Pinpoint (Point #4) (16 page)

“Bakers, start your engines. Put fifty minutes on the clock. It’s time to make some pie.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk like you live in the country?” London asks. At the fifth week of the semester, I’ve come to appreciate London’s brash personality. She’s loud and blunt, and before I met her, I wasn’t used to being around people with those personality traits. I’ve come to learn just how closed off my life has been, how there’s much to appreciate about this world. My new philosophy is acceptance. Instead of passing judgment, I listen to my students. Little by little, I’m forming meaningful relationships with all of the students. As Oscar predicted, my students respond well to structure.

Ugh.

There he is again. Just when I stop thinking about Oscar, he crops up somewhere. Over the past few weeks, I’ve seen him in passing at Grover. I’ve been polite but distant because I’m afraid if I exchange more than pleasantries with him, I’ll convince myself he’s interested in more than friendship. The walls are up.

I toss my arm around London’s shoulder and hug her to my side briefly. “Yes. You and Amber.” She roars with laughter, and I join her. “Speaking of country,” I address the entire room, “while we wait for our pies, I’ve got an idea to keep us occupied.”

“Aw, man. I wanna play Catch Phrase,” whines Jackson, the only other young man in the class, referring to the game I began bringing each week for downtime.

“Don’t worry, I brought it,” I reassure him. “If you guys hate my idea, then we’ll toss it.” I walk over to the teacher’s desk to grab the pile of bags I left lying there. “Anyone know what these are?”

“Looks like potato sacks.” This comes from Michael.

“Exactly. As many of you have noticed, I’m a country girl at heart. What we did on the farm for fun was very different from you city kids. We did things like potato sack races and wheelbarrow races. Since we have, now, three-quarters of an hour to wait for our pies, I thought we could try something different to pass the time. Who’s in?”

Amber plucks one of the bags from my hand, frowning. “This sounds stupid.”

“What? Are you afraid of coming in last place?” I tease her.

“Hell, no! I’ll beat all of you.”

I arch a brow at her.

“Sorry for cursing,” she mumbles. I don’t try to show my triumph at her acquiescence to my rules.

“Let’s do this.” We gather in the hallway, separating into two groups for the race. The winner of each heat will face off in a championship round. I’m the official judge, standing on the opposite end of the hallway waiting.

“On your mark. Get set. Go!” Half the students hop toward me, crying out competitive barbs to each other. Meanwhile, the rest of the teenagers crowd around the finish line, shouting encouragement and laughing at their awkward hopping peers.

“Winner!” I cry when Jackson crosses the imaginary line first. By the time we finish the potato sack races, we’re all cracking jokes, generally being boisterous.

“Okay, Iris. You have to be my partner for this wheelbarrow thing. Amber sprained her wrist over the summer, so she can’t do this.” London grabs my hand and pulls me toward the starting line. “And I’m holding the legs.”

Delighted that the toughest student to win over wants to be buddy-buddy with me, I allow her to half drag me to where the rest of our group is lining up. I move to my knees, balance on my hands, and look over my shoulder at London. “Ready?”

“Let’s go!” she cheers.

Pressing my weight onto the palms of my hands, I kick up one and then two legs into London’s waiting hands.

“One. Two. Three. Go!” Amber shouts, and we tear off.

London steers me toward Michael, attempting to bump Monica, the girl holding his ankles. “Faster! Move that skinny butt,” London cries. Laughter bubbles up in my chest until I’m struggling to move forward. London practically propels me forward, and we still come in second place. I collapse into a heap on the floor, curling onto my side as tears squeeze out the corners of my eyes.

This is
fun.
These two hours with my Mentoring Chicago students are quickly becoming the highlight of my week.

“Ahem.” All of us, every student and I, freeze at the loud throat clearing. Scrambling, I hop to my feet and smooth my hair down. Oscar Alexander, surrounded by a crowd of his students, watches my group with obvious interest. “What’s going on out here?” He doesn’t sound angry by the commotion, more curious.

“Our pies are in the oven,” I blurt awkwardly.
Get it together, Iris.

Oscar angles his head but doesn’t respond.

“Yeah. We needed to kill fifty minutes,” Michael adds. I want to hug him. It’s not possible for me to be less smooth. Oh, well. This is who I am.

