The Sweetest Thing (13 page)

He reaches for my hand and pulls it to the gearshift.

“You ready to drive?” I’ve never driven a stick; I can’t even drive an automatic, really.

“No! I have no clue what I’m doing!” I say, smiling, and relieved that he doesn’t seem to be mad anymore.

His hand stays on top of mine, shifts to a different gear.

I have no clue how to have a boyfriend, either, but I’m learn-ing fast.

We slip back into town, talking and laughing the whole way. He’s funny and real, and I’m really starting to feel like myself with him. Before we can step out of the car and into the dark garage, he leans over and kisses me again. I need to relax and focus because my lips are not cooperating. But I can’t concentrate. I feel his hand messing with the bottom of my shirt and there’s a voice in my head that is telling me very unromantic things. Like, Slow down, sister. And the voices sounds just like Nanny, which is definitely a mood killer.

He’s getting pretty into this.
Slow. Down
. I stop first this time.

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He sits back in his seat. “Wow,” he says.

Wow what? Wow, that sucked, or wow, that was the best kiss ever? He doesn’t explain.

“We better get you back to town. Don’t want you to get a reputation.” He climbs out of the car, and I let that comment sink in. Like my mother? Is that what people will think when they see me with Ethan?

I swing open the door and he’s there, waiting. “Want to go for coffee?”

It’s almost lunchtime, and all I’ve put in my stomach today is a latte. The last thing I need is coffee. But I also don’t want this to end. He grabs my hand again. If the kisses are a little awkward, at least there’s this: his hand feels perfect in mine.

“I would love a coffee,” I say.

We walk out of the garage, through the gate, and down the hill from his house.

“You wanna give this a try again? I mean, legally, next time?”

“Legally?” I ask.

“Like, a real live date?”

I know that if I go on a date with Ethan, Jack will hate me, Haley will kill me, and Lori will never give me a moment’s peace, wanting to know all the details.

But as Ethan and I are walking together, his hair blowing back in the freezing wind, I don’t care. He catches me watching him, and he delivers that smile. The one that 130

makes me all wiggly inside. “Legally would be good,” I say.

Ethan pushes open the door of Geronimo’s, and I’m feeling so blissed out that it takes me a minute to register all the faces that have turned to stare. I look down and realize that we are still holding hands, like we’re going out. Like Ethan Murphy is my boyfriend.

My eyes travel to our regular table. Lori’s there, with Tuba Dude Jim, her boyfriend of the minute. I look from her to the next table, then to the next, where my eyes land on Haley, live and in person, surrounded by her groupies. She glares at me like I just threw up on her.

Ethan shouts to one of his buddies waiting in line. He hasn’t let go of my hand yet. I look back to Lori and then see Jack coming out of the back room with a gallon of milk in each hand. Geronimo’s is busy with school letting out early, and Mrs. Davis probably asked him if he could work. Of course he said yes.

When Jack sees me, his entire face turns to stone. And then as he passes a table full of jocks, one of the long-legged basketball morons sticks out a foot, and Jack drops like a sack of potatoes. He falls flat, saving one gallon, but all he can do is watch as the other hurtles out of reach and bursts open on the floor. I let go of Ethan’s hand and rush to my best friend, the room filling up with laughter.

Mrs. Davis hurries around the counter. “What happened?” But Jack won’t tell.

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“Accident. Sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

He’s still on the floor when I hold out a hand to help him up. “You okay?”

But his eyes are fierce, and he gets up on his own. I go from worried to scared in less than a second.

“You get that chem lab turned in okay?” he says in a cold voice. My heart plummets like a boulder in my chest.

The room applauds as he stands up. And being Jack, he bows to the audience. A few ninth-grade girls are circling, checking to see that he’s all right.

“Jack?” I say.

Mrs. Davis brings a few dish towels to throw on the spill.

“Jack?” He’s not looking at me.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” He turns away and smiles at one especially perky freshman.

Ethan, done talking to his friend now, steps over the milk puddle, oblivious to what happened. He puts his hand on the small of my back. It’s a nice, new sensation, Ethan’s touch. But I can’t enjoy it. “Come on, let’s sit,” he says.

