The Sweetest Thing

by Christina Mandelski

  “Well, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He looks from me to Dad. “Donovan, she’s a beauty. Must take after her mother.”

  Polite laughter follows. Dad’s eyes dart to mine. Obviously, no one has schooled Bob Fisher on our screwed-up family dynamics.

  “I hope you realize, Miss Wells, that your father is about to change your life forever.” He waits for a response. A thank-you? A shout of glee?

  I hold the arm of the sofa, tight. “Yes. I do.”

  Maybe Amazon is picking up on my sarcasm, because she abruptly changes the subject. “So. On to your wardrobe.

  Olga is here somewhere; she’s a seamstress and wil be fitting you.” She walks over to the chair in the corner. “Here are the dresses. Go ahead and try this one on first; it’s my personal favorite.” She holds up a melon-colored halter dress with giant hibiscus blossoms al over the fabric.

  “For real?”

  “Trust me. It’ll look like magic once you get it on.”

  Yeah, like someone magical y threw up hibiscus flowers onto my dress.

  “Go on, try it on. It’s vintage. You’ll look stunning.” She holds it up to my body. “Just stunning. Maybe have to take in the bust a bit. OLGA!”

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  She yells so loud I’m surprised my eardrums don’t burst.

  I look at my watch. It’s only seven. But I hope they clear out by the time I have to go meet Ethan. Because I need to see him tonight, to figure this out.

  The fitting goes fast. And yes, Olga has to take in the bust. A lot.

  It’s only eight thirty by the time we are finished. Dad announces to our guests that he’ll cook up a snack if anyone is hungry. Everyone accepts. Thankfully, he has to go to the restaurant to do this because we have no food.

  I say no thanks and head upstairs to my room. I reach into my pocket and dig out Mom’s heart-shaped note, sit with it on the edge of my bed. My fingers trace the letters, as they have for years. I pull my cell phone out of my other pocket, check for messages. Of course, I already know there are zero.

  I throw the phone onto the bed behind me. Then I stand up to get dressed for my “date” and realize that my closet is a black hole of ugliness. Totally inadequate. Nothing to wear.

  Finally, I decide on the same pair of jeans I wore yesterday.

  They desperately need to be washed, so I spritz them with a healthy dose of Febreze and hope Ethan won’t notice. I add a tank top under the striped hoodie that Lori gave me for Christmas and sigh. This will have to do.

  In the bathroom, I look in the mirror and pat at the dark circles under my eyes. I scramble to plug in the flat-iron. I brush my teeth, my tongue, and my gums and even 248

  gag myself trying to reach as far back as possible with the toothbrush. This is not a night for stinky breath. A little eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara. It’s when I put on the lipstick that I am reminded of Jack’s kiss.

  Man. What a crazy mess.

  It’s not even nine o’clock. I should go to the bakery and crank out another hibiscus. But the house is so quiet and peaceful, I want to stay. I feel a strange pull, and it makes me lie down in the middle of my bed and dig out my art project.

  I open to the grape hyacinths.

  I see my cake sketchbook on the desk and stretch to grab it. I open it to the first page. There’s the sketch of the John Hancock Building, a skyscraper in Chicago that I re-created out of cake last summer. Then a sketch of my Indiana Dunes cake, complete with a dune buggy. That was great. I flip through the pages: wedding cakes, birthday cakes, baby shower cakes—so many over the years.

  Then I close that sketchbook and look at the grape hyacinths. Like the cakes, I drew this picture for someone’s ap-proval. Mrs. Ely gave me no choice. But there’s something about these drawings that makes me feel different.

  I love making cakes; I love that they make people happy.

  And they make me feel closer to Mom. But when I make art, it’s not about remembering anyone, or pleasing anyone.

  I work to please myself. Just me, no one else.

  Mrs. Ely’s voice floats through my head, trying to convince me that I can make cakes and draw. I mean, duh, right?

