The Sweetest Thing (16 page)

“I can do that.”

“Sheridan!”

I whip my head around the side of the house again.

“Okay!” I yell, not even trying to disguise the anger in my voice.

Ethan looks amused. “You’d better go. I’ll see you at school.”

When he leaves, I go inside and close the door, then flip on the foyer light, stil tasting him. I strip out of my clothes, which reek of garlic, and take a long, hot shower. Dad’s not home, and maybe he doesn’t plan on coming home. That’s fine with me. If I can’t be with Ethan, I’d rather be by myself.

As I pull up my flannel pj pants, my cell rings. Guess who?

“Hi?” I say, totally irritated.

“Sheridan,” Nanny says.

“What?”

“Are you and that boy dating?”

Could she be more old-fashioned? “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Oh.” She sounds a little panicked. “Well, I don’t think he should be over at the house so late.”

“I didn’t invite him. He showed up.”

“Well, tell him there’s a proper way for courtin’ and that ain’t it.”

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You have got to be kidding me.

“Nanny. I have to go.”

“Wait a minute. You promised me a cup of tea. I’ve been feeling pretty lousy and wouldn’t mind one now.”

“I’m tired, Nan.”

“Oh, come on, get over here. I’ve got some chamomile that’ll make you sleep like a baby.”

“All right. Just one cup.” I know better than to talk Nanny out of this one. She’ll want to have a good look at me and make sure I haven’t been defaced.

I slip on my Uggs and throw my coat over my T-shirt.

Nanny is waiting for me on her balcony. “Hey, girl.”

“Hey.” I kiss her on the cheek and follow her inside.

Once we’re in the kitchen, I notice that her face is very pale.

I grab the teapot from her as she’s filling it under the faucet.

“Sit down. You look awful.”

“Told you.”

She settles in the blue velvet love seat on the far end of the room. Nanny likes it better than sitting at the kitchen table. Calls it her tea-drinkin’ and thinkin’ spot.

I put the kettle on the fire and join her, curling up my legs underneath me.

“You feeling better at all?”

“Yep. Much. Just a cold. I’ll be all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the party tomorrow night.”

Nanny may be all holy and stuff, but she never misses a good party.

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“So what is happening with that boy? What’s his name?”

she asks, feet propped up, eyes squinting.

“Ethan.”

“Ethan. Hmm. He go to church?”

I roll my eyes. “No.”

“Ah. Well, you just remember what I taught you. Your body is a tem—”

“Yes, I know. My body is a temple, whatever that means.”

“What?” She sits straight up and smacks my arm. “You better know what that means.”

“Nanny.” Our eyes meet, her imposing gaze met by an imposing gaze of my own. “Maybe someone should teach that particular Bible-ism to Dad.” I stand up and walk toward the whistling kettle.

“You better hush. Your daddy is a good and decent man.”

“Right. I’m sure every one of his girlfriends will tell you that.”

“Don’t you dare judge him. He’s a very honorable person.”

“Mmm-hmm . . .”

“I don’t think I care for your sarcasm. Your father has never even introduced you to one of those women. You know why? None of them been good enough.”

“Really?” I take out two of her china teacups and pair them with their matching saucers. “But they’re still good enough to spend the night with?”

“Girl, you are exasperation personified. Bring me my tea; 165

you’re raisin’ up my blood pressure.”

Now that I’ve already upped her blood pressure, I decide to push it even higher. I hand her a teacup and sit down again beside her.

“Listen. On Easter, after I told you about finding Mom, why were you searching for her in Sault Sainte Marie?”

Once again, she sits up. Busted.

“You been snooping on me?”

“No.” I put my cup down on the small glass-topped coffee table in front of us. “It was an accident, when I went in your office for ribbon. But if you knew where she was, why didn’t you tell me?”

Nanny is silent. She does that—takes her time to think before she speaks. I didn’t inherit that particular family gene.

“Well, she had some contact with your father a few years back. He told me that’s where she was. I figured she’d moved on by now, but when you dropped that huge bomb on me, I thought I’d check up on the situation.” She takes a sip of tea.

“Have you talked to her?”

“No, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Nothing.”

She shakes her head and tsk-tsks. “Don’t do it, Sheridan.

Please don’t. Let her come to you. She will if and when she’s finally ready.” Nanny wipes her eyes. I’m surprised to see that she’s crying. “I know it stinks to high heaven, but I don’t want you getting hurt.”

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“Nanny, don’t worry.” I pat her leg. She looks terrible and she’s crying harder now. I want so badly to spill my guts. I want to tell her I’m going to Chicago, the day after tomorrow, to bring Mom back.

But she’s so upset, I can’t. I can’t make her understand that Mom will not hurt me and that this is something that I have to do.

Nanny sniffs. I put the cup back down and lean over, into her shoulder. “Don’t cry, Nan. It’s okay.”

“Oh, I don’t mean to be wailin’ like a newborn, but if I see you get hurt again, I don’t know what I’ll do.” She sits up and wipes her eyes. “You know what? I think we need some cheesecake.”

I laugh. Cake cures all in the mind of my grandmother.

“Nah, I better go home. I’ve got some homework to finish.”

“Gracious, girl, I didn’t know that.” She stands up and groans. “Then go. Shoo, shoo.”

I drain my cup. “Thanks for the tea,” I say as she walks me to the door. We stand face-to-face as she swings it open.

“You know I love you more than anything else on this great big earth?” she says, her voice breaking.

I make a mental map of the crinkles around her eyes, focus on the sparkle in the deep blue flecked with gold.

“I know you do.” And she gives me the hug of my life, tight and tender all at the same time. “I love you, too.”

The walk home is quiet and cold. When I get to my 167

room, I throw my schoolbag off the bed. It falls on its side, and out slips the dreaded sketchbook. I pick it up and flip it open. The project is due in one week. I need to finish it.
I
need to start it.

Mrs. Ely doesn’t get it. Art is hard for me. With cakes, I can talk to customers and come up with a design that they’ll love. With art, there is no one to consult; it’s just me and the paper. Scary.

I pull a charcoal pencil out of my desk drawer, and my hand starts to draw a curved line, a jaw, a loose lock of hair that looks like sunshine. Eyes that curve downward and seem sort of sleepy. My mother.

I rip the page out and crumple it up. Every once in a while I try to draw her, but whenever I do, it’s the same story.

All wrong; a terrible likeness. Honestly, I barely remember what she looks like anymore. It scares me.

I need to get to her soon, before she disappears forever.

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The party for Growly starts in half an hour, but I’m still recovering from the school day. Wasserman is trying to murder us slowly with chemical equations, and Mrs. Ely asked to see our projects so far. I had to lie and tell her I left my sketchbook at home. “Monday, then. I want to see it on Monday,”

she said as if she knew full well that I hadn’t completed even one of the ten drawings we’re supposed to sketch and color.

People are already showing up in the parish hall. Lots of people. In fact, it looks like the whole town is here. My beautiful cake is sure to be history in record time.

“Dat is the best one yet,” Mr. Roz says, nodding toward the fondant flower garden I’ve created. “How you say? It

‘takes cake’?” He says that about every cake; it’s our little joke. And then I say, “It takes THE cake.” And then he says,

“Where it take the cake?” He laughs and pats my back, then takes a few pictures for the bakery’s Web site before it’s all gone.

I humor him with a chuckle and adjust a tiny hydrangea bloom. It really is perfect.

As the party progresses, I am called a genius more times than I can count by the guests. A steady stream of thank-yous comes out of my mouth as I help the guys from Sheridan & Irving’s get set up. They are handling the bar and serving hors d’oeuvres. People are practically drooling over the spread in front of them. There’s even a rumor going around that Chef Wells himself will make an appearance.

Oh, brother.

I don’t think he’ll come at all. He made an appearance in my bedroom doorway about an hour ago and handed me a card to give to Growly.

Then he had the nerve to get all “dad” on me. I had put on my favorite jeans and a tightish, lowish-cut shirt that makes the most of whatever miniscule curves I have.

“You wearing that?” Dad asked.

“Yes,” I said without a moment’s hesitation.

He grunted. “I don’t want you wearing something like that in South Bend.” He also thinks Lori and I are going to Notre Dame for the weekend. I had told him that I was feeling stressed and needed some time away. He hadn’t liked the idea of my being gone right before the show, so I cried a 170

little, and then he said yes. Doesn’t suspect a thing.

“Fine,” I said as he turned to leave.