“Okay. Just a minute,” I say, and watch Jack go to the back room.

I stand paralyzed on the edge of this river of milk, wondering what to do. The sounds of the espresso machine and teenage gibberish echo in my ears as Jack returns with the mop and bucket. He stares at that mop as he moves it back and forth, back and forth. Finally, he glances up and our eyes meet.

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And that’s when I know. It’s as clear as the sky on this frigid April day.

I’ve broken his heart.

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It’s like my life has taken a 180-degree turn since Palm Sunday, only a week and a half ago. It’s Wednesday now.

Ethan meets me in the hallways, greets me with kisses. I think I’m getting better at the kissing, but I’ve got a lot to learn. It seems like the most natural thing in the world to him. I, however, am a total amateur.

Everyone knows about me and Ethan, and the buzz about the TV show has reached a fever pitch. Now all these kids who I haven’t spoken to since grade school come up to me and act like we’re best friends. Except for Haley, of course.

She passes me between classes, always with the same smug grin plastered across her face. Like she’s up to something.

The worst part is that Jack isn’t talking to me at all. And I have no idea what to say to him to make things better.

Whatever it was I saw in his eyes at the coffee shop on Monday has spooked me. Sadness? Anger? Love, maybe? At the very least, I think he likes me. Scratch that. He
liked
me.

Now he can’t even look at me.

Art class is especially uncomfortable, since he sits right next to me. I want so badly to update him about Mom. Tell him that I called the bakery again and got the machine.

Called again, got a woman, and hung up on her like a big chicken.

I still have no idea what to say.

But the party is a week from Saturday, and preproduc-tion is in full swing. I need to talk to her if this plan is going to work. Like today.

The Suits have the cake sketch, but they want the guest list, too. I’ve been stalling on that one. Amazon sends me text messages fifty times a day about it; I can’t hold her off much longer.

I’m in my room now, and due at the bakery in a half hour. The guest list is up on the laptop, but my cell phone is in my hand. Mom’s number is selected and my thumb is hovering over the Send button. I can do this.

In an attempt to calm my nerves, I pull out the box of cards. I pick one out and read the note inside.

One decade old already! I just won first place in a huge
contest here in London and thought of you and your birthday
cake. I wonder what it will look like. My winner was covered
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in silver butterflies. You would have loved it. Hope you have a
happy day. Love you, Cupcake. Mom.

I smile. Why am I so afraid of talking to my own mother? Ridiculous. I hit Send and the number dials. It’s late in the afternoon and most bakeries close early. But I’ve got to take a chance.

One ring. My heart is beating faster.
Don’t freak out. Just
relax
. Two rings. Then another.

Click. “Hello?”

Oh no, it’s a woman’s voice. My palms are sweaty, and I almost panic and hit End.

But I stop myself. “Hello?” I say, my voice a shaky mess.

“Yeah, hello?” She sounds harsh, not at all like my mother.

“Hi. Um, I’m interested in ordering a cake by Maggie Taylor. Does she work there?”

The person on the other side laughs. “Not really. Owns the place. But she’s never around. Always off at some contest or other.”

“Oh.”

“You wanna leave a message?” Clearly this woman has no real grasp of customer service.

“Um. My wedding is coming up soon; I really need to get in touch with her.”

“Well, she’s gonna be in Chicago this weekend, and she don’t like me giving out her private number.”

“No. I understand.” My heart is beating even faster now.

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“But she’s going to be in Chicago?”

“Yeah, some cake contest. Big surprise.”

“Oh, that’s where I live. Maybe I can go and see her?” I ask, trying hard to sound casual.

“Look, lady, see her, don’t see her. Whatever. I got work to do.”

“Wait—”

She hangs up without another word.

But I don’t care because this is the break I needed. Mom’s going to be in Chicago, only a few hours from here. I
can
go to see her. And maybe Jack will drive me; maybe that will smooth over his weirdness about me and Ethan.

He can’t say no. At least I hope not. Still, I know better than to ask him over the phone or in a text. It has to be face-to-face.

