Any Way You Slice It (4 page)

Dad will say it's dangerous and that there is nothing redeeming about it. Mom will back him up and say it's frivolous and not ladylike. Grams will silently disagree with them, but won't say a word.

Dad believes in hard work but there's no such thing as hard play to him. He'll tell me I can't.

So I won't tell him.

I should be exhausted. I should be knock-down, hit-in-the-ribs, dead-dog tired. But instead, it's one in the morning and I'm making pizza.

Clearly, I'm insane.

Actually, I'm not. I'm wired from the walk home with Jake and watching a dozen YouTube hockey videos on my laptop in the living room. My brain is on overload. There's no way I can sleep. So I'm baking. My recipe for dessert pizza totally beats Jorge's, but he doesn't need to know.

When the lock turns in the front door, I silently kick myself for not taking the opportunity to escape upstairs. Too late now.

When Mom came home an hour ago she went right up to shower. Dad plods in looking like he's just run the mile from Slice—even though I know he drove. He peers into the kitchen. “Perfecting the family recipe?”

“I know this makes me look like a hypocrite.” I cringe and pound the dough. I've told Dad I can't do this forever, but it's hard to deny that pizza sauce runs in my blood. The smell of crust is practically baked into my clothes. I pound my knuckles into the ball of dough a few more times before I face him, bracing myself for the inevitable.

“So … are we going to be the next Restaurant Network stars?”

He purses his lips, but it's that slow nod that says things aren't perfect. “It's not exactly the opportunity I'd hoped for.” He pauses. “But we'll make it work.” Dropping his backpack on a kitchen chair, he leans against it, looking resigned. “We're going to be the lead feature on a new show about small-town restaurants. The show is called”—he hooks his fingers—“
Local Flavor
.” He flashes a weird smile, one that tells me he doesn't really believe what he's saying. “It's an audience-participation show where viewers tweet their feedback and make comments about the restaurant. It's going to be great.”

I stifle a snicker by going back to pounding the dough.

Unbelievable. We're going to be laughingstocks, not celebrities. Perfect.

“It's good press,” he says, sounding like he's trying to convince himself more than me. “The producers say it'll bring business all the way from Maine and Massachusetts.”

And as much as I want to tell him to call them up and decline so that I can continue to show my face in school, I hear myself saying, “Of course it is. You know what they say, ‘There's no such thing as bad publicity.'”

“That's what your mother said.” He takes a deep breath. “It's a start anyway.” Turning to leave, he pauses once more. “It's nice to see you baking again.” His mouth hangs open, like he's trying to work up the nerve to tell me something else. “Paul Steen from Johnson and Wales has agreed to meet you two weeks from Wednesday. It'll be a preliminary interview—and he's only an alum, not an admissions counselor, but with your grades and a recommendation from him, he's confident you'll be accepted.”

I stare at him for a minute, waiting for the whole thing to sink in. Eventually I turn back to the counter and roll out the dough—I never could grasp the throw-the-pie-in-the-air move—and brush some butter over the top. Part of me wants to sweep it all off the counter onto the floor in an angry rage, but instead I grab the cinnamon sugar and sprinkle liberally before popping it into the oven.

Dad is still standing by the door, waiting for me to answer. If I ignore him, he'll go away. I wipe at the tear rolling down my face, but I only manage to smear sugar in my eye and make it worse.

I should have invited Lori to sleep over. Her positive vibes would really help right now. I grab my phone and text her to stop by tomorrow.

Leaning against the counter waiting for the pastry to bake, I try to forget about the fight about college and contemplate a reality show filming at Slice. I toddled through Slice in diapers. I ate my first solid food at the booth next to the chip rack. When Grampa was alive, he and Dad filmed me in those stupid commercials. As soon as I could walk, there was a dishrag in my hand to wipe down the tables after each patron. I spent my elementary years doing homework at the counter. At ten, they let me start taking orders at the register. To this day Dad donates pies to almost every school function, so no one wants to piss me off. I'll admit that it doesn't suck to have people treat me with respect because of Slice.

