The Sweetest Thing (5 page)

Back at the house, the message light on the phone is blinking like a Christmas tree. I listen to the first three: Jake Trotter from the
St. Mary Courier
wants to set up an interview; Christopher something-or-other from the
Grand
Rapids Times
does, too; and Catherine Dupree, anchor-40

woman from the local TV station where Dad’s done a few cooking segments in the past, reminds him that she’s responsible, in part, for his success and asks if she can have an exclusive interview.

There are ten more messages, but I hang up and walk away. Upstairs, I throw on an old T-shirt and worn-out flannel pajama pants. I try to study, but Algebra II has never seemