The Sweetest Thing (3 page)

I sit down, my feet dangling over the water. I turn toward the lake, so big, constant, dependable. My heart twists.

God, I want my mother back so bad that the longing has become a real thing, like a giant suitcase I lug around with me everywhere I go. A minute doesn’t pass that I don’t wonder where she is and why the cards stopped. Not one minute.

When Jack’s ringtone blasts from inside my jacket, I jump. I look around and grab for my phone clumsily like I’m waking up from a restless nap. How long have I been sitting here?

“Hey!” I answer.

“Where are you?” he asks, sounding impatient.

“Why? What time is it?”

“Um . . . time to be here.”

19

I lift myself off of the pier. “Okay, give me a minute. I’m at the harbor.”

He hangs up and I get ready to run, but not before I bend over and touch the initials, reminding myself that once we were a family.

Geronimo’s Coffeehouse and Gift Emporium sits on the north side of the town square, between Mrs. Trang’s Pilates Palace and Animal Cracker’s Day Care. This is where every teenager in St. Mary hangs out, and Jack works here, too, to keep his broken-down Corolla up and running.

But today is his day off, and now he’s annoyed that I’m late.

As soon as I walk in, the smell of coffee drives its way up into my cerebral cortex, or whatever part of my brain makes me crave a nice latte. Nanny says they’ll stunt my growth, but I’m already taller than most of the boys in tenth grade, so that’s fine with me.

Mrs. Davis, the owner, is busy behind the counter foam-ing up a cappuccino, but she still smiles and waves when I walk in. “The usual, Sheridan?”

“Yes, thanks!” I smile. No one in New York City would even know my name, much less my preference for nonfat vanilla lattes.

I can see Jack at our table near the register. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reads, “i rode the mind melter and lived to buy this t-shirt.” We both have one from last year’s state fair.

20

“Hi,” I say.

“’Bout time,” he gripes without looking up.

“Oh, shut up. I have a good excuse.” I take off my jacket and hang it on the coatrack behind me. “I just found out that my life is over.”

“Right.” He straightens some papers in front of him, takes a sip of his coffee.

I pull out a chair and sit.

“So,” Jack says, “your life is over. What’d you do—break a nail?”

“Yeah, right.” I hold up my nails, all of them chipped and stained purple from coloring the fondant for my mermaid. I shift in my chair. “No. Dad finally got a show. A cooking-slash-reality show on ExtremeCuisine TV.”

Jack’s eyes bug out, and he slaps a hand on the table.

“What? Are you kidding me?”

I look at his angular face and scowl. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Why in the world does he look so happy?

“That’s awesome! I love that channel!” He grabs my hand and waves it in the air, making a whooping noise. I yank my arm back and glare at him.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

“He says we have to move. To New York City. Both of us.” Jack’s mouth snaps shut. Yeah, that got him.

“Well, maybe you won’t have to.
Hopeful y
, you won’t have to.” He looks worried.

“Oh. I’m not moving; I don’t care what he says.”

21

“You could live with Nan until you graduate. Or you could live with us!”

I’d rather use store-bought tub frosting than live with Jack’s family, though of course I’d never tel him that. He has three little brothers who are constantly farting and burping.

I smile at him as sweetly as possible. “Thanks. But I’m gonna talk to him. I mean, what’s going to happen to the restaurant? He can’t just leave.”

Jack’s got this faraway look in his eyes. “Although, think about it; he’s pretty well known now, but if he had his own show, he could be famous. You guys could be loaded.” He leans back in his chair and grins. “Not Michigan loaded, either; I’m talking Hollywood, baby. Ferraris, indoor pools, maybe a butler . . . maybe you’ll end up with your own show.

They can call it Cake Girl. Now that I would watch.”

“Oh my God, can you not sound so excited about this?”

The corners of his mouth fall in a dramatic frown. “Sorry. Who would want a Ferrari, anyway? Cheap-ass car.”

“Jack. Come on. I’m not going anywhere. What about my cakes? What about Mom?” Doesn’t he realize if Dad forced me to New York, I’d be leaving behind everything that is important to me? Even him. I’ve known him since preschool. I can’t imagine life minus Jack.

He touches my hand. “Hey. Relax. Why don’t you just wait and see what happens instead of flipping out right away?” I look into his eyes and calm down a little. He’s right.