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  I know I can do both. And I remember Growly talking about how we aren’t meant to be exactly like our parents. We have gifts of our own. My mother always talked about me fol owing in her footsteps. Wouldn’t it make sense, though, that she would also want me to lay some tracks of my own? That maybe she’d want me to do more than she did?

  I look up at the clock. It’s nine thirty. A little early, but I need to get out of here. I stuff a pillow under my bed to make it look like I’m sleeping, pull on my Uggs, and head out the back door, in case a Suit (or worse, my father) is peeking out of one of the restaurant’s windows.

  As I swing around Main, the town square is quiet, except for a few people exiting Geronimo’s. I skitter into a doorway while they come out, then stick to the shadows. No need for Jack to catch a glimpse of me. A giant-size dollop of guilt hits me head-on. What am I doing?

  I am on the path toward the harbor. The moon is shining bright on the high bluffs. The air smells like sand and fish, a sure sign that warmer weather is coming. But tonight I stick my hands in my coat pockets and put on my mittens because it’s still cold. My eyes follow the line of the water, and I have this terrible thought that it’s all going to disappear; that everything is about to change. I memorize everything: every ripple, every sound, every particle of icy air that lands on my face.

  What if I did go to New York City? How would I survive without all of this?

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  I lengthen my stride, and as I near the boathouse, I hear him. “Hey.” It’s Ethan, early. “What’s up?”

  He walks up behind me and puts his strong arms around my waist, holds me tight. He kisses my ear, and the tingle gets going. But I find myself wishing he’d look me in the eye first, maybe ask me about Nanny.

  I turn toward him and feel the strength in his shoulders.

  When I look at his face, I see nothing but confidence. He is sure of me. He leans in for a kiss.

  Maybe I’m being paranoid, but the first thing I think is that I taste some sort of flavor on his lips. Like lipstick.

  “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he says. “I was sure you’d cancel.”

  “Nope.” I try to act happy. I know I should be happy.

  This is what I wanted.

  He grabs my hand and pulls me along.

  “Let’s go down there,” he says, pointing to my family’s dock.

  “That’s ours.”

  “I know.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I asked around.”

  When we arrive, I see a soft-sided cooler waiting. “Shall we?” he says, sweeping his arm down in a low bow. Romantic. He takes a blanket from under the cooler and spreads it out for us.

  Once we’re settled, he unzips the cooler and lifts out a 251

  tiny bottle. “You like wine?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.” I shift uncomfortably; Dad has definite rules about drinking.

  “Really?” he says, surprised. “I would have thought you’d have a glass now and then. Nothing better than good food paired with good wine. Not that this is good wine.” He laughs. “But I wanted to do something special. This is kind of our first official date.”

  “Is it?” I peer behind me.

  Ethan nods his head, brings out a container. When he pulls the top off, the aroma of garlic and basil wafts into the air. Next comes a baggie full of baguette slices.

  “Pesto. It’s my special recipe.”

  “You made this?”

  “Yes, I did.” He spreads some on a piece of bread and hands it to me. “I figured the only way I’d have a chance to cook for you anytime soon was to do it picnic-style.” He unscrews the wine bottle, empties it into a short plastic glass.

  I take a bite of the bread.

  “Wow, this is good,” I say, trying to co
ver my mouth.

  He takes a sip from another bottle and leans over to kiss my neck.

  “This is nothing.” He kisses me again. “Once I get out of high school, I’m off to Paris. Then someday I’ll open a restaurant. Maybe even be on TV like your dad.”

  I take another bite. This is good. “Hmph …” I swallow and wipe my mouth with one of the creased linen napkins 252

  he’s brought. “Trust me, though—you don’t want to be like my dad.”

  “Why not? He’s a great chef. That’s what I want to be.”

  He is serious.

  “Well, he’d probably hire you at the restaurant, if you want to see what it’s really like.” I snicker. “They’re always hiring busboys. He might even let you help in the kitchen after a while, if you’re lucky.” I roll my eyes.