With a bright smile pointed in the direction of my kids, I explain. “Those pies pack a ton of sugar and butter. Exercise before you eat. That way there’s no worry of cramps.” I slide my arms around the shoulders of whichever kids are closest to me. “Next week, you all are welcome to join us.”

“All that commotion caused a disturbance to our work,” Oscar says, but the gleam in his eye lets me know he isn’t really upset.

“My deepest apologies.” Dropping my arms from my students’ shoulders, I offer a short bow. “We’re on our way back to the classroom. Let’s go, guys.”

“Wait a minute. We want to discuss something.”

After glancing at my watch to make sure our pies won’t burn, I nod. “We’ve got seven minutes until we need to check them.”

“Are you interested in working in a professional kitchen?”

“What do you mean?” Amber asks suspiciously.

“This is the first year Mentoring Chicago has had a cooking and a baking course,” Oscar explains. “I’d like to give both groups access to a kitchen at one of my restaurants. We’ll make a first and second course, you’ll make a dessert, and then we’ll all eat together. You can each invite one guest. It will be a Sunday night, and I will provide all the ingredients. You’ll need to decide on something in advance and let Iris know. Don’t make any decisions now.” Oscar holds up a hand, and my students remain quiet. Man, he has this teacher thing down. “Talk about it as a group and let me know. Let’s get back to work, guys.” With that, they turn around and leave us standing there.

What a wonderful idea. Not to mention generous. Oscar’s willing to let the students run around his kitchen and even provide all the ingredients. It will be expensive and potentially hazardous to his tools. Still, he offered, and it makes my heart warm to him. All of a sudden, I feel like the leader of misfits not taking this course seriously. I’m not thinking of anything bigger and better than games from a church picnic.

“Did someone mention pie?” I whirl around to find bearded Bruce from the central Mentoring Chicago office grinning at my students. A wave of relief washes over me. Whew. He doesn’t look upset to find the teenagers standing in the hallway with discarded potato sacks tossed around haphazardly.

“You absolutely did. Apple, berry, pumpkin, and chocolate cream. What’s your fancy?”

“All four,” he says with a grin. It’s then I realize he’s kind of handsome, in that hipster (as my sister would say) style. He’s wearing tight jeans, a flannel shirt, and scuffed sneakers. His expression is a little sheepish and but still friendly. His gray eyes twinkle with good will.

The kids walk ahead of us, picking up the sacks without me having to ask.

“Hey,” Bruce murmurs at my side as we take up the rear. “Great work with this group. It’s nice to see them having lighthearted fun.”

I glance at him and find only sincerity in his expression. “They’re great kids. It’s not hard to have fun with them.”
You wouldn’t be getting along with them this well without Oscar’s suggestions.
Darn it! It’s like he’s stuck in my brain. All thoughts circle back to Oscar. They say time heals all wounds. How much time must elapse before Oscar is nothing but a distant memory? I realize I’m being impatient, but that doesn’t stop my feverish desire to put Oscar in the past.

“There are two ways to see if your pie is finished,” I tell the class as they pull their pies from the oven. “My personal favorite is the jiggle test. It’s less scientific but more fun. Shake the pie gently. It’s done when the filling is set, and it doesn’t jiggle.”

“Iris, this test is kind of weird,” Michael says.

“Fair enough, but Jackson and Marlena, you have to do a jiggle test for the chocolate cream pie. For everyone else who wants a different test: take a knife and poke it in near the center of the pie. If it comes out clean, you’re done. Bruce, what would you like to try?”

“Hmm . . .” Bruce strolls past each set of students, surveying their work. “Man, these smell heavenly.” I watch him greet all of the students by name. Impressive. How he manages to know them when hundreds of teenagers are in the program shows how devoted he is to Mentoring Chicago. “If I’m going to assess which is my favorite, I’m going to have to try all of them.”

“No one said anything about a competition,” Amber pouts.

“The only winners in here are our taste buds,” I tell Bruce with mock seriousness, causing some of my kids to burst into uproarious laughter. Before they can tease me, I wave a hand at them. “Hey, hey, I know that was a corny thing to say. We won’t have enough for everyone to get a taste of all the pies unless we cut tiny slices. Pick two pies to try. That includes you, Bruce.”

