I run my fingers along a bench sitting beneath a tree and look at the building facing me. It's the building I spent all day in today. The one where I failed miserably at everything but introducing myself. Though I'm sure Professor Sellers had some sort of criticism about that too. He just didn't say it out loud.
I walk towards the building and quickly see that the door is propped open with a rock from the neighboring flowerbeds. My high-heeled boots echo slightly as I walk up a few steps and into the hallway where it all began. I feel the sudden urge to sit at my station and pretend that today went well. Maybe if I try really, really hard I can rewind time and try again.
I chuckle as I softly walk down the hallway and towards my classroom. The halls are dark except for moonlight that floods inside from between half-open blinds. I can't see where I'm going very well, but I know my way. My class meets in the same student kitchens for the same classes every day of the week.
I take out my cell phone to light the rest of my way. The time says it's nearly midnight, but last time I looked at the time it was seven o'clock. That was before Bree pulled out her bottle of false courage. I drank too much of it. I shake my head and try to get rid of the image of my terrible peach pie. That dessert is going to haunt me until I get it right.
I reach our classroom, and my heart starts pounding.
I take a deep breath and pull at the door handle even though I know it won't open. I need a second chance at making that pie. Just one more chance. I know I can nail it like the rest of the class. I shake my head as I think about the way Professor Sellers looked at my pathetic pastry.
"It's too sweet." I mimic him out loud, curling my lips the way he did when he saw something distasteful. "Your crust is all wrong. Your filling is wrong. The way you combed your hair this morning is wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong times a million."
I giggle to myself, but a sudden bang makes me jump. My heart starts racing, and my palms start sweating. I walk towards the noise with a lump in my throat. The noise is coming from one of the kitchens. When I hear another loud bang, I know I'm not crazy. It sounds like spoons hitting pots and pans. Maybe it's some sort of joke?
I take another step, but I stop myself from investigating any further. The school is dark, and the kitchens are locked. I don't know where the sound is coming from, but everyone has gone to bed. Great, now I'm hearing things like my great grandpa Ed.
BANG!
I hear the sound a third time, and my jaw clenches. My teeth grind together, and my hands squeeze themselves into tight fists. My calves are flexing, and my head starts spinning so fast that I think I might vomit. I see no light around me. No opens doors. No open windows.
"Hello?" I make a lame attempt at seeking a logical explanation for the noise. "Is someone there?"
Silence.
The hall is so quiet that I hear myself swallow.
I take a step backwards.
"Hello?" I say again.
I hear another noise, but this time it isn't banging, and it sounds closer. A gentle tap on the floor fills my ears, and I squint to make sure I'm seeing clearly. I see a shadow in front of me. It is close enough that my heart is racing out of control and far enough away that I can't tell if it's a person or a figment of my imagination.
I instinctively walk backwards until I'm far away from the mysterious blob at the end of the hall. I forget to breathe as I jog all the way back to my apartment and fumble with the key until I can open the front door. I let out a gasp and practically gulp down air.
It smells like Bree baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies after I left. I pop a chewy cookie into my mouth and resist the urge I have to wake Bree up and tell her what I saw. She might hate me if I do that. I rub my head, feeling a headache coming on. I need some sleep.
I go to my room and rest my head on my pillow. As soon as I close my eyes, the strange sound echoes through my memory. I cover my ears. I can't fall asleep. I sit up and contemplate eating another chocolate chip cookie. Bree might wake up to find that all her nervous baking sent me into a sugar coma.
I try to relax again.
I have to force myself to rest up for tomorrow. The same way that snooty girl, Georgina, forced herself to smile at me when Professor Sellers was watching. That's it. I have to pretend that today didn't faze me at all and that I do have what it takes to cut it at Calle Pastry Academy. I have to focus on being fake tomorrow just like Georgina.
* * *
A hand shakes my shoulder. I gasp as I wake up. My heart pounds when I open my eyes. I see Bree jump back looking startled. She gulps as she hands me a mug of coffee. I take a swig of it before I do anything else. I cringe.