It may not be what I want to do for the rest of my life, but I'm not ready for it to be trashed by a national audience either. People get ripped apart on those shows. And it's all edited to make them look like total losers. Slice is a popular local dive, but we're not going to stand up to hardcore scrutiny on national television.

But just because I don't want Slice to get ripped apart, doesn't mean I'm ready to commit the rest of my life to pizza.

Why doesn't Dad understand that?

Working next to Grams every afternoon is the best; some days I can't imagine any other life. But sometimes … sometimes … I wish there was more to it than “Would you like pepperoni on that?”

My phone buzzes with a text from Lori.

What the hell? You're hanging out with Jake Gomes again?

Apparently Jake isn't the only one who stalks me on my walk home.

“What is wrong with you?” Lori barges into my room and throws herself on the bed. In two seconds, she manages to dump paper and gum wrappers, highlighters, and her laptop all over my carpet.

“What makes you think something's wrong?” Crossing my arms, I lean back against the closed door.

She looks up from rifling through the paper and surveys me. “You're looking a little too much like the Cheshire cat.”

“I ran into a guy at the rink yesterday.” I blurt it out before I can stop myself.

“Oh my freaking Lord.” She rushes me and shakes my shoulders. “It's about time. Is he cute?”

“Duh.” I smack her forehead. “I thought you knew. Jake Gomes.” I wrinkle my lips, trying to grimace. But she can tell I'm grinning like an idiot.

“Oh God, Pen.” With a big sigh she falls back on my bed. “That's why I came over so early. Jake Gomes got cute last summer, but he's still trouble.”

I sink to the floor, glancing up at the picture of pop star Lars DeVaney hanging over my head. I knew she'd bring that up. “Why? Why is he trouble? What's he done in the last four years, besides throw a spitball or two?”

She licks her lips and starts shuffling through the paper again. “You're kidding, right? He cut off your hair in the sixth grade. And then he paraded around the school with it like a trophy. And besides, he's on Caroline's ABSOLUTELY NOT list.”

I ignore her comment about sixth grade. “Since when do we pay attention to Caroline's list?”

Since never.

“You can't be seen with a kid like that, your parents will kill you.” She pulls her phone out of the front pocket of her bag and starts punching keys. Caroline will reply in thirty seconds if she knows anything.

“Sixth grade was a long time ago. And short hair was really the best thing that ever happened to me.” As I say it, though, I remember how much Jake's betrayal hurt. When he cried to the teacher later, it just made it worse. “My parents saw me with him last night. They weren't worried. Besides, he seems okay now.”

More than okay, actually.

“I know Jake's reputation.” I pull myself off the floor and open my backpack to pull out homework. “But has anyone we know
actually
seen him do anything bad since elementary school?” It looks like she's thinking, but I don't give her time to reply. “What's really weirding me out is that I have a vague memory of holding his hand while walking around the block with our mothers when we were little.”

Lori rolls her eyes. Her way of telling me I've crossed the line. “Who cares? We all had playdates with random kids when our moms were doing the Vernon Mothers' Club.”

“I'm not planning on dating him.” I cross my fingers behind my back.

“Liar.” She coughs into her hand. “You're totally planning on dating him.”

Maybe it was the bacon sandwich, I'm not sure. Or maybe it was the way he didn't back down from Warren. Or the way he made a connection with everyone in the room. At the rink, it was like watching a creature in his natural habitat—he belonged there.

“Seriously. There's no way I'm dating him.” In my memory, it's like there's a spotlight on him as he moves up and down the ice. It makes me want to get back to the rink in a way I've never felt before. But I'm not telling Lori any of that. Not yet anyway.

I pause a minute before I throw the next piece of news at her. “He asked me to play on his hockey team.” I wait for her to scream in protest.

She tilts her head, making her ponytail stick up funny. “Hockey's cool. You'd probably be good at it, the way you love to skate. But isn't there a girls' team you can play on? Why Team Reject? Why Jake Gomes?”