Maybe I don’t need to panic. Not yet, anyway.

22

He looks down at the paper in front of him.

“What is that?” I ask.

He smiles wide and lifts the top page by the corner.

“This, my friend, could be what we’ve been looking for. I think I might have found your mom.”

“What?” I grab the paper out of his hand and try to focus my eyes on what’s in front of me. “What is this?”

“It’s a picture of a cake from a contest in Ottawa. Look at it.”

It’s got three tiers, covered in white fondant. And it is positively crawling with sapphire-colored butterflies. My mother was known for her sugar butterflies. They looked just like the real thing. These look just like the real thing.

“So? Lots of people make sugar butterflies.” I let the paper fall onto the table.

“People named Maggie Taylor?”

“What?”

He hands me the next page in his pile. “Yeah, look.”

I see a list of names. Next to the words “Grand Prize”

is the name Maggie Taylor. That was my mother’s maiden name.

“It makes sense, Sheridan. Last time, you heard she was in Canada, right?”

I nod.

“Ottawa is in Canada, right?”

I nod, trying to pace my excitement. “But that’s a common name.”

23

“Yeah, but then I found this.” He hands me another printout from a Web page. It’s almost the same cake, but this one is covered with monarch butterflies.

“What’s this from?”

“It’s from a hotel on Mackinac that does wedding recep-tions. Read the caption.”

“Cake by Maggie Taylor.”

For the first time in a long while, I have this funny feeling deep inside my gut. Like this time it’s really her.

I sit back in my chair. “Wow.”

“Yeah, wow. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

Jack’s smile is big and bright. “Could be a coincidence, but Mackinac isn’t that far.”

Mrs. Davis walks over to our table. “Here you go, kid-do.” She puts down a cardboard cup. “So, how you guys doing today?”

“Good, thanks.” I pull a five out of my front pocket.

“And thank you for the latte.” I grab the coffee and take a hot sip.

“Oh, no problem. And keep your money.” She leans forward, her huge bosom nearly touching the table. “I heard there’s reason to celebrate? There’s a little rumor floating around, about your dad?”

What? My mouth turns up in an insincere smile. I shake my head. “Not a done deal yet, Mrs. D.” I hand her the five.

She straightens up and refuses it again. “Oh. I shoulda 24

known. But that’s one rumor I wouldn’t mind coming true.

God knows your dad’s worked hard enough for it.” She smiles.

“He’s done a lot to put this town on the map. But his own show, on ExtremeCuisine? Now that would be exciting.”

I shake my head. “Yeah, right. But no, it’s not for sure.”

“Well, keep me posted, will ya?”

“Yep.”

She walks back to the counter.

I get right back to the matter at hand. “Maybe I should call that hotel. Maybe they can tell me about her.”

Jack mouth is set in a firm line. “Sheridan . . . slow down.” He’s thinking of the other near misses over the last year. “You need me to remind you?”

Um, no.

He counts off on his fingers. “Huh. Let’s start with Margaret Taylor of Omaha, Chinese American—definitely not your mother. Or Maggie Wells in Boulder, who called the cops because she thought you were stalking her? Or should we just skip to Maggie Taylor in San Diego, who was, what . . . was she in the first or second grade?”

I cross my arms and slump in my chair. “I hate you.”

“Sheridan, all I’m saying is be careful.”

“Well, calling the hotel is being careful. I’ll just find out where she’s based and if they have her phone number.”

He shakes his head. “Just don’t do anything stupid. Yet.”

Jack folds the paper, gives it to me, and glances over my head toward the door. I follow his eyes and see Lori winding 25

through the maze of chairs and tables.

“Hey!” Lori says, unraveling her scarf and sitting down.

She scans our faces. “Who died?”

Jack grins. “Oh, Sheridan’s just pissed off because she might have to get a butler.” I give him a good kick in the shin.

“Yow!” he wails.

“Well, one of you better tell me what’s going on.” She fluffs her dark hair and stares at me.

I lower my voice and tell her about the show, but I also say that she shouldn’t worry, because we are not moving anywhere—I’ll talk my father out of this.

“Talk him out of it? Are you nuts?”