"Ahhh," I blurt out. "Why is it cold?"
"It was hot the first time I tried to wake you up," she comments, shaking her head. She places a hand on her hip and eyes a pair of jeans I left on the floor.
"Why do I feel like I've moved back in with my parents?" I mutter quietly.
"Come on." Bree hands me an aspirin. "We can't be late for our orientation of the student bakery at 6 a.m. It's a very important part of the program, remember?"
"That's today?" I almost trip as I race to my suitcase and pull out a pair of shorts.
"I'll wait for five more minutes, but then I have to get going," she responds.
I quickly get dressed and meet Bree outside. We begin the quick walk to the student bakery on the other side of campus. By the time we arrive the sun is peeking over the clouds, and I'm sweaty enough to say I've been for a morning jog.
We join a group of students, and I catch my breath. I haven't gotten up this early since I was cast as Clara in The Nutcracker Ballet. I remember secretly wanting to eat the costume that was made for the scene with Mother Ginger. It was made of real gingerbread and vanilla icing. I didn't care that it was rock hard.
"You survived," a voice says behind me. I turn and see Cole. He is wide awake.
"Gosh, what's your secret?" I ask.
"To looking good?" He straightens the collar on his shirt. It is baby blue with tiny, white stripes. His sleeves are rolled up and he's wearing light khaki slacks. "It comes naturally."
"For getting up this early," I correct him. I glance at the other students in my class and see that they are all dressed like they are giving business presentations.
"This is nothing," he replies. "The students who are running the bakery have to show up at 3."
My eyes go wide.
"As in 3 a.m.?"
"Uh-huh. That will be us next semester."
I twiddle my fingers as I look down at my casual choice of shorts and a T-shirt. I assumed that my apron would cover everything anyway, but I still feel silly. I rub my forehead, hoping that the aspirin I took will kick in soon.
An old man walks slowly to meet us in front of the student bakery with a cup of coffee in his hand. The man is short and plump with silvery hair. He walks with a slight limp as he meets our group with a tired stare on his face. He nods and takes a sip of his coffee.
"Where can we get a shot of caffeine?" I mutter.
"How much coffee do you actually drink in one day?" Cole asks. He chuckles when I shrug.
Always having coffee on hand, whether or not I drink it, is habit. I blame it on years of late night rehearsals and random spurts of insomnia brought about by overtraining.
"Shush," I reply. "Mr. Teacher is speaking."
"Morning," the man says in a scratchy voice. He clears his throat. "I am your kitchen management teacher, Professor Harris. Just call me Mr. Harris. I've been here at this school as long as I can remember." He pauses to scratch a spot on his head where his hair is thinning. "Well, let's get on with it." He opens the doors to the bakery. It doesn't open for a couple of hours, but I can hear commotion in the kitchen. The first thing that hits me when I walk through the doors is the smell of pie. It makes my stomach rumble, but it also reminds me of yesterday.
Forget yesterday and move on, Poppy.
The front of the bakery is still dark, and the café
chairs are still turned upside down on the tables. I watch Bree move towards the front of our group. I linger near the back with Cole. Today I'm lying low.
"He's quite the cheerful one," I quietly comment.
"Oh, yeah," Cole murmurs.
He folds his arms and takes a deep breath as we follow our classmates into the kitchen. It's bigger than the kitchen in our classroom on campus. Underneath and above the counters are stacks of pans in every shape and size. I wipe a bead of sweat from my brow. With all the ovens on I feel like I'm still outside. A student in a white bakery uniform brushes past me to grab a mixer on the shelf behind me.
"Does anyone else feel like they're in the way?" I comment.
A few students look back at me, annoyed.
I decide to keep my mouth shut for a while.
"Dang, Lil' Mama," Cole whispers. "Looks like you've already made a few enemies."
Starting with her Highness of NYC, the all-around perfect Georgina.
Another student working at the bakery brushes past us for another bundle of tools. Cole and I take a few steps back until we're leaning up against a counter. Someone bumps the side of my leg. I reach down and rub the spot that might potentially be bruised in the morning.
