The Sweetest Thing (19 page)

I nod, then make my way around the case and into the back. Mr. Roz follows me, begins filling another muffin tray with batter.

“What do you need me to do?” I ask.

“Sheridan. You don’t need to be here. We taking care of things. Except for we need more room.”

He lifts an arm and points to the side counters. I see a lineup of homemade muffins, coffee cakes, cinnamon rolls.

“What is this?”

“That is how much people love you grandmother.” Then he leans in close to me. “Don’t ask me why they bring bakery food. We already got plenty. Who gonna eat all this?”

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There’s a pile of cards, a few potted plants, a vase of freshly cut white tulips with a big pink ribbon. Nanny will love those.

My eyes are fogging up. I shake my head. There will be no crying today.

“This is amazing.”

“Yes, amazing.” He stops, walks over to where I’m reading a small card on a potted hyacinth. “You have good friends here.” He pats my back. “They like family.”

I look up at him. He’s right. St. Mary is where my family is. Except for Mom. And she’ll be on her way.

“You go home. We have plenty of help here.”

“What about the basket weave cake?”

“You finished. They come pick it up. No worries.”

“But I can do something.”

“No. You go home and rest. But wait . . . first . . .”

He flicks open a white bag, picks up a lemon poppy seed muffin, and drops it inside.

“For you.” He hands me the bag and walks me to the back door. I shrug. I don’t think he’s going to let me stay.

And of course, it would probably be better if I made the call to Chicago at home, all by myself. So I don’t argue.

“Sheridan?” Dominique comes into the kitchen. “There’s someone up front asking for you.”

I step around her, see Ethan’s head above the crowd.

“Thanks,” I say.

He sees me and smiles, and I wave him to the back. Nan-197

ny would never let him in here, especially without a hairnet, but I lead him right out the back door and into the alley.

“Hey.” He reaches for my hand. I am relieved he’s here.

That he still wants to see me. He has terrible bedhead. I reach to pat down the sticking-up part. Then I kiss him.

Hard. Let myself enjoy the moment and try not to think of the trouble with Jack. Or the fact that I am the world’s worst kisser.

“Did you get my messages?” I ask after our lips detach.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I left my phone at home.”

“You were at the beach?”

“Yeah, I was waiting for you. Then everyone showed up and things got kind of crazy. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry about your grandma.”

“Yeah. It was scary.”

He puts his arms around my waist and pulls me in closer.

“You think we can get together this week?”

I scrunch up my face. “We can try.”

“Do you
want
to get together?”

“Well, yes. But I don’t know what’s going to happen with Nanny in the hospital. And this show, too.” I roll my eyes.

“But after this is all over, I’ll have more free time. I promise.”

“Sometimes you gotta make time, you know. If you want something bad enough.”

I wish he hadn’t said that. I mean, my grandmother did have a heart attack. But he pulls me in for another kiss and I 198

remember: he just wants to be with me. That’s a good thing.

“I’ll try.”

“You got some free time now? We can go to your house.”

He looks at me hopefully.

“No. I gotta go back in.” This is a lie, of course. But I need to call my mother, and there’s no simple way to explain that to him. Plus, I am way too stressed out right now to think about making out with him and what that might or might not lead to.

“Okay.” He steps back with a sad, crooked smile. “Well, call when you can fit me in.” “Okay,” I say. “Maybe like Wednesday?”

He shrugs. “Sure. Whatever.” He holds my hand until both of our arms are stretched out. Then he lets go and walks away, down the alley.

That didn’t go well. If we can just get through this week, just get through the rest of school and into the summer, we’ll be fine. I hope we can make it that far.

All alone in the alley, I check my cell phone. Still an hour before I can call Chicago. Maybe I should have gone with Ethan, or invited him home. But I couldn’t, not with Nanny in the hospital. If she found out we were alone in the house, it would give her another heart attack for sure.

I go back into the bakery, pick up my bag. Everyone is so busy in the front that they don’t even notice.

Up in my bedroom, I pull out a notebook, try to hammer out a script of what I might say to her. She’ll be upset.

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Think it’s an emergency. So I’ll have to calm her down, tell her everything is okay. It’s me, Sheridan.