I smack the table. “Jeez, I’m glad you guys are so excited.” I stand up and go for my coat. “If you want to get rid of me so bad, I’ll just leave now.”

“Oh, give me a break. Where do you think you’re going?”

Lori asks.

My face is hot and I’m flustered, angry. “I have about a million things to do at the bakery.”

“Sit down,” Lori says. “You’re not working on any stupid cake today.”

Jack laughs and leans back in his chair. He’s got this confident look that makes other girls go wild, but it just makes me want to punch his face. “No one wants you to move,”

he says. “But you may be the only person in the world who wouldn’t be excited about your dad getting a TV show.”

26

I plop back down on my chair. “Well, I’m not, okay?”

“Fine,” Lori says. “You are entitled to act like a complete idiot, and for my own selfish reasons, I hope you stay put. If I’m stuck here in the fourth level of hell, you should be, too.”

That’s more like it. I can’t imagine not seeing these guys on a daily basis. I take a sip of my latte and tell myself to mellow out, relax—be happy, even. We might have found Mom.

Lori brings up Thursday’s big world history test, and then talk turns to hot guys, much to Jack’s disgust. After a while, I am able to forget about moving and my missing mother. Forget that New York City exists. I smile and laugh and soak in the coziness of this place.

“You guys want a muffin?” I stand up during a lull in the conversation, my back to the counter. When I turn around, I walk directly into a wide expanse of black wool coat.

“Excuse me,” I apologize. The back I’ve run into twists to face me, and I find myself looking up at Ethan Murphy in all his blazing hotness. Our eyes fuse for a millisecond.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he says, with a voice that could melt steel. He’s doesn’t turn back around, but lifts a finger and points at me. “Do I know you?”

I just look at him, struck dumb. His hair is longish, messy blond. The kind that makes you want to run your fingers through it. I’m suddenly afraid that I won’t be able to control myself, so I clasp my hands behind my back, just in case.

27

His eyes are so blue, his smile flanked by gorgeous dim-ples, his shoulders broad under his thick pea coat. And then there’s that voice. Hot lava. Rumbling thunder. These are the images that spring to mind.

I need to speak, to answer him, but my tongue feels like a rock. Maybe I’m having a stroke.

“Dude, you comin’?” some random jock shouts in his direction. Ethan smiles.

“Gotta go,” he whispers, just to me.

“Uhh . . . ,” I say, like a Neanderthal.

That’s when I hear the high-pitched screech. “Come on, Ethan!” Without looking, I know that it’s Haley Haversham. His current girlfriend. And the closest thing I have to an archenemy.

“Why don’t you go and decorate something, Cake Girl?”

She laughs at her clever comment from the door, and a few girls in her mindless entourage laugh along with her.

Haley is a harpy, a gorgon, and all the other awful female monsters we studied in ninth-grade English rolled into one.

But Ethan ignores her shrill wailing. “Ahh,” he says, quiet enough so that only I can hear him. The warm air coming out of his mouth makes me blush. “Cake Girl.”

My heart beats faster, but in a good way. I smile. “Yep.”

“Eeeeeeeethaaaan!” Haley again, the she-devil.

He smiles once more, winks, then turns and walks away.

His arm swings up and around Haley as she glares at me.

They move toward the door, and I watch as she sinks her 28

head into his Superman shoulders.

“So I guess I’m not getting a muffin?” Jack breaks me out of my trance.

“My God, Sheridan. Why don’t you just get it over with and jump his bones?” Lori laughs.

I fumble for my chair and sit. “Jump his bones? Could you be more crass?”

Lori nods. “Oh, yes. Yes, I can.”

We laugh. But not Jack.

“That guy is a loser,” he proclaims.

“Who cares? He’s hot,” Lori counters.

“Could you be more pathetic?” he says, looking at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Could you be more jealous?” Lori says, scooting her chair back and standing up. “I’ll get the friggin’ muffins.”

You know I’m not jealous,” Jack says to me after she’s gone. “But that guy has gone out with at least one girl in all the major cliques. Next it’s band geeks, chess club, and cake decorators.”

I laugh, sincerely amused. “First of all, Jack, thanks for making me feel so super-cool. Second, I am not going out with him. Not a chance. He’s dating her. And I’m
me
. No one wants to date Cake Girl.”