  Ethan shrugs. “I don’t want to be a busboy. I just want to cook.” He slathers more pesto on another piece of bread, and I am so hungry I completely scarf it down. “And you should be at least a little excited. I mean, you’ve got it made. Your dad is going to be famous.” I look at him; I’m ready to bust up laughing. But he’s serious.

  “Sounds like you’d rather have him here than me.” I smile.

  He reaches around my waist. “Not by a long shot.” He leans in and runs a finger along my jawline. But all of a sudden, a clear vision of Jack materializes in my mind. I can feel Jack’s touch, his kiss, and I pull away from Ethan.

  “So. Did Haley stay long? The other night?”

  He sits up straight, pulls his arm away. “I thought we settled that.” He finishes his mini-bottle in one big gulp.

  “Look,” he says. “I’m sorry. I know you guys have a history.

  But me and her . . . we’re through. So you don’t have to worry.”

  He tries to kiss me, but I back away again.

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  “Good.” I wonder what she’s told him. “Because she is not a nice person. I can’t stand her.”

  “Wow, Sheridan Wells actually dislikes someone? And all along I thought you were the town sweetheart?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He laughs. “Relax. Haley, she’s just wicked jealous of you.”

  “Of me?”

  “Well. You are the most famous person in St. Mary, next to your dad. Everyone knows Cake Girl. She hates that.”

  “No one knows me.” I pick up the cup of wine, put it back down. Look up at the sky, where the stars are shining again, like they always seem to do whenever Ethan is around.

  “Well, I’d like to get to know you better.” He leans backward onto his elbow and tugs at my sleeve until I follow.

  Now I’m lying on my back, with Ethan gazing down at me like I’m some treasure he’s just discovered. He reaches across my body, grabs my hand, laces his fingers through mine.

  I can see his profile in the moonlight, and I realize that a month ago, a date with Ethan Murphy was a fantasy. I never imagined it could really happen, or that if it did happen, I’d spend the whole time thinking of Jack.

  Ethan presses his lips on top of mine. His mouth tastes like wine, which isn’t entirely unpleasant, and now he’s kissing me harder. I try desperately to focus on the hot boy whose mouth is exploring mine. He moves on to my neck, and I start feeling tingly and floaty. This is nice. He un-254

  tangles his fingers from mine and touches my stomach, then moves to the bottom of my coat. I feel his hand on my bare skin. It tickles me and then moves upward. When he gets to my bra, I reach up and gently push his hand back down.

  “Ethan.”

  “What?”

  “Stop.” I laugh.

  He kisses me again, more insistent this time. I wonder if he notices that our lips always seem to be just a tiny bit out of sync. “Come on.” His hand is searching for skin again.

  “Let’s go to my house.”

  “And?”

  He shrugs, kisses my face. “Let’s just see.”

  No. We can’t just see.

  “Ethan,” I say, surprised by how sure I sound. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

  He kisses me again. “Oh, come on. Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just not.”

  He stops, leans back on his elbows. “Okay. Fine.” He sits up quickly, pulls his knees in against his chest. Like he’s having a tantrum.

  I sit up next to him and wonder what just happened.

  “Look, I think we make a great couple,” he says sharply.

  “Me, too. I mean, maybe this is just moving a little fast.”

  “Okay.” He takes a deep breath, turns to me. “Why don’t you tell me how fast you want to go.”

  “I don’t know. Not this fast.”

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  He stands up, stretches his legs in that wonderful Ethan fashion. “Well, I can’t read your mind. I’m trying here.”

  When I stand up, he grabs the blanket. “Maybe we should do this again after the show.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yeah, maybe the party is making you tense.” He moves forward and gives me a quick kiss, a boring one, like we’ve been married for ninety years. “I’ll call you,” he says, and walks away, leaving me alone in the dark. I watch those long legs until they disappear.

  My mouth hangs open. When it finally closes, I look out onto the water in shock. Maybe Lori was right, and this whole romance thing shouldn’t be easy. But should it really be this hard?

  Before I start home, I bend down to touch the initials my parents carved into the board beneath my feet, because it always makes me feel better. But this time, I feel nothing.