For the next hour, I try to psych myself up for the phone call. Finally, it’s nine thirty. I pick up my cell phone. My chest is so tight I fear I might be having a heart attack.

Five minutes pass. I’ve still got the phone in my hand.

Luckily, I copied the number off of my palm, because sweat has made it unreadable.

I dial. And the phone rings. I take a breath so deep I can feel the air in my toes.

“McCormick Place Information.”

“Hello.”
Don’t throw up, Sheridan. This is too important.

“Yes, I am trying to get in touch with a contestant in the cake contest.”

“One moment, please.” And now I am listening to some ancient Elton John song.

“Hello?” It’s a man’s voice.

“Yes, hi. I need to get in touch with someone in the cake contest.” I gulp. “It’s an emergency.”

“Well, we can page the person. What is the name?”

“Margaret Taylor.” I am sitting on the end of my bed; my leg shakes, up and down, up and down. My blood is pump-ing fast. This is it. I have to stay in control.

“She’s a contestant?”

“Yes, sir. I believe so.” I hope so, anyway.

“Oh yes, here she is. I’ll page her, put you on hold.”

“Thank you,” I say, too late, because I’m already hearing 200

Elvis on the hold music. I press my hand to my chest, as if that can calm the beating of my heart. Every muscle in my body is tense. I wait. The Elvis song is over; now we’re on to

“Across the Universe,” by the Beatles, which I know because Nanny loves their music.

After a while, I stop paying attention to the music. She’s not coming to the phone. I’ve been on hold for ten minutes.

I haven’t breathed in about that long; I might drop dead soon.

Okay, another five minutes and I’ll hang up.

Some song I don’t recognize at all starts playing. At the end of this song, I’m going to hang up, then try again later.

“Hello?” The woman’s out-of-breath voice takes me by surprise.

I stand up, open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

“Hello! Is there anyone there?” the woman shouts. She’s upset, as I predicted.

“Yes!” Okay. My mouth works again. That’s good.

“Who is this? They said it’s an emergency? Who is this?”

“No. Everything is okay. It’s me.”

“Who?”

“It’s me.” I swallow. “Sheridan.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mom?”

“Oh . . . Oh.”

“Yeah, it’s me, Mom!” I’m grinning. I can’t believe I’m 201

talking to her. “Mom, oh my God it’s been so long!”

“Yes. Yes, it has. Listen. I’m at this contest.” She laughs; she’s happy. “Can I call you back?”

“Mom, it’s taken me so long to find you. It’s so good to hear your voice.” I’m smiling so wide my face might crack in half. “Mom, Dad got a cable show. We’re filming next Saturday. And they need a cake. I’m making it, but it’s got to be perfect and I need your help. Can you come?”

The words trip clumsily out of my mouth.

“He got a show, huh?”

“Yeah, he did—can you believe that?”

“Yes, I can,” she says in a kind of faraway voice.

“But . . . But I’ve got to go now. Let me call you back.”

“All right. Okay. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Right, I’ll call you.”

“But you don’t have my number. Let me give you my number.”

“No. I’ll call you back. I’ve got to go now.”

I am silent.

“Okay?” she says. It hits me that her voice is only vaguely familiar. Like something I heard in a dream.

“Okay.” I feel impatient suddenly. “Don’t forget, Mom.”

“No.” I can hear in her voice how badly she wants to get off the phone.

“Promise?”

“Yes. Bye.”

I don’t want her to go. “You said you were coming back.

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In my card. Remember?”

“Oh.” She laughs again. “I did say that. That’s right. But, Sheridan, honey, I’ve really got to go now, really, things are just getting going here.”

“So you’ll call me?”

“Right. So . . . okay, good-bye?” “Okay. Bye.”

And that’s it. She’s gone. I put the phone down. Fal backward onto my bed. That was not what I thought it would be.

At al . But she’s going to cal back. She promised.

I reach into my bag, grab the blue velvet box, and pull out Jack’s bracelet. I fasten it around my wrist. Rub the bird between my fingers like a good luck charm.

I will not cry. Will not. She said she’d call back. She promised, didn’t she? I play back the conversation in my head. I can’t remember. Did she promise?

