When I walked into Say It With Flour on Friday after school, the last thing I expected to see was my dad waving me into his back office — the office he never used except when he was doing inventory or paying taxes. I’d been tiptoeing around him since our fight after the jewelry show, and we’d barely spoken to each other for most of the week.
“What’s up?” I whispered to Abuelita Rosa as I walked past the booth where she and Roberto were playing Go Fish.
She looked up at me, and when I saw the sadness in her eyes, I knew. Something awful was coming. She sighed and patted my arm. “I’ll let your father tell you.”
I’d been worried before, but now I was terrified. The week had been a disaster already. Tansy had started eating lunch with her dance-team friends instead of with me and Gwen, and she went out of her way to avoid me. And who could blame her? I’d been awful to her. My mom’s recipe book was still missing, Say It With Flour was still a ghost town, and I hadn’t baked one thing that worked without a recipe. I only had one week left. If I didn’t figure this out, not only was I going to lose to Dane, but I was going to look like a complete idiot doing it. What else could possibly go wrong?
I walked through the kitchen to the tiny pantry at the back that my dad had long ago converted to his office. He sat with his head hanging low over his accounting ledger — a handwritten book he still insisted on keeping even though he knew perfectly well how to use the accounting program on his computer. His shoulders were sinking inward and his mouth was drawn taut as a tightrope.
“Dad?” I said quietly. “What’s the matter?”
He lifted his eyes from his ledger to my face, and I was shocked to see how old he suddenly looked, so old and so tired.
“I’ve made a decision about the bakery,” he said slowly. “You’re not going to like it….”
My breath caught in my throat and my knees wobbled. I wanted to cover my ears, or run out the door so that I wouldn’t hear the words that had to be coming.
“We’re going to close the shop at the end of the month,” he said. “We’ve been losing too much money.” He sighed. “I’ve already taken more money out of our savings than I wanted to, just to pay the rent and keep us going. I can’t anymore.”
“No, Dad, you can,” I pleaded. “Things will get better. If I win the bake-off, we’ll get our business back, plus more.”
He smiled forlornly. “Alicia, I told you that you can do your bake-off, and that’s fine. If you win, we’ll cater Sarah’s party, but then we’re done. I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Please, Dad, take some time to think about it. We can bake less, cut costs, something!” My voice was shaking. I had to convince my dad he was making a huge mistake.
He stood up slowly, like this whole discussion was taking every ounce of energy he had in him. “You were right, you know, when you said I was afraid to take chances.” He stared at the floor. “I’m sorry. I should’ve done more with the business a long time ago. I should’ve worked to grow it, try new things. Before Perk Up came along.”
“We still can,” I said. “It’s not too late.”
My dad studied me, and for a split second I saw a faint spark in his eyes. But just as quickly, it blinked out. “Sometimes I think that your mom took all of my courage with her when she left us,” he said softly. “I’m tired of fighting this battle all the time, of struggling to break even. I love this bakery, but I’m going to have to let it go.” He pressed his hand to my cheek. “And so will you, hijita.”
“You’re wrong, Dad,” I said. “Mom didn’t take all of your courage. It takes courage to raise a son and daughter alone. It takes courage to fight for the things you love.” I wrapped my arms around him tight, pressing my face into his shirt collar. “I was wrong to say those things about you. I’m sorry.”
He brushed my hair back from my face. “Está bien. It’s all right. I’m just sorry I’m disappointing you. I know how much Say It With Flour means to you.” He blew out a weary breath. “I think I’ll go help Roberto. There won’t be any customers today, and your grandmother plays a mean Go Fish.”
He gave me a small smile and stepped through the door, leaving me alone.
“I’m not giving up yet,” I whispered. “And you shouldn’t, either.”
My dad, of course, was right. Not one customer walked through the doors the rest of the day, and finally, as if he was trying to get used to the idea, my dad decided to close up early. I’d been doing my homework at one of the tables, but I put it away and offered to finish cleaning up for him. I could tell he didn’t have the heart to do it.
He seemed relieved to go, as if he was worried that the bakery was angry at being abandoned. I could sense it, too. There was a loneliness settling over the store, like the walls had heard us talking about closing, and they understood.
I was turning the last of the chairs over onto the tables so that I could mop, when the front bell jingled. I glanced up, wondering who was actually brave enough (or foolish enough) to set foot in our accursed shop.
And I came face-to-face with Dane.
“We’re closed,” I said, feeling fury roiling up inside me. He had some nerve coming in here.
“Really?” Dane challenged, nodding toward the front window. “The sign still says ‘open.’ ”
Grrr. Now I was even angrier. “Do you always have to prove your point?”
“I don’t know.” He stared me down. “Do you always have to jump to conclusions?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I glowered, crossing my arms.
“You will in about ten seconds,” he said, swinging his backpack onto the bench of one of the booths. “And then you’re going to feel really guilty.” He reached into his backpack and pulled something out.
I gasped. It was my mom’s recipe book.
“Where did you find this?” I demanded, taking it and hugging it to my chest. “I looked all over school.”