I'm not sure why it matters, but I correct her. “It's the Rink Rats.” I close my eyes, contemplating the answer to her other question. “In fourth grade, when I started skating for real, I once asked my dad what it felt like to play hockey, and he practically hit the ceiling. He told me if I ever mentioned playing hockey again, he'd lock me in my room for life.”

Lori is silent, contemplating. She tilts her head the other way. “That's a tad extreme, even for your dad. You sure he was serious?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. He had a bad concussion in high school, so he thinks it's dangerous. But I think I want to go watch the team.” I take a breath, knowing what I'm about to do could make the rest of the school year very lonely. “Can you drive me to the rink on Monday after school so we can watch practice? I'll make up a story about needing to go to the library.” I can't remember the last time I lied to my parents. I think it might have been about saving up my lunch money in the third grade to buy a Chia Pet.

“I'm not lying to your parents for you.”

“Oh, you won't have to.” I cross my fingers behind my back. “If I decide to play for real, I'll totally tell them. But I just want to go check out practice first.”

“Rebel.” She smirks. “I'm totally low on gas money. Pay for gas, and I'll put on a little hat and you can sit in the backseat on Monday afternoon.” She bows. “Consider me the chauffeur to your illicit deception.”

I know Lori. She won't be complicit in anything that crosses the line into behavior that might affect our college admissions. But watching a little hockey is fine with her.

Her phone beeps. “Oh, good, it's Caroline.” I lean over Lori's shoulder to read it.

Jake Gomes is on the verge. Tell Pen jury is still out.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Lori laughs. “Well, I guess he's not on the ABSOLUTELY NOT list anymore.”

“I'm still not planning on dating him.”

“Right.”

We spend the next two hours doing homework. When I get back from the kitchen with a snack, she's stowed all her books and she's busy on her phone again.

“Where's your favorite vacation spot?” Lori says, squinting at the small screen as she settles on my bed. “Paris, Orlando, or Aruba?”

I flick on the TV and flop down into my moon chair. Unfortunately, the puck I'd thrown there earlier makes my landing less than the soft squish it should have been. “Ow.” I curl into the chair and toss the puck in the air. “I don't know. The only time I've been on vacation is to Hampton Beach with your family. Why?”

“We're taking a quiz on your ideal career. You're required to answer.” She scrolls through the options again. “Paris, Orlando, or Aruba?”

A stupid quiz based on Lori's online shopping habits is really going to be insightful.

Not.

But I play along. “As long as it's not cooking pizza, I'm game. Paris, I guess.” The puck is bigger than my palm, but it has a nice weight as I toss it and catch it again.

“You guess? Where's your sense of adventure?” she says, pouting at me.

“You only gave me three choices. Paris. Yes. Paris would be my first choice of those three.” I shake my head. “But.. … ”

“No buts. You have to be definitive, or it won't work.” She swipes her finger across the screen. “Ok … what's your favorite breakfast food?” She glances up to make sure I'm paying attention. “Your choices are oatmeal, a bagel with lox, or a croissant.”

“These are stupid questions for a career quiz.” I tuck my legs up under me and shift my weight to get comfortable, twirling the puck in my fingers. “What if I say scrambled eggs?”

She shakes her head. “Not an option.”

The options are all horrible. “Oatmeal is gross. I don't even know what lox is. I'll have to say croissant, but I'm sensing a theme here,
oui
?”

She rolls her eyes at my obvious lack of enthusiasm and continues to ask questions clearly designed by the Tourism Committee for French Clichés.

“Okay, now for the big reveal,” she says, pressing the button with a flourish.

Finally.

“You're ideal career would be … oh.” She furrows her brow. “Oh, never mind.” She quickly turns off the phone and throws it on the bed. “What's on TV?” She grabs the remote and starts clicking through channels.

“You are not getting off that easy. We didn't just spend all that time for you to watch
Family Feud
now. What the hell did it say?” I grab for her phone, but I can't get out of the cushy chair fast enough. She scoops it up and shoves it in her hoodie pocket.