Pinpoint (Point #4) (2 page)

“You know you shouldn’t skip youth group. They were counting on your attendance. Besides, John Tyler is there.” Her mother didn’t try to hide the gleam in her eyes while Iris could hardly suppress a shudder. For years, her parents had been hinting she should date the pious young man who made it no secret he wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps.

Be stuck in this life forever? Iris simply couldn’t fathom the idea. After seventeen years of living in a home devoid of love, Iris wanted that one thing most in her life. John Tyler didn’t make her heart race or her breath catch. He was a scrawny guy who spent more time with his nose stuck in a Bible than anything else in his adolescent life.

“I don’t want my dough to spoil,” she said in a lame attempt to dissuade her parents from forcing her to the youth group event in the church basement.

“Next time, you will be there,” her father gritted. He was a waste not, want not type and wouldn’t want to ruin the perfectly good dough.

“Yes, sir,” Iris responded, eyes drifting back to the table.

Someday, you’ll be free to do whatever you want, whenever you want,
she promised herself.

Purple and white frosting swirl together to make delicate peaks on top of the vanilla cupcakes. Crinkled white paper cups the bottom of each mini cake where they sit in the clear plastic carrying case. Studying the cupcakes focuses me. As always, when I get nervous, the physical symptoms start at my fingertips. Tiny pinpricks of anxiety dot across my finger pads until they consume my entire hand.

“Iris—they’re ready for you.”

Clutching the case in one palm and my purse in the other, I thank the receptionist as she leads me to a small conference room. The dread building inside me would be appropriate for a job interview or maybe a blind date. Glancing at the posters decorating the cream-colored hallway, I remind myself what brought me to the midrise office building in the Loop—Mentoring Chicago. The prestigious volunteer organization is one of the largest and well-known community service programs in the city. Notoriety means Mentoring Chicago can be picky when selecting its mentors. That’s why I brought the cupcakes; I am hoping a sugar surge will sway the decision-making committee because I have no formal training in baking. A spatula and a prayer got me here.

Two youngish men are laughing in the conference room when I enter. One has a full golden beard and mustache and the other wears black-framed glasses.
Hipsters.
I didn’t know what the term meant when I moved to the city from Winter, Illinois a few months ago, and I still don’t quite get it, but my sister says they’re an independent thinking and dressing subculture. Well, I’m still getting a handle on the culture-culture.

I propel myself to the men emanating a protective shield of assurance. Underneath the layer of placidity, I’m trembling.
Darn it
. I want them to accept me into the program. If Mentoring Chicago picks me, I’ll teach a weekly baking class to underprivileged youth. I’m eager to have an independent hobby all on my own and not the making of my older sister, Violet.

“Iris, welcome to Mentoring Chicago,” the one with glasses says as they both rise.

Unceremoniously, I place the cupcake carrier and my bag on the cherry wood conference table. We share the obligatory handshake, and as I knew from the little avatars next to their email addresses during our correspondence, they are Andy (glasses) and Bruce (beard).

The plastic lid opens with a click when I unlatch the locks to reveal my contribution to the meeting. With care not to disturb the carefully frosted cupcakes, I gently remove two treats from their case and hand each man one. “It’s never too early for a cupcake.” The waver in my tone betrays the nerves still coursing through me. Steadily, I ignore the anxiety.

“Can’t argue with that,” Andy says. His straight white teeth sink into my creation, and a low moan slips from his lips. “Holy shit, this is good.”

“Did you put crack in these?” Bruce asks through a bite. “Let’s be upfront about the rules—crack in any form is against protocol.”

At their playful compliments, my lips curl up and my fear begins to dissipate. “No illegal substances of any kind. This is a recipe of my own: cinnamon-vanilla cupcakes with buttercream frosting.”

“As you can tell, we’re pretty informal here,” Andy says after polishing off his cupcake. “Before we get to you, I’ll give you some background on our organization.”

