserted. I must have missed the first bell.

  I’m trying to stabilize my coffee and walk as fast as humanly possible when I hear footsteps in the snow behind me.

  Apparently, I’m not the only delinquent this morning.

  “Mornin’.” As soon as I hear the voice, I know who it is.

  I turn my head and see Ethan closing in on me.

  “Hi . . . ,” I say through an awkward smile, trying to act cool and totally not succeeding. “I’m so late. We are so late.

  Come on.”

  But he’s slowed down. His long legs could beat mine by a mile, but they stall and stop.

  “You coming?” I ask.

  He smiles, a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his face.

  That’s what Nanny would call it.

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  When he doesn’t answer, I assume he’s staying put.

  “All right . . . ,” I say, totally rejected. “Bye.”

  “You wanna skip?” He kicks a pile of snow next to him.

  “Skip?” I try to keep moving toward the steps, but I am caught in his tractor-beam smile. “For real?” He’s kidding.

  He’s got to be kidding.

  “Come on, you probably worked all day yesterday. I’ll call in for you.” He looks at me from under lowered lids.

  “No one will ever know.”

  I laugh. No way can I do this. “Really? I mean, I can’t.” I am on the first step. “I’ve never . . . Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. Come on, let’s do it.” He looks up at the front doors. “I mean, look at that rat hole. I can’t even stand the thought of going in there today.”

  I follow his eyes up to the school, all prison-like and stone-faced. It is a total rat hole. But still. “If I get caught . .

  .” I finish that thought in my head. No cakes.

  Ethan turns and walks away. He seems to have made a decision. “You are not going to get caught.” He motions for me to follow. “But the first rule of skipping and not getting caught is to put as much distance between yourself and the actual school as possible.”

  The final bell rings. He motions for me again. One foot moves away from the steps. The other one follows. Oh God.

  I’m ditching with Ethan Murphy. And no matter how many times I repeat that sentence in my head, I can’t believe it’s true.

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  Once we’re off school grounds, he slows down. I am a step behind him, glancing sideways. What now?

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I say, more to myself than to him.

  “You’ll get over it.” He grabs my hand like it’s the most natural action in the world. My mittens are still on, but I can feel the heat coming off of his bare skin.

  I peek over my shoulder like an escaped felon holding the hand of an accomplice. And the fact that I’m trying so hard to steady my latte so it doesn’t slosh around strikes me as completely ridiculous. I mean, what kind of fugitive cares if her coffee spills?

  “So what do you wanna do, Sheridan Wells?” he asks, and squeezes my hand.

  Three options come to mind: (1) kiss him—hard, (2) figure out how not to be a spaz around him, or (3) run away, go get my tardy, and pretend this never happened. Number three is my most likely choice.

  “Wanna go for a drive?” he says.

  “Um . . . sure. Where to?”

  “Anywhere that isn’t here.” He laughs.

  “Okay.” I’m sure this sounds utterly uncool, but I say it anyway: “For how long?”

  We turn another corner, and then we’re standing in front of his house. Well, his mansion, really. The tall wrought-iron fence casts shadows on the sidewalk as we reach the gate.

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  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “As long as you want.”

  He grips my hand again and pulls me along like I’m completely brain-dead. Before Ethan lived here, Nanny was a member of the Historical Society and worked to make this house a landmark. It was built by some cereal baron a long time ago and is undoubtedly the biggest, most ornate house in St. Mary. When we reach the door, Ethan unlocks it, pushes it open, and walks in. “Here we are.”

  I step inside and gasp. Marble floors in the entrance lead to a sweeping grand staircase. An enormous chandelier hangs above us. I am in awe. He laughs when he sees my face.

  “I know, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  When I stop gawking, my wide eyes land on his.

  “You’re funny,” he says.

  What? Was that a compliment? “I’m funny?”

  “Yeah. Funny. Different.”

  “Thanks.” I do a 360 in the huge foyer. “I think.”

  He walks away, through a giant dining room. “Come on, let’s pick a car.” We move through a short hallway into a kitchen that would fit my entire chemistry class and then some.

  “Wow!” Now I’m in complete shock.

  “What?”

  “This is the nicest kitchen I’ve ever seen.”

  “Oh, come on.” He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Donovan Wells is your dad. You’ve seen kitchens nicer than this.”

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  I don’t know what he thinks it means to be related to Donovan Wells, but he’s got the wrong idea.

  “No. This is definitely the nicest kitchen I’ve ever seen.

  Is your mom a cook or something?”

  I clamp my mouth shut. If I ask him about his family, he might ask me about mine. And that’s the last topic I want to discuss with him.

  “That’s the joke,” he says. “No. She hates to cook. I’m the one who loves it.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, sure that he’s kidding.

  “I’m serious. I’m actually pretty good. I’ll prove it to you one of these days.” He leans against a counter. “But my mother really just got the kitchen to piss off Rod.”

  “Rod?”