“You forgot to pick it up,” Dane said. “On Monday when you spilled your books by my locker. I saw it afterward, but you were so mad at me, I was afraid you’d punch me or something if I tried to give it back.”
“I wouldn’t have,” I said. But then again, maybe I would’ve. I turned the book over in my hands, a reluctant thank-you on the tip of my tongue. But then my eyes narrowed. “Wait a second, you held on to this book all week long. Why?” I clutched the book tighter. “Did you read it? Are you going to steal my recipes now, too?”
Dane held up his hands. “Whoa, hang on —”
I whirled away from him. “Of course you’d do that. To make sure Perk Up keeps the upper hand. I can’t believe you!”
“Ali!” He grabbed my shoulders and turned me toward him. “Would you just listen to me for a minute?” His face reddened with frustration, and I squirmed a little, but he didn’t let me go. “You always assume the worst about me, and honestly, I’m getting sick of it.”
“Well, why should I trust you? You ruined the jewelry show with that little food-dye trick of yours, and now you show up with my book after keeping it all week? What am I supposed to think?”
Dane frowned. “For starters, if we were friends, I could tell you that it wasn’t me that put that food coloring in your cake pops. And, if we were friends, you’d believe me. But I guess my first mistake was in thinking we were ever friends in the first place, right?”
“Right,” I blurted without thinking. “I mean, wrong.” I stomped my foot. “I mean, I don’t know!”
“At least I got you to admit that much,” he said.
I shook loose of his grasp and glared at him. “Okay,” I said reluctantly. “I’m listening.”
Dane brushed a hand through his thick hair. “No, I did not ruin your cake pops. I swear it. I don’t know who did it, or why. But remember Sarah and Lissie were both in your kitchen that day, too.”
“True.” I faltered. I hadn’t thought about that before. “But Lissie ate one of the pops. And Sarah … why would Sarah do that t
o her own friends?”
Dane shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe you should ask her.”
“No way,” I said quickly. “What if I was wrong? I don’t want to get on Sarah’s bad side … ever. Mayor Chan could probably shut down Say It With Flour in a heartbeat, if he wanted to.”
“Okay,” Dane said. “It’s your call. But you have to trust me that I had nothing to do with it.”
I studied his face, trying to detect any sign of lying. But all I saw was a blatant, challenging look of honesty. The truth was, as angry as I was at him, a small part of me wanted desperately to believe that maybe he really was innocent.
“I’d like to believe that,” I said finally. “I really would.”
“Okay,” he said. “And yes, I looked through your book. But not because I was stealing recipes. I would never do that.” He sighed, staring at me with piercing eyes. “I wish you understood that about me.” He paused, seeming to think over his next words carefully. “I looked through the book because I was curious about … about you.”
“Oh,” I barely squeaked out. He tried to hold my gaze, but I dropped my eyes, embarrassment flooding through me.
“But they’re not your recipes, are they?” he asked quietly. “I take French, not Spanish, so I couldn’t translate, but I thought the book had the name Estrella in it?”
I nodded. “It was my mom’s recipe book. Her name was Estrella. I’ve been using her recipes to make my cake pops for the store.”
“They’re good recipes,” he said. “Really different.”
“Yours are, too,” I said. “It seems like I’m the only one who can’t …” I let my voice die, catching myself just in time.
Dane raised his eyebrows. “Can’t what?”
I hesitated, knowing this was a testing point between us. If I truly believed Dane was innocent, I could come clean and confess my secret. If I didn’t believe him, there was no way I was going to give him more ammunition to use against me. I closed my eyes and a voice deep inside me said, Trust him. So I did.
I took a deep breath and blurted, “I can’t bake without using other people’s recipes. I can’t make up my own. I’ve tried … so many times. It doesn’t work for me.”
“Wow.” Dane whistled under his breath. “That could be a little problem at the bake-off.”
I shot him a dirty look. “This is not a time for jokes.”
“So … what are you going to do?”
“Not back out, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
“I’m not.” He rolled his eyes. “In fact, I was hoping to have to fight for a win.” He took a step toward the kitchen. “So I guess we’d better get started.”
“With what?” I asked. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to the kitchen.” He grinned. “You’re going to bake. Right here. Right now. No recipes.”
“With you?” I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
Dane smirked. “Look, I don’t have any actual proof that I’m a nice guy. But I am trying to help you. If you don’t believe that, then you’re not as smart or as nice as I thought you were.” With that, he walked into the kitchen.
I stood by the counter, glaring after him. How was it possible to be so aggravated, flustered, and flattered all at once? The pride in me wanted to make him sweat it for a while, but my curiosity (and yes, desperation) won out, and I followed him into the kitchen.
It must not have occurred to him that I’d say no, because he was already setting out various sized bowls and pouring flour, sugar, and baking soda into them. He pulled a jumble of spices and extracts from the pantry and some eggs from the fridge.
“Now point me in the direction of the music,” he said.
I motioned to the shop’s stereo, and Dane pulled his iPod out of his back pocket and slid it into the docking station. A smooth, jaunty trumpet and saxophone filled the kitchen.
“Jazz?” I asked.
He smiled. “New Orleans jazz. I can’t bake without it.” He grabbed a hand towel and started toward me. “Now I have to do one more thing….”
He spun me around, and before I’d barely gotten a protest out, he’d tied the towel around my head, blindfolding me.
“I’m supposed to bake without seeing the ingredients?” I asked, incredulous.
“Your other senses will take over,” he said. “You’ll see.”
He took my hand in his warm one, and led me over to the counter. “Okay, let your fingers find their way.”
I gave a skeptical laugh, but I reached my free hand out. I cautiously dipped my hand into a bowl and touched satiny powder.
“Flour?” I guessed.
“You got it,” Dane said.
I kept going, and soon I’d identified all the ingredients except the spices.
“For those,” Dane said. “You need to smell, or taste.”
I did, and managed to get all of them right.
“See, your body knows more than your mind thinks it does,” he said. “So now start playing. Don’t think about how it will turn out. Just have fun with the process.”
“But how do I measure?” I asked. “I need my measuring spoons and cups.”
“Nope.” His voice came from by my shoulder. “Do it by feel. Try to feel the weight of things. Then taste as you go.”
I hesitated, every fiber of me wanting to take off the blindfold and give up. My fingers itched to hold my measuring spoons, to know with certainty how much I was adding. But after a minute, I scooped up some flour, felt the weight of it in my hand, and tried to gauge the amount. Then I added sugar, and from there, my fingers began to move smoothly, almost magically, blending mystery ingredients until I had a bowl full of batter that tasted amazing.
“All done,” Dane said, lifting the blindfold so that I could survey my work. He pointed to the bowl. “If I were in New Orleans, I’d call it cake-pop gumbo.”
“I call it a mess,” I said, surveying the gelatinous glob, and the broken egg shells and mounds of spilled baking soda and sugar all over the counter. “How many times have you baked like this before?”
“Um … never.” He laughed at my shocked face. “But I thought it might work for you.”
I poured the batter into a cake pan and popped it into the oven. While my mysterious mixture was baking, Dane and I cleaned up. I was amazed at how easily we fell into talking, just like we had on the day of the whale-watching trip. In fact, I actually felt a pang of disappointment when the timer beeped, interrupting us.
I slid out my cake, marveling at its perfectly golden crusted top. It smelled delicious. I carefully cut myself a slice and when I took a bite, I discovered that it tasted even better than it smelled.
“I can’t believe it,” I cried, an ecstatic grin growing on my face. “It worked!”
Dane leaned back against the counter, looking very pleased with himself. “I knew it would.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You did not.”
He shrugged and laughed. “Okay, I hoped it would. Besides, it was all you. I can’t take any credit.”
“Thank you,” I said. I ducked my head, feeling sheepish. “You know, I never really gave you a fair chance before tonight. I’m … I’m sorry for that. Normally, I’m not so tough on people. But for some reason, you’re different.”
“You mean I’m a pain in the butt,” he said with a grin. “Point taken.”
“No,” I said. “You’re not. You’re not anything like I thought you were at all.”
I felt myself blush as the words left my mouth. Was it my imagination or was Dane blushing, too?
He shuffled his feet and pushed his blond hair out his eyes. “Um … thanks. I think.” He checked his watch. “It’s late, and I have a cross-country meet first thing in the morning. I better go.”
I nodded, and we walked to the front of the shop.
“See you at school on Monday,” I said, suddenly feeling lighter about everything. Even the fate of the bakery and my fight with Tansy.
“See you,” Da
ne echoed. Then he stopped, meeting my gaze. “And, you know, you should keep practicing. I want you to make me sweat at the bake-off next Saturday.”
“I’ll give it my best shot,” I said.
“You just have to trust yourself. And …” He stepped closer, until our faces were only inches apart. “Make sure you get the batter in the bowl. Not on your face.” He gently wiped at a spot on my cheek while my face caught fire.
Our eyes met, and for one crazy minute I thought he might be about to kiss me. For one crazy minute, I thought that I might want him to. But he didn’t. He pulled away and went through the door, waving good-bye.
I watched him take off at a jog under the yellow streetlights, and I let out the breath I’d been holding. My heart was racing, and I could still feel a warmth in the air around me where he’d been standing. What had just happened? I wasn’t sure.
But now that my own guard was down, I could see that what I’d always thought of as arrogance in Dane was more a defense mechanism. Underneath, he was sweet, funny, and kind.
And as I locked up the store and walked home under a crystal clear sky strewn with stars, he was all I could think about.
The sea of green and yellow T-shirts swarmed before my eyes like something out of a nightmare, and my first instinct was to turn around and go straight back home.
It was the Friday morning before the bake-off, and I’d woken up thinking I was ready. That was until I got to school. Now I watched in a bewildered fog as Lissie and Jane walked by wearing matching green T-shirts that read TEAM DANE.
“Hey, Ali,” Lissie said with the fakest attempt at an apologetic grin I’d ever seen. “Just getting into the bake-off spirit. No offense.”
I nodded mutely, trying to process what she meant. But then Gwen was at my side, leading me toward the quad.
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