That’s just four, and Lori is the only sure thing, really.
On the desk my phone starts to wiggle. It’s a text from Ethan.
Whats up? he writes.
I wish I could tell him what was up. I found my mom, and now I’m going to Chicago to see her. But how do you 137
explain that in a text?
Going to work. I type.
It’s true. I’ve got to get to the bakery. Growly’s eightieth birthday party is Friday, and I’m making the cake. Growly’s a real pain, but this cake is going to be fantastic. There’s also a basket weave wedding cake due on Saturday.
I need to go to work for other reasons, too. Anytime I’m stressed or worried it’s the only place where I can totally relax. And feel close to Mom. I know who I am when I’m at the bakery.
That sux, he texts back.
Yeah sorry.
Date fri night?
I don’t have the heart to tell him I’ve got to work at Father Crowley’s birthday party. But we can meet up after.
Yeah sounds good. Delete, delete, delete, delete.
I change good to great.
I’m crossing the alley on my way to the bakery when I notice something. I’ve been so preoccupied with everything else, I hadn’t realized: most of the snow is gone, and there’s a smell in the air. Spring.
This puts a smile on my face, and I decide to go to Jack’s after I’m done at the bakery. Maybe he’ll run down to the beach with me. Then I can ask him about Chicago. And we can put this ridiculous fight, or whatever it is, behind us.
I push my way through the screen door to the bakery 138
kitchen. The inside door is propped open, to let in the fresh air. Mr. Roz is standing there, waiting with the next item on my to-do list, an enormous round banana layer cake. This is for Growly. Banana is his favorite.
I came up with the idea to replicate the rectory garden, which Growly probably loves more than Jesus Himself, on the top of the cake. The garden is a pretty spectacular place during the summer, with about a million flowers in bloom.
We used to go there for church picnics when I was a kid, but it’s been a long time since I’ve visited.
Nanny brought out one of her photo albums to inspire me. There’s a few pages of pictures that were taken in the garden. I’m in them, too, all smiles. I must have been eight or so. Anyway, it was after Mom left. I’m surprised that I don’t look sadder, considering my mother had disappeared.
But I guess I’ve always had hope. Never stopped believing she’d come back one day. Even if I had to drag her back myself.
“Where’s Nanny?” I ask Roz, who flashes me a ready smile.
“Senior Movie Madness Night,” he says.
“Ah.” Nanny and the rest of the St. Mary widows never miss it. But that woman’s been avoiding me since Easter. It’s like she knows that I found out she’s a big liar.
“You okay? You look not so happy.”
“No. I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. Just busy. Too much going on up here, you know?” I point to my head.
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He laughs. “Yes, I do know how dat is.” He’s making meringues for a tea party at the mayor’s house tomorrow morning. “You needing someone to talk to?”
I guess I could tell him a little. “Off the record?”
“What is dat, ‘off the record’?”
“Like, just between you and me.”
“Ah, sure, sure. Of course. You and me.”
I smooth frosting around Growly’s cake. This is called the crumb coat, and it’ll form a base for the fondant I’ll add later. I pause, wondering how much I should reveal to Mr.
Roz.
“You ever lost a good friend?”
I level the thick buttercream until it’s perfectly even, pick up the cake, and place it in the cooler to firm up. In the meantime, I pull out some white fondant and work some red food coloring into it for the roses. Roz finishes a tray of the teardrop-shaped treats and puts them in the oven to bake. I wonder if he heard me.
I’m about to ask again when he speaks. “I have. I have lost many friend.”
Nice, Sheridan. Mr. Roz is from Kosovo. He came to America during their war, with nothing, lost everyone and everything. Nanny says he barely escaped with his life, but that’s all she knows. He doesn’t talk about it very much.
Now I feel like an idiot for even bringing it up.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry. What you want to know?”
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“Well, did you ever lose a friend because they were maybe a little jealous?” I ask.
“Ah, now you must be talking about love. That can be a fast way to lose a friend, no?”
I grab a rolling pin and begin to flatten the fondant on the counter. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Can be a difficult thing, love.” He picks up a clipboard and flips through orders. “But you want my advice? You listen to your heart; it will tell you right way to go. Believe me.”
If that’s true, I think my heart must be gagged. It’s not talking.
After a few hours, I have a nice collection of fondant flowers and a rotund figure of Growly in his black priest outfit with a sun hat on, a rake in his hand, and a big, un-characteristic smile on his face. Sometimes Cake Girl has to alter the way things really are in order to make them more appetizing.
I work until Roz shoos me out the door at six, muttering something about me spending too much time at the bakery.
The warmish air reminds me of my plans for a run with Jack.
At home, I eat a cup of yogurt and run upstairs to change.
My hands shake a little as I tie up my Nikes. I am worried about seeing him. We’ve never been in this situation before.
And I’m not sure what my heart wants me to do. He can’t have a crush on me. He’s Jack. I’m me. We go too far back to risk ruining things with romance, don’t we? Yes. We do.
I need his friendship too much to let love potentially ruin 141
everything. Plus, you have a boyfriend, I remind myself.
I brush my hair back into a ponytail and sail out the door, zipping through the dusk-filled square toward the other side of town, where Jack lives.