  “My dad.” Ethan walks to the fridge, a beautiful Sub-Zero that could hold a side of beef or two. “She’s determined to make him pay.”

  My fingers slide across the cold white quartz counter-tops, probably worth more than most of the houses in St.

  Mary.

  “He must be paying big-time.”

  “Yep.” He shrugs. “You want a Coke?”

  “No thanks.” I have yet to take a sip of my latte, which is sitting on a corner of the kitchen island.

  “That’s what happens when you take off: you pay,” he says, reaching in and grabbing a can for himself.

  My eyes skip around the room. I am not sure how to re-114

  spond to that comment. I wonder if he knows about Mom.

  I wonder what price she’s paid for leaving us.

  I glance at a clock on the wall, figuring that by now I have been marked absent by Wasserman. Funny—I’m feeling nervous but also exhilarated. Not just to be here, with the hottest guy in St. Mary, but also to be breaking the rules.

  I am not a rule breaker.

  I finally take a sip my latte, which is now cold. This will all be fine—as long as I don’t get caught. If I do . . . I don’t want to think about it. I have a lot of cakes on the books for the next few months. Who will make them if I’m locked away?

  I watch Ethan walk to the phone and start d
ialing. “This is Donovan Wells calling in for Sheridan.” His voice is so manly he doesn’t even have to deepen it to sound like my father. “She’s got a fever and will be staying home.”

  He hangs up like he pretends to be someone else’s dad every day.

  I guess it’s official: I am skipping school.

  “Thanks?” I try not to look terrified.

  “Sure.” He is so cute I can’t stand it. And his stare makes me blush from forehead to feet.

  “Are you gonna call for yourself?”

  Ethan stops, smiles. “No one cares if I skip school. My mom’s in Gatlinburg with her latest boy toy. Doesn’t care.”

  “But . . . don’t you need an excuse?”

  He shuffles over to where I’m standing and leans on the 115

  counter, his face a foot away from mine. So close we are shar-ing the same oxygen. The little hairs on my arms are standing at attention; my whole body is trapped in this electric field that seems to surround him. His blue eyes are shining.

  “If it makes you feel better, I’ll forge a note from my mother and bring it in tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” He touches my arm and I quiver, even under my thick coat. My body is one big fat nerve ending.

  I try to act confident, like I’m in on some joke, but I am a total fraud, an imposter. He’s still looking at me. I think his face has moved closer. Just a millimeter. But still. I have no idea what to do.

  “Um . . . is there a bathroom?”

  He stands straight up and turns around. “Right through there.” I wasn’t trying to kill the mood, I swear. But I have.

  Completely.

  I walk into the most beautiful powder room ever, with scarlet walls and a fancy gilded mirror. A light fixture drips with crystals above the toilet, and on the wall is a painting.

  Not a framed print but a real painting. He has fine art in the bathroom.

  The golden mirror mocks me as I wash my hands.

  What are you doing, Sheridan? You’ve never even kissed a boy. Not real y. And Ethan is used to a different kind of girl.

  You are so far out of your league, they’re gonna have to send up a flare so you can find your way back.

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  I switch off the light and the mirror stops talking. I lean on the wall in the dark and think. Or try to. This is not a good idea. I know that.

  But in my defense, I have had it rough. My mother, gone al these years. My father with his own big plans. I work hard.

  I put up with a lot. I think I deserve to ignore the rules once in a while. To spend one day with someone like Ethan Murphy.

  I push the door open before I change my mind. “Okay,”

  I say. He’s waiting for me, just outside the door.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” He leads me down a hall and through a door to the garage. A light comes on. Okay, so not only is his house bigger than my house, his garage is bigger than my house . . . and it is filled with sparkling cars. There’s a black BMW SUV, a blue Volvo sedan, and a cherry red convert-ible Corvette with racing stripes. At the far end, a speedboat.

  “Which one do you like?” he asks.

  “I have no idea.” I turn to him and give him a flirty smile. “You choose.”

  “Okay then.” He looks at me as he moves down the row. “Definitely not a Volvo girl.” He keeps walking. “The SUV?” He shakes his head. “Too expected.” He makes it to the Corvette and opens the passenger door. “You may not be a Corvette girl, either, but I think I can convert you.”

  I take a step forward. “What if I don’t want to be a Corvette girl?”

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  He smiles. “Don’t worry. Give me ten minutes, and you’ll be begging me to let you drive. Come on. Get in.”

  I hesitate, still back by the BMW.

  “You know I’m a very trustworthy individual,” he says in a mock serious tone.

  My feet walk me over to the open car door. “Hmm . . .

  that’s not the story I’ve been told.” I slide into the car, and he leans in, grabs my seat belt, pulls it across my lap.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, okay?” He’s so close I can smell his shampoo. I attempt a cool smile. If I leaned forward, our lips would touch.

  He closes my door, crosses over to the driver’s side, and slips behind the wheel. The garage door inches open as he sticks the key in the ignition and revs the engine. We pull out with a loud vroom, announcing to the entire town that I, Sheridan Wells, am skipping school and going who knows where in a bright red sports car with a boy that I really just met.