Once he was gone, I reached into my jewelry box and picked up my mom’s heart-shaped note. I felt like I needed it. For luck or something.

Now at the party, Father Crowley walks up to me with a glass of wine in his hand, his face puckered into its usual scowl. The man is never happy.

“Good evening, Sheridan,” he says, oh-so-friendly-like.

“I’ve heard the cake is your creation?” He has me in his death glare.

“Yes, it is.”

I’m sure he’s going to wag a finger and remind me I’m doomed because I never go to church. But something even freakier happens. He smiles. Then laughs. Then pats my arm. “Well, it’s just wonderful. Thank you!”

He is still smiling, and I am more than a little creeped out. I’ve never seen him this cheerful.

“You’re welcome.” I look sideways. “No big deal.”
Someone get me out of here, please.

“I mean, the way you captured my roses, and the peo-nies. And the lilies, in sugar! You are just brilliant . . . such a gift. It really is quite an honor to be the subject of one of your masterpieces.”

I don’t know what to say to him, and then I remember Dad’s card. I run over to the chair where I’ve hung my coat, pull it out, and hand it to him.

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“It’s from my dad.”

He opens it and his smile grows wider. “Ah. Your father . . .” Growly laughs, fanning out four tickets in front of him. “Tickets to
Godspell
! He’s a good man. Such a good and thoughtful friend.”

A good man who never goes to church? Who walks out in the middle of mass? My eyes grow wide. Not only is Growly a big grump; he’s blind, too.

Growly moves on and Nanny walks over and gives me a squeeze. She is looking better, and I am relieved. Lori is here with her mom and stepdad. No sign of Jack.

Mrs. Klunder, the church secretary, is at the mic, and she calls Growly to the small stage that’s been set up. Soon a series of never-ending toasts begins. I walk over to Lori, who said she’d help me work so I that I could meet Ethan but has instead set up residence at the hors d’oeuvres table.

“What up, dawg?” she says, shoving a crab-stuffed mushroom into her mouth. “Mmm, good ’shrooms,” she says with her mouth full. She swallows. “You all ready for tomorrow?”

She’s the best kind of friend. No questions, no lectures; just always there for me. Here she is, driving me to Chicago, and looking forward to it. Now that is a friend. Jack could take lessons from her.

I nod. We are leaving at six in the morning so that we can get to the convention center by nine, when the competition starts. One change of clothes in my duffel, pj’s, toothbrush, and iPod—that’s all I need.

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“More importantly, are you ready for tonight? You better report back to me everything that happens. . . . No detail too small.” She picks up another mushroom. “He is so fine. I bet he’s a world-class kisser. I bet he tastes yummy.”

“Shh!” I warn, staring sideways at the old retired ladies next to us. “You want the whole town to know?”

“So what if they all know. Sheridan, you’ve got a boyfriend, and he’s totally
hot
!”

“Would you hush?” I whisper, moving closer to her. “All right, fine. I’d say he ranks somewhere between tiramisu and a rich ganache … tastewise.”

She curls her lip. “Oh. Ganache, huh? Real sexy. Sounds like something you dig out of your butt.”

“Gross.” I laugh again, wondering what I’d do without Lori. “He is a good kisser, you know.” I lower my voice as a trio of nuns pass nearby. “But I really suck at it.”

“Oh God, give me a break. Don’t obsess about this, too.

You just do it. And enjoy yourself!” She’s saying this way too loud when I feel hands on my shoulders.

“You girls having a good time?” It’s Nanny. My eyes grow wide.

“Yeah. Great time.”

“Good. I know I’m ready for the speechifyin’ to be over.

I want to boogie.”

Lori nearly snorts her third stuffed mushroom out of her nose. I shake my head. Nanny gets up, kisses my cheek. “Have fun, girls. I’m gonna go see if I can get this party started.”

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It’s a full house in the Blessed Sacrament parish hall. Everyone seems to be having fun. There are lots of old folks, but also plenty of young people, kids, and babies. Certainly, every Catholic in St. Mary is here, and at least one Baptist.

When the music starts, Nanny is the first one on the dance floor. There’s a deejay playing Sinatra and other sing-ers who might appeal to someone turning eighty. Lori and I, in the meantime, bus tables, push in chairs, help walk the old people to the dance floor.