Ten minutes later, I ring the doorbell. “Hi, sweetheart!”
his mom answers, with one of Jack’s little brothers hanging off her leg. Jack ambles up behind her, looking disappointed.
I have a terrible feeling this isn’t going to go well.
Jack nudges his mother out of the way. “I’ve got it, Mom.
Thanks.”
He stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, waiting for me to talk. Of course, there are two little brothers poking their heads out on either side of his legs. One of them passes gas. Charming.
I clear my throat. “Hi.”
“You want something?” He looks over my head, his voice flat.
“Jeez, Jack. What did I do?”
He rolls his eyes.
“I came by to see if you want to go for a run.” He pushes his brothers back, steps outside, and closes the door behind him. I notice how tall he’s gotten over the last year. He’s positively towering. His hair has gotten long, too. I think back to middle school, when he refused to wear it in anything but a buzz cut.
“Well?” I say when he doesn’t answer. “You want to run or not?”
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“No. Not really.”
I furrow my eyebrows and shove my hands into my pockets. “Fine. Whatever.”
“But I will,” he says as I turn around to leave. “Give me a minute.” He goes inside without inviting me in, and even though I’m having serious second thoughts about this, I wait for him.
When he comes back out, he’s got on a hat and gloves.
“You won’t need those,” I say. “It’s really warm out.”
“Yeah, well, there’s another cold front coming through, so I’ll wear them if you don’t mind.”
I am tempted to remind him that it’s not cool
to be a know-it-all. But I think now is probably not the time. I want to be friends again. And I need him to drive me to Chicago.
We run in silence. Sure enough, within ten minutes I can feel the temperature dropping. When we turn down the road to go to the beach, he speeds up.
“You’ll never make it at that pace,” I shout after him.
He doesn’t listen, so I speed up. “Hey!” I’m already out of breath. “Okay!” I swat at his back. “Hey! I get it, you’re mad at me! And now you’re gonna kill us both. Would you slow down?”
He stops, then turns, puts his hands on his waist and bends over, breathing hard. I almost run into him as I try to stop my forward progress down the hill. We are both out of breath.
Jack straightens up. “Look . . .” He’s avoiding my eyes, 143
looking up to the bluffs. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
I take a few deep gulps of air. “Why? Why is us being together a bad idea?”
He finally looks at me, but doesn’t answer me.
“Why are you so mad at me?” I ask, my voice quiet, trying to calm us both down. “Just because of Ethan?”
Jack visibly flinches when I say the name. “Oh, come on,” he says, his voice just below a roar. “You’re not one of those brainless girls. He’s a player, Sher!” I can hear his anger; he’s seething. “And he totally has your number. You’re all ‘he’s so sweet, he’s so hot,’ but he’s one of them—one of those jocks who trip people for no reason and then laugh about it. Can’t you see that? He’s dated every hot girl in school. You’re just the next available target. That’s all!” He throws his hands up. “I don’t know, I just don’t get it.” He’s stepping backward, away from me.
But now I am mad. No. I am furious. “So is it impossible to believe that he’s interested because he actually likes me? You know what, Jack, that’s just mean. I thought we were best friends, no matter what. Now I can’t even count on that?”
I shake myself. I need to calm down. I need Jack this weekend. There’s no way I can make the Chicago trip without him. He’s the only one who knows; he’s the only one who understands.
“Listen,” I say, forcing my voice to a lower volume. “I don’t want to talk about Ethan. I called the bakery. In Sault 144
Sainte Marie. It’s her. She owns the place. And”—his eyes are wide, this is going to work—“she’s going to be in Chicago this weekend, at a cake competition. There’s a big one there, at McCormick Place. I want to go. I want you to come, too.”
I look at him, hopeful, and wait for his reaction.
“You did what?” His reaction is not good. “What is wrong with you? You are totally certifiable, you know that?”
I am in shock, and I swear I can feel the blood bubbling in my veins. “Excuse me?”
Jack steps back again, shaking his head. “Sheridan, when are you gonna take the hint? If that’s her bakery, she’s five hours away.” He’s shouting at me, exasperated. “Haven’t you asked yourself why she’s never come back? Why she can’t send you a freaking birthday card, or even an e-mail? When are you going to . . . ?” He hangs his head, then lifts it again, staring directly into my eyes.
“Going to what?” Tears are building. I can’t believe this is my best friend.
“When are you going to grow up?”
I feel like he’s slapped me, so I swing back my arm and slap him hard. “What do you mean? I thought you . . .” My voice breaks. “I thought you wanted to help me.. . . I thought you understood.” Tears begin to drip steadily from my eyes.
“You aren’t my friend. A friend wouldn’t say those things.”
I shove his shoulder, hard, then turn and run away as fast as I can. It’s almost dark and I’m not supposed to run at night alone. He’s coming after me, but I turn around and 145
yell, “Go away! Don’t you dare follow me!”
He stops, but I keep running. With each footstep I feel doubt chasing me. Mom lives five hours away. She’s only been five hours away, all this time.