I roll the velvet box around in my hand, take out Jack’s note.
Hope you get what you real y want.
I close my eyes, tight, until I see funny shapes and colors behind my eyelids.

She promised to call me. That’s what I really want. I want my mother to keep a promise, for once.

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So when is she going to call? It’s Tuesday. I can’t sit by the phone all day, waiting for her. But when I check the messages at home, check the caller ID, there’s nothing. As far as I know, she doesn’t have my cell phone number, but I check it constantly anyway, just in case.

The Suits have a full agenda for me this week: they’ll film me working on the cake tonight, then I have a wardrobe fitting tomorrow night, and there’s more crap on Thursday.

Whatever.

And to make matters worse, Ethan hasn’t been in school.

He texted me to say that he has a cold. Then Mrs. Ely actually called my father yesterday and ratted me out on the art project, telling him that it’s 50 percent of my semester grade.

Thanks a lot, Mrs. E. And now I have to show him my work every night, like I’m six years old. So I’ve been going over to Growly’s garden, frantically sketching the spring flowers.

Surprisingly, Dad doesn’t seem too mad about the project, and he hasn’t said a word about our fight in the hospital, or even punished me for planning the whole Chicago trip. I figure he’s waiting until the show is over, so he can be sure I’ll behave, and then he’ll slam me.

All of these things are particularly annoying to me today, and I head to the bakery after school in a wonderful mood.

As I finish up the birthday cake for little four-year-old Logan Ellis, Dad walks in the back door. I’m concentrating on some muddy tracks for the monster truck I’ve already sculpted and covered with fondant. Nothing too complicated.

Roz walks in with a tray of cookies. He’s cleaning out the case for the day.

“Jakup.” Dad nods at him.

“Ah, Donovan. Good to see you.” He walks over to Dad, grabs his hand in both of his, and gives his signature shake and wide smile. “How is Lilian today?”

“Much better. They think she’ll be out of the ICU soon.

In fact, I’m taking Sheridan to see her now.”

I stand up straight. “What? No. I don’t have time.” This is the truth, but I’m also a little nervous.

It’s not that I don’t miss Nanny; I just don’t want to see her all zoned out with tubes sticking out everywhere. “I need 205

to start the gumballs and work on the hibiscus flowers”

“Gumballs?”

“Yeah.” I go back to my monster truck. “An engagement party. They met at a gumball machine or something.”

“Gumballs? Christ, what will these people think of next?

I thought I told you not to take any more cakes this week?”

“It was already on the books. And I gotta have it done on Thursday so I can finish the cake for my fake birthday party.” There’s a sharp edge to my voice.

“Can you handle it? And your schoolwork?”

I am so not in the mood for this today. “It’s not rocket science, Dad. They’re gumballs.”

“How’s the cake for your party coming?”

“The cake is made. I’ll cover it on Thursday and finish the flowers between now and then.”

“Well, remember, it doesn’t have to taste good; it just has to look good.”

I glare at him. “Yeah. I got it. But I am not going to the hospital. I don’t have time. You said Nanny’s out of it anyway.”

Dad absentmindedly picks up a spatula and turns it over like he’s flipping imaginary burgers. “She’s better today. So come with me now, and I’ll help you later.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Sheridan, I grew up in this bakery. I could make a buttercream rose before I knew how to read.”

Mr. Roz chuckles and walks back to the front of the 206

shop. I don’t need him chuckling at me.

“I don’t need help. I mean, thanks, but I have it all planned out. Tell Nanny I say hi and that I’ll see her soon.”

“Look, we’re going. Finish up,” Dad says like the total dictator he is.

Mr. Roz walks back in, comes to my side, pats my back.

I flinch. He inspects the cake and grins. The man is always smiling. Drives me nuts.

“Dis girl has the magic touch, no? What a beautiful cake, eh?” he says to Dad, who is busy sending a text.

“It’s not done yet,” I say. It’s not bad. But there’s something missing. I stare at it from all angles. No, it’s not right.

I close my eyes, think of her.

What’s missing, Mom?

“Hurry up, Sheridan. We need to get to the hospital,”

Dad says.

“No. I said I have too much to do.”