Nodding in agreement, I settle into my seat.

“Mentoring Chicago was started twenty-five years ago by a group of students at Northwestern. In the beginning, one hundred teens came to four classes: woodworking, creative writing, pottery, and computer skills. Now, we serve three thousand teenagers and run two hundred programs.”

“Wow.” I can’t help but marvel in appreciation.

“Boiled down, our mission is to give Chicago public high school teens the chance to explore and develop their talents. We want these teenagers to learn real-world skills to use when they’re out of high school—whether it’s for college or a job. There are internships, classes, and apprenticeships.” Bruce glances down to a sheet of paper lying on the tabletop. “You’re applying for a classroom; we cap it at fifteen students with one teacher. If we decide to move forward, you’ll be on your own in the room with the kids. The idea of having two hours alone with no backup can be intimidating to some of our instructors. That’s why we require a syllabus.

“We’ll chat with you a little bit, answer any questions you have. If all goes well with our conversation, we will conduct a background check. As long as you pass that, we’ll ask you to develop and submit a syllabus to promote the course to our students,” Andy explains.

The not-so-subtle ‘we’re judging you’ undertones are not lost on me. Coming into this meeting, I knew it was an audition. That’s why I spent two hours this morning baking cupcakes. I sit up a little straighter and maintain a placid outward appearance. Inside, I’m quivering. I
need
this job.

Volunteer position,
I amend.

“Why do you want to work with our students?” Andy asks.

Inhaling a discreet breath through my nose, I mentally will my voice to remain even. “One of my first memories in the kitchen was making pies with my mother for the church bake sale. Contributing to the sale was one of her least favorite duties of being a pastor’s wife, so she enlisted my sister and me to help. Even though I was only seven or eight, I fell in love with the feel of dough forming between my hands. On the other hand, my sister was like my mother and quickly found a reason to escape the chore.” My lips curl involuntarily. “At first, I didn’t realize baking was a science of proportions. In the beginning, there were plenty of ruined cookies and, eventually, flat soufflés, but the time I spent learning in the kitchen were the best memories of my childhood.”
Holy cow, I’m on a roll.
“When I was old enough, I ran cooking lessons for kids at the summer church camp. It didn’t take long for me to realize that teaching others how to bake is my second favorite thing to creating on my own. A few months ago, I moved here from a small town a couple of hours west. I want to get involved in my community, meet new people, and share my love of baking. Not necessarily in that order.” When I finish, I’m sitting a little straighter. There. I said everything I rehearsed.

“Oh, yeah? Where are you from? I’m a rural transplant, too,” Bruce says.

“Winter.” An apt name for the bitingly chilly place I called home at one time.

“Been there a few times. I’m from Galena.”

“Galena is a beautiful town.” Suddenly, shyness creeps in, and I focus my attention on the cupcake tin.

Andy clears his throat. Apparently realizing how we veered off topic, Bruce’s cheeks go red, and he shakes his head. He strokes a hand across his beard, seemingly gathering himself.

“Do you have any professional or educational experience in the kitchen?” Andy asks.

Tingling erupts across my fingertips. “Nothing formal, no. My experience comes for twenty years in a kitchen.” I pluck a plastic-covered, spiral-bound notebook from my oversized purse and place it on the table before them. Then I retrieve a small wooden box. “These are photographs of cakes, cookies, breads, pies, scones, muffins—you name it—that I’ve prepared over the years. I also brought my original recipes, and some that I’ve modified. They’re in the box.”

“If you’re this passionate about being in the kitchen, why aren’t you working in a bakery?” Bruce asks when he glances up from a picture of a donut platter I made for the annual village of Winter autumnal celebration.

Do you have an extra hour to let me explain?
There’s the sister reason, the father reason, the lack confidence reason. Though I doubt Bruce and Andy want my life story. “The first job I found when I moved to Chicago was in event planning. I don’t want to leave my employer–” in this case, my sister “–suddenly. And I like my job working events. I’m learning my way around the city. One day, I’ll pursue baking full time.”