I’m at a full sprint now, and I’m almost to the beach. I usually love to run along the packed sand, but tonight my legs and lungs burn in the cold. When I get to the deserted shore, I let go, run faster than I ever have before. My lungs chug like a freight train. I feel like if I stop, the entire world will crash down on top of me.
There’s a branch in the sand that I don’t notice until it’s too late. I stumble forward, fall flat on my face. Sand is in my mouth, on my eyelashes. I spit, flip over onto my back, and scream. Loud.
I try to catch my breath, but I can’t. A deep moan escapes my throat, and tears start to flow from my eyes as if out of a gushing faucet.
I lie like this for a long, long time. Thinking of my mother, wherever she is; hoping she still loves me. Please, God, let her love me.
My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s another text from Amazon.
Need the guest list asap.
Ha! I fling it into the sand. Maybe this is God’s idea of a joke. Maybe it makes him laugh, watching my life crumble.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my freezing bare hands.
Then I wrench my body up off the ground and grab the cell.
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My feet start moving across the sand. With each step I become more determined to get to Chicago. No, she’s not the ideal mother. But she does love me. I remember. And if I have to get down on my hands and knees and beg her to make it happen, she’s coming to St. Mary.
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Chapter 12
with a grain of salt
I’m back home and pacing like a tiger I once saw at the zoo. He looked like he wanted to rip something apart. That’s kind of how I feel right now. Restless, angry, caged. I have this mad desire to see Ethan, but I’m not so sure I want him to see me like this, so on edge.
Amazon has texted me again and called twice asking for the guest list, but instead I go to the kitchen and pull out my tub of decorating supplies. I need to start on the gum paste hibiscus blossoms for my birthday cake. This will calm me down. I sit on one of the stools at the island and lay out my work area like I’m prepping for surgery.
My mind spins like a pinwheel. Jack’s ugly words float around in there, taunting me, making me want to cry. How could he hurt me like that? And why has he been helping me look for her if he thought I was such a nutcase?
My first hibiscus petal looks more like week-old roadkill than a beautiful flower. My cell phone vibrates and I pick it up, hoping to see Ethan’s name. But it’s another text from Amazon. The guest list is due, they have to get the names to legal so the forms can be signed, blah, blah, blah.
I’m starting to regret agreeing to this party, but I know that it’s all I’ve got. If Mom needs a reason to come back, this is the best I can do.
I fold up the roadkill gum paste and put away my tools for now. I have to do something to get Amazon off my back.
I sit down with my laptop, try to think of names. Who do I invite? Lori. Tuba Dude Jim. Ethan. I backspace over Jack’s name, add three girls who were on the cross-country team with me last year, then backspace over them because we hardly know each other. Depressing. I have no friends.
Acquaintances, plenty. Friends, practically zero.
Underneath the three names, I add Nanny, Mr. Roz, Mrs. Davis, and, out of utter desperation, Father Crowley.
So much for them wanting to show girls in bikinis.
I type Amazon a quick e-mail.
Here’s my list. Sorry so short.
My stomach is rumbling. But as usual, we have no food. We never have any food. So I decide to go to the restaurant and forage. I pull on a pair of jeans and change into a sweater 149
and a hoodie.
It’s Wednesday, not the busiest night at Sheridan & Irving’s. Still, the parking lot is full. The local news has covered the story of Dad’s show, and the people of St. Mary are thrilled. The mayor has even proclaimed May 7, the day the pilot episode will be filmed, as Donovan Wells Day. For real.
My eyes look tired. My hair is a limp mess. I brush leftover sand off of my cheek. Am I crazy to think that my mother will come back? I watch my reflection. I do look a little crazy. Maybe I have gone off the deep end.
I
make my way across the parking lot, walk through the door and into the kitchen. Someone is humming the theme from Star Wars. It’s Raoul.
“Hey, Miss Sheridan!” he greets me.
“You here to work, baby?” Dominique says from the pastry station.
“Nah. Here to eat.”
“Well, well,” sous-chef Danny calls, “do I have a plate for you. Give me just a minute.”
I smile. Here I am in my father’s restaurant, wrapped up in the warmth and cheer of the people who work for him.
They are our friends, our extended family. I don’t understand how Dad can even think about leaving them.
I chat with a few of the busboys, and in ten minutes 150
Danny passes me a plate: clam linguini. I stare at it and wonder if Ethan will date me long enough to make me his version.
“Thanks, Danny.”
Just as I sit down on a stool to eat, Dad pokes his head out of his office.
“Sheridan. Can you come in here?”
Crap. I thought he was up front talking to customers.
He doesn’t wait for an answer, so I take up my plate and fork and the glass of Coke that Raoul has given me and make my way across the kitchen.
The door is open, and Dad’s behind his desk with his reading glasses on. In the light of the small lamp, he looks older and softer somehow. But when he raises his head, gives me a look like I am somehow disappointing him, the soft-ness is gone.
“Come in. Sit. Eat,” he orders.
I obey what he says, though I have no idea what we’ll talk about. He keeps his eyes on the papers in front of him.
“How’s Father Crowley’s cake coming along?” he asks in a monotone.
I nod and suck down a long string of linguini. “Gauuw”
The Sweetest Thing Page 11