"Sorry," someone whispers. I look up and see a man with blond hair and ice blue eyes towering over me. "I didn't mean to bump you." He folds his arms and reveals a set of bulky biceps. The fabric of his sleeve slightly touches me, and it sends my heart racing.
"Oh, it's okay," I lie. I smile and feel myself blushing. Luckily, I can blame it on the heat in the kitchen.
"I'm Jeff," he says quietly.
"Poppy."
"Yes, I know." He grins. "I remember from yesterday."
"Right," I respond. "My epic pie failure."
"Come on, it wasn't that bad. I once a dated a girl who thought potatoes were called fry balls. At least you know the basics." He pauses. "And that fries are made from potatoes."
I laugh.
"You do know that, right?" he jokes.
"I do now," I reply. His eyes linger on the curves of my face as he grins.
Mr. Harris clears his throat as he puts his hand on the shoulder of a tall student in a white uniform. The student is covered in flour. He also has a half smile, and his eyes are darting from us to the bread ovens. He opens his mouth when a timer starts chirping, but he quickly closes it as another student rushes to take care of it.
"This is Steve, the head baker this semester."
"Only because Tom's gone," Steve chuckles, folding his arms. The smirk disappears from his face when he notices the stern way that Mr. Harris is looking at him.
"Uh, excuse me," I call out. "Do you mean Tom as in Tom Fox?"
"Yes," Steve answers. Mr. Harris narrows his eyes and looks at me, singling me out. He tightens his hold on Steve's shoulder and glares at him like he's seconds away from being handed a detention slip. "Sorry, sir."
"Everyone, Steve," he repeats. "Steve, this is everyone. Go ahead." Mr. Harris looks to Steve to finish the rest of his introduction. As soon as Steve catches on, Mr. Harris takes a few steps back to finish his morning coffee. I watch him discreetly snag a scone and nibble on the end as Steve starts pointing out things in the kitchen.
"Okay," Steve says. "Well, the ovens are over there, and we all rotate stations. So basically you will all get the chance to make everything we sell. You'll also take a turn washing dishes."
A few students groan.
"Hey," Steve continues. "You can't mess that up, so it's not so bad."
I see Georgina glance back at me.
"Some of us might," Georgina mutters.
I contemplate sticking out my tongue at her like a five-year-old, but I decide against it. Besides, Jeff is standing right next to me.
The sound of pots and pans banging grabs my attention. I look over and see a couple of students working on beignet batter. My mind jumps back to last night. My chest starts pounding and not because Jeff looked at me again.
"Beignets are made over here," Steve says, leading us through the bustling kitchen. "We use certain bowls to make our special blend of homemade brown sugar and spices." He holds up a mixing bowl with an emblem of the school on it. "The founder of CPA had these made for his trip to France."
"What do you make over there?" a student asks, just as a bowl of batter accidentally drops to the floor.
"Really, Bramley?" Steve whines. "That's the second time this morning." He rushes to help the student clean up the mess before anyone steps in it. I feel stupid watching and not helping, but I can hardly move where I am standing.
"Shouldn't we help them?" I mutter.
"You'll get your turn to clean up messes, don't worry," Georgina states. A couple of girls next to her giggle.
"This is where we make our signature Buzz's Rise and Shine Orange Rolls," Steve says, wiping the last of the spilled batter. I smile as I think of how good that orange roll tasted when I tried it.
"Who is Buzz?" a student asks.
Steve smiles.
"I am glad you asked," he replies "Buzz was the nickname for the founder's son. The kitchen hands used to call him Buzz, but his real name was Thomas or Old Man Thomas. He came up with this recipe for orange rolls as a cover up when he accidentally ordered a double delivery of oranges. He didn't want to tell his dad he had made a mistake, so he made these rolls as if he ordered the oranges on purpose."
"Nice save," Cole chuckles.
The same student raises her hand.
"What happened to Buzz? Is his family still around?" the student asks.
"He's dead," Steve says bluntly. "He went missing one night, and no one knows what happened to him."