Apparently satisfied with my answer, Bruce nods. Andy finds the syllabus I placed in the back pocket of my portfolio, and the conversation turns toward the schedule. If they select me, I’ll have two baking courses: one in the fall semester and one in the spring.

“Well, that’s all we need on our end. Any other questions?” Andy gently pushes my recipe box and portfolio to my side of the table.

“Another cupcake before I go?” Forcing a sunny expression, I pack my things and rise to my feet.

“Twist my arm.” Bruce and Andy both accept another treat—which I take as a good sign.

When I walk out of the Mentoring Chicago office suite and into the elevator, no pinpricks of anxiety shoot through my veins because I feel
good.

I practically dance my way down Randolph. When I make it to the Elevated Train stairs, I bound up two at a time. Even if I don’t get the volunteer position—
please let me get the job—
I’m proud of myself. Typically reserved and unused to job hunting, for me to make it through the interview was an achievement all in itself.

One train transfer and a two-block walk later, I let myself into the Expertly Planned studio office. Violet designed the entire lofted space. The exposed wood beams are a bright, fresh white. Pendant lights illuminate the space over distressed wood desks and a conference table. The back corner of the rectangular room has a kitchenette, although since our living quarters are above the studio, I sometimes make lunch upstairs in the apartment.

Despite it being the height of event season—summer—things are slower than normal at Expertly Planned. Cameron, Violet’s boyfriend, whisked her to Toronto to meet his family. With Expertly Planned’s fearless leader on vacation, the responsibility of responding to clients and executing tasks for the upcoming events is mine. I cut across the open space and place the cupcake holder and purse on my desktop.

“Rocky, I’m back.” Nails click between the concrete floors and the area rugs as Cameron’s adorable rescue dog trots toward me. The twenty-pound black furball sits on his haunches, tail wagging back and forth across the floor in anticipation of my attention. Never one to deny an animal, I squat down and rub behind his ears. With Cameron and Violet in Canada, I volunteered to dog-sit. Rocky is a regular fixture in the office because his owner is often traveling for business and leaves Violet to watch him. A hook affixed to the wall next to the front door specifically holds his leash. I grab it and the collar, clip it around Rocky’s neck, and take him outside.

A short walk through the bustling Wicker Park neighborhood later, Rocky and I return to the loft. With a heavy sigh, I drop to my desk and wake my laptop from its slumber.

Four months ago, Violet offered me an opportunity I couldn’t turn down—a job and a place to live in Chicago. In Winter, I was on a path toward the life my father had constructed for me. A degree in business management from a community college would ensure I could handle office management at the church (like my mother). While molding me into a replica of my mother, Father groomed John Tyler to be his predecessor at the church. The not-so-secret plan was for John and me to marry and become the reincarnation of my father and mother. As my future closed in, I became more and more frantic to break free. And then Violet reappeared in my life. Father had disowned my older sister when she accepted a scholarship to a four-year college, and she hadn’t returned home for ten years.

The rest of the story happened in quick succession. Close-knit for as far back as my memory goes, Violet and I rekindled our sisterhood. I confessed I wanted to escape from Winter, and Violet supplied my ticket. Without her, I wouldn’t have broken free from Father’s figurative chains. Every day, I count my blessings, and not once do I take my sister’s generosity for granted. I owe my freedom to her.

It didn’t take me long to realize that event planning was
not
my forte. First, there’s the schmoozing. Conversing with clients is a constant struggle. I stink at small talk and big talk. Violet does most of the client interfacing while I support from the comfort of the wings. Event planning demands inconsistent,
long
hours in very social settings. I’d rather be cozy with a good book and a fresh oatmeal chocolate chip cookie than teetering through venues in high heels. Despite the clear mismatch between my personality and the demands of the job, I genuinely enjoy working with my sister.