I get back to the guest list. They want me to give fifteen names. So far I’ve got Lori, who will bring Tuba Dude Jim if they are still dating when the party rolls around. That’s two.

Ethan, of course, unless he wakes up and realizes that I’m no superhot cheerleader. Three. Jack, because he’s been to every birthday party I’ve ever had.

That’s just four, and Lori is the only sure thing, really.

On the desk my phone starts to wiggle. It’s a text from Ethan.

Whats up?
he writes.

I wish I could tell him what was up. I found my mom, and now I’m going to Chicago to see her. But how do you 137

explain that in a text?

Going to work.
I type.

It’s true. I’ve got to get to the bakery. Growly’s eightieth birthday party is Friday, and I’m making the cake. Growly’s a real pain, but this cake is going to be fantastic. There’s also a basket weave wedding cake due on Saturday.

I need to go to work for other reasons, too. Anytime I’m stressed or worried it’s the only place where I can totally relax. And feel close to Mom. I know who I am when I’m at the bakery.

That sux,
he texts back.

Yeah sorry.

Date fri night?

I don’t have the heart to tell him I’ve got to work at Father Crowley’s birthday party. But we can meet up after.

Yeah sounds good
. Delete, delete, delete, delete.

I change
good
to
great
.

I’m crossing the alley on my way to the bakery when I notice something. I’ve been so preoccupied with everything else, I hadn’t realized: most of the snow is gone, and there’s a smell in the air. Spring.

This puts a smile on my face, and I decide to go to Jack’s after I’m done at the bakery. Maybe he’ll run down to the beach with me. Then I can ask him about Chicago. And we can put this ridiculous fight, or whatever it is, behind us.

I push my way through the screen door to the bakery 138

kitchen. The inside door is propped open, to let in the fresh air. Mr. Roz is standing there, waiting with the next item on my to-do list, an enormous round banana layer cake. This is for Growly. Banana is his favorite.

I came up with the idea to replicate the rectory garden, which Growly probably loves more than Jesus Himself, on the top of the cake. The garden is a pretty spectacular place during the summer, with about a million flowers in bloom.

We used to go there for church picnics when I was a kid, but it’s been a long time since I’ve visited.

Nanny brought out one of her photo albums to inspire me. There’s a few pages of pictures that were taken in the garden. I’m in them, too, all smiles. I must have been eight or so. Anyway, it was after Mom left. I’m surprised that I don’t look sadder, considering my mother had disappeared.

But I guess I’ve always had hope. Never stopped believing she’d come back one day. Even if I had to drag her back myself.

“Where’s Nanny?” I ask Roz, who flashes me a ready smile.

“Senior Movie Madness Night,” he says.

“Ah.” Nanny and the rest of the St. Mary widows never miss it. But that woman’s been avoiding me since Easter. It’s like she knows that I found out she’s a big liar.

“You okay? You look not so happy.”

“No. I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. Just busy. Too much going on up here, you know?” I point to my head.

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He laughs. “Yes, I do know how dat is.” He’s making meringues for a tea party at the mayor’s house tomorrow morning. “You needing someone to talk to?”

I guess I could tell him a little. “Off the record?”

“What is dat, ‘off the record’?”

“Like, just between you and me.”

“Ah, sure, sure. Of course. You and me.”

I smooth frosting around Growly’s cake. This is called the crumb coat, and it’ll form a base for the fondant I’ll add later. I pause, wondering how much I should reveal to Mr.

Roz.

“You ever lost a good friend?”

I level the thick buttercream until it’s perfectly even, pick up the cake, and place it in the cooler to firm up. In the meantime, I pull out some white fondant and work some red food coloring into it for the roses. Roz finishes a tray of the teardrop-shaped treats and puts them in the oven to bake. I wonder if he heard me.

I’m about to ask again when he speaks. “I have. I have lost many friend.”

Nice, Sheridan. Mr. Roz is from Kosovo. He came to America during their war, with nothing, lost everyone and everything. Nanny says he barely escaped with his life, but that’s all she knows. He doesn’t talk about it very much.

Now I feel like an idiot for even bringing it up.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. What you want to know?”