Everyone glances at each other with confused looks on their faces.
"I guess we will never know," I say out loud.
"Oh," Steve adds. "I can't believe I almost forgot this, but Old Man Thomas's ghost haunts the school. Or so people say. The legend is that you can hear him banging around in the kitchens late at night, but no one has seen his ghost in years."
"Or maybe no one is stupid enough to tell people they're seeing things that aren't there," Georgina says boldly. She laughs and lifts her chin. Her blonde ponytail bounces around as she does.
I swallow the lump in my throat. The group continues walking through the kitchen, but I stay frozen in place. Cole stays behind and nudges me. I look at him and keep walking.
"What's wrong?" he whispers.
"I think I heard a ghost last night," I admit.
"You should have come out with me and my roommate." Cole slowly follows our group to one of the store rooms. I'm almost elbowed in the gut by a student whipping meringue.
"I'm not joking," I mutter. "I saw something last night near our classroom."
"What were you doing over there?" he asks.
I hear another bang that makes my head throb. I think about last night and how the shadowy figure stared at me from the end of the hallway while I stood frozen and a little drunk. I look over my shoulder and see someone using one of the school's specially-made bowls to mix sugar with molasses. The student pauses to add a few spices and then continues mixing vigorously.
"Never mind that." I clear my throat. "There was someone in the kitchens last night."
"Did you see who it was?" Cole narrows his eyes as he looks at me.
"I couldn't see a face but—"
"You didn't see Old Man Thomas, Poppy." He chuckles and shakes his head. "I'm sure it was just someone trying get ahead on cake construction or something."
"No," I whisper. "Whoever it was just appeared out of nowhere."
"No one appears out of nowhere," he argues. "I'm sure there's a logical explanation."
"You're right," I say sarcastically. "It must have been Georgina mixing up gourmet cake recipes for her debut baking line."
Georgina's head tilts when I say her name. She swiftly glances over her shoulder and glares at me before directing her attention back to Steve. I cover my mouth with my ha
nd as Steve, the head baker, points to the various pantry items that are stored in airtight containers.
"What was that about?" Cole whispers. I wait until Georgina's attention is focused solely on Steve's presentation.
"Her ears must have been burning."
For the rest of our tour we observe the many stations where each pastry is made. My mouth waters when a hot pan of orange rolls is pulled from the oven and frosted with orange glaze. The sweet frosting melts perfectly over each bun. Mr. Harris snags one and takes a bite like it's a completely normal thing to do. He does the same with the other pastries, and just when I think he can't bear to stomach any more he nibbles at the first piece of peach pie. In truth, Mr. Harris did the things we all wished we could do if it weren't socially inappropriate. But then we would all be his size. Plump and round like a ripe nectarine.
"Mr. Harris, will we be tested on all this?" Georgina raises her hand but speaks freely when Mr. Harris looks at her. He looks bothered that she's even asking that question.
"Does it matter?" he responds.
"It matters to me." She raises her eyebrows as if his retort is inappropriate.
"Not everything is a test, silly girl," he murmurs. He coughs to clear his scratchy voice.
"Excuse me?" Georgina bites back. She places her hands on her hips. "Mr. Harris, I'm paying good money to attend this program. My family has built a successful business in the food industry from nothing, and our company was even listed as one of Oprah's Favorite Things. That's right. Oprah. What qualifies you to sit there choking down pie and refer to me as a silly, little girl?"
The entire class and most of the kitchen goes silent as Mr. Harris clenches his jaw. He springs forward so quickly that it startles me. His round body moves from its spot near the hot pastry counter in a flash. Georgina takes a step back trying to play it cool, but she's blushing.
"What qualifies me?" he shouts. "What qualifies me?" Beads of sweat form on his forehead, and his entire face looks as if it might light on fire. "I've prepared meals for hundreds of thousands of soldiers back when I served in the army. I have earned the right to teach as I please."
Doughnuts & Deadly Schemes (Culinary Competition Mysteries Book 3) Page 23