  Ethan turns the car around in the circular drive and peels out onto the street. School, the restaurant, my mother, the TV show, even my cakes—they’re all dropping away behind us. This is a scary, out-of-control sensation, like jump-ing from an airplane. I might be petrified that the chute won’t open, but the free fall is awesome.

  Ethan shifts gears like a race car driver as we climb up-hill, still-dormant trees passing by in a blur.

  “You’re not worried, are you?” Ethan asks.

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  “No.” That’s a lie, but I am trying to relax. I may never get an opportunity like this again, and I don’t want to waste it. “I’m not worried at all.”

  His profile is so handsome that it’s all I can do not to reach out and trace it with my finger. Mr. Roz, who doesn’t speak English very well, likes to use the phrase, “the greatest thing since sliced bread.” He usually uses it in the wrong context. But those are the words that come to mind as I fix Ethan in my peripheral vision.

  And it’s so true, really. I mean, where would we be as a society without sliced bread? It makes life so easy. No matter how crazy things get, you can always slap two slices of bread together, make a sandwich, and go.

  Yep. Sliced bread. Best thing ever.

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  Chapter 10

  happy as a clam

  Ethan drives and talks, a lot, which gives me some time to pull myself together. I remind myself that I am not shy.

  Ethan is just a boy (though an incredibly hot one), and I am not afraid of boys. I can do this!

  “You have any brothers or sisters?” he asks.

  “Nope. Just me,” I say. “You?”

  He tells me about his half sister, who lives in Paris, down the street from the Cordon Bleu. After he graduates, he wants to go to school there and learn how to cook. “Yeah, I’ve got half siblings all over, but I pretty much function as an only child.” He revs the engine as we climb a steep hill.

  “When did you start cooking?” I ask, relieved that I am no longer mute around him.

  “I was eleven when my dad left and my mom was always working. When I got home from school, she wouldn’t let me go anywhere or do anything. She thought he’d abduct me or something. So I stayed home and watched cooking shows.

  After a while, I started trying some of the recipes on my own.”

  I picture him as a kid, all alone in a fancy kitchen, cooking for just himself. Kind of sad.

  “What about you? When did you become Cake Girl?”

  I laugh at the way he says “Cake Girl,” all loud and echo-ey like it’s a superhero name.

  “My mom started teaching me when I was little.” I smile, remembering. “She could make anything out of cake. She got me into it. And my grandmother, too. Then when I was like twelve, I started doing it on my own.”

  “You love it?”

  I look out my window; I’ve lost track of where we are.

  “Yeah, I do.” If I knew him better, I might tell him more.

  Like how sometimes when I’m decorating cakes, I can almost feel Mom there with me. And how I worry that if I ever stopped, I would lose her forever. But I keep that to myself, for now.

  He rounds a corner fast. I hold onto the door handle.

  “What kind of food do you cook?” I ask, trying not to watch as he zooms around blind corners.

  �
��Just about anything. No cakes, though.” He winks at me. “But French, Southwestern, Italian. I make a mean clam linguini.” He suddenly shifts the car into a lower gear and 121

  turns onto a small, one-lane road. “What about you? What do you wanna be when you grow up?”

  “I guess I’ll run the bakery, eventually.”

  “No college?”

  “No, my father will make me go. But I can go to Grand Valley State and still live at home.”

  Ethan’s head flips toward me. “You serious? I thought your dad was gonna have a show. Aren’t you gonna move to New York or L.A. or something?”

  “Not me. I like it here,” I say, desperately searching for a change of subject.

  “Really?” He sneers. “What’s to like? Just a bunch of nosy freaks and pain-in-the-ass tourists.”

  I pick at the edge of my seat, like a little kid. Then I realize that this is not cheap fake leather, so I stop. “It’s not so bad here.”

  “No, not if you like hick towns.”

  Most of the kids I know feel the same way about St.

  Mary, like it’s the most boring place on the face of the earth.

  But to me it’s perfect.

  “Seriously, the only thing that town has going for it is your dad,” Ethan continues.

  “My dad?” I can’t help but laugh.

  “Yeah. Your dad. He is an awesome chef. Last week, I had his veal marsala. Oh my God, best I’ve ever eaten.

  And I’ve eaten everywhere—in Paris, Rome . . . Your dad is phenomenal.”

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  “All right, all right. Jeez, why don’t you marry him?” I laugh and roll my eyes.

  “You know, if he looked like you, I might consider it.”

  He reaches over and puts his hand on my thigh. I peek down at it, just resting there, on my leg. Not believing this is happening. He moves it off to shift gears, but I can feel its imprint.

  “You don’t know how good you’ve got it, Cake Girl. And a TV show? Man, that’s crazy.”

  My fingers twine together and I shrug. “I’m actually pretty happy the way things are.”

  “Come on. You don’t really think that.”