  Just a big empty nothing.

  I walk home, the temperature dropping, my face stinging from the cold. Our house is completely dark and unwelcoming, so I pass it and walk toward the alley, digging the keys out of my coat. I let myself into the bakery, lock the door behind me, and grab my supplies. I dump everything onto the table and work a mass of gum paste until I start to relax. Soon the small clump resembles the ruffled edge of a hibiscus petal. I’ve got about thirty flowers completed already, which is probably more than enough. But I need a 256

  distraction, and let’s face it, you can never have enough gum paste flowers.

  I settle down and let the bakery envelop me. Think of Nanny wanting me to dream big. I look around, at the shelves full of cake boxes, at the pink polka-dotted aprons hanging on their hooks, at the clipboard bursting with orders. I am part of this place. How could I exist without it?

  This is where I belong, this is where I belong, this is where I belong. I repeat this mantra to myself until it is like a song in my head.

  This cake will be my best ever. Just spectacular. The Suits will love it. Even Dad will have to admit it’s a masterpiece.

  It’s just after midnight when the doorknob jiggles and I jump. I hear a key in the lock, and the door swings open.

  It’s Dad.

  “Been looking for you.”

  “Here I am,” I say, keeping my eyes on my work. I’m glad that I am here, and not still on the dock with Ethan, about to get busted with empty wine bottles and his hand up my shirt.

  He walks over and inspects my drying petals with a scowl. “You think you need more?”

  I grunt. “I’m the cake. You’re the other stuff. This is mine. Remember?” I know that sounds rude, but I’ve had a long day. I just want him to go before it gets worse.

  He seems to read my mind, and I am relieved. “Don’t stay too late,” he says. “And lock the door behind me.” Then, 257

  instead of heading for the door, he walks over to where I’m sitting, puts his arm around my shoulder, and kisses the side of my head. “Good-night,” he says, and leaves.

  Jeesh. What a day.

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  Chapter 21

  one bad apple

  spoils the whole bunch

  A muffled thump from downstairs wakes me. I can’t focus.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I jump up and stumble down the sta
irs. Through the door I see Lori pointing to an imaginary watch, and I let her in.

  “What’s going on with you? What are you, alarm-clock challenged?”

  “Calm down.” I look at the clock and see that, once again, I will have to make a mad dash to school. I run up the stairs and Lori follows.

  “I’m sorry. Just go without me. Yesterday was seriously the most messed-up day of my entire life.” I pull a bra under the T-shirt I slept in, clasp it, toss on the first shirt I pull out of the closet, and run to the bathroom. “Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.”

  My jeans lie in the middle of the floor. Do I dare wear them again? It’s nasty, for sure, but I force my legs in, one at a time. There’s always more Febreze.

  “Yeah, like I’m gonna go without you. I want details, sister.”

  She has a white paper bag in her hand and thrusts it toward me. “I didn’t know what you’d want. They’re out of lemon poppy seed, so I got you a blueberry crumble. Roz seems a little overwhelmed over there. When’s Nanny coming back?”

  “I don’t know.” I find a pair of socks in my drawer (bonus—they’re clean!) and head downstairs. “Maybe I shouldn’t go to school today. I could help him.”

  “Shut up, you have to go to school. French test? Remember? Art project? Chem lab? Any of these things ring a bel ?”

  “This day is already total crap.” I throw my hair up and grab my makeup bag, which will have to wait until I get to the restroom at school.

  “Seriously. You’re gonna have to repeat sophomore year if you don’t get yourself together. Between that nuthouse bakery and this freak-show party and meeting up with lover boy . . .”

  I shove everything into my bag. “It’s not that bad. And I’m pretty sure that Ethan and I are over.”

  I reach into my front pocket, where Mom’s note has been 260

  stuck for days. I put it in my jewelry box, her punishment for not calling me back.

  A car honks out front, and Lori walks to my bedroom window. “Over, huh?” I cross the room and stare out into the parking lot. Ethan’s getting out of the Volvo, a bouquet of red roses in one hand.