While everyone else moves around the room to get their sweets, I lean against the teacher desk and observe the scene with unrestrained pleasure. This moment is one of the reasons I wanted this position so badly. Watching my kids gush about what they’ve made, I feel accomplished and proud of the pride they exude when their peers enjoy the pie. Not to mention the impact of watching my sort of boss Bruce participating in the foray.

“I have a confession to make.” Bruce holds a paper plate in his hands and extends it to me. “Got you some berry pie to soften the blow.”

I pluck the plate from his hands and fork off an edge of pie. “Go ahead.” I pop the piece into my mouth, reveling in the way the familiar flavors play on my taste buds.

“The only student in here who picked baking as their first choice activity was Michael.” Bruce has the grace to look chagrined.

“A well-intentioned fib, I’m sure.” I smile to soften my words. “You saw how nervous I was that first day.”

Bruce exhales and shoots me a relieved, surprisingly cute, grin. “Exactly. Before I became the volunteer coordinator, I was an instructor like you, and I know how nerve-wracking it is to stand in front of a bunch of oftentimes-surly teenagers. You’ve managed to win them over, Iris. It’s the beauty of Mentoring Chicago.” He angles his head toward my students who are obediently cleaning the countertops and putting away tools.

“This is a far cry from where we were the first week,” I admit ruefully. “They trust me now. I think. I hope.” The blood rushes to my cheeks. “Do I sound arrogant? I don’t mean to. I’m trying everything to make them comfortable and respected.”

“Not at all. It’s honest.”

An awkward silence settles between us as we watch the progress. A minute later, the room is clean, the aprons are in a pile on one of the kitchen counters, and the students are bidding us both farewell. And then we’re alone.

We speak at the same time.

“So–”

“I was wondering–”

“You go first,” I tell Bruce.

He shifts uncomfortably, then his spine goes straight and his meets my gaze. A hint of uncertainty shows. “Would you like to go out with me sometime?”

Wait.

What?

For a moment, I stare at him in stunned silence. I almost squeak out a very insecure ‘Me?’ before I stop myself. Of course, he’s talking to me. No one else is here. Another indicator of the sad state of my self-esteem. Is there any reason for me to turn him down? I can’t think of one. Bruce is friendly, good with teenagers, and comes from a small town like I do.

“Sure.” The word comes out in a rush. “I’d love to.”

Bruce’s features relax, and his lips curl upward. “Okay. Great. I’m looking forward to it.”

Another uncomfortable silence settles between us and I wonder if he is going to make any other moves to initiate a date. When he doesn’t say anything further, I decide to take matters into my own hands. “Maybe we should exchange numbers.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I guess I’m in shock. I didn’t think a gorgeous woman like you would actually accept a date with me.” Beneath his beard, Bruce’s cheeks flush red. “Shit. I can’t believe I said that out loud. I’m an idiot.”

Smothering a smile, I pull my phone from where I laid it on the desk. “No worries. I’m not much of a dating expert. Small town living and all.”
And an overbearing father.
But that’s a discussion for another time.

Bruce takes my number and then texts me so I have his. Then he glances at the time on his phone, a disappointed frown replacing his smile. “I’ve got to run and meet with an instructor. I’ll call you.” Bruce pauses. Genuine enthusiasm shines on his face, and a swell of eagerness builds in me. His interest is flattering at a time when my bruised ego needs a little loving.

Instinctively, I lean forward and give Bruce a quick hug. His body is lean, almost thin. The feel of his arms around me is nice. Safe. “Have a good night, Bruce.”

“You too, Iris.”

If only Oscar looked at me with that much enthusiasm.

Stop!
Inwardly, I shout at myself. Enough with the Oscar thoughts. He doesn’t want me, and the fact I’m frequently thinking about him makes me pathetic. A great guy asked me out, and it isn’t fair for my attention to focus elsewhere. Especially when the subject of my attention has made his intentions painfully clear. Annoyed with where my thoughts have gone, I distract myself by checking through the classroom to make sure nothing’s out of place. Then I rush out of the school, mercifully avoiding any sign of Oscar in my escape.

“Stella and Blake host a New Year’s Eve party ever year. Put it on your calendar.”

I grunt with the exertion of standing on my tiptoes to align a vase of flowers on a mantel over the fireplace at the Buckingham Club. We are setting a reception for the Chicago Wind (a professional football team) brass. This is not a typical, grand Expertly Planned event, but Violet calls it a log in a bigger fire—the way to maintain her relationship with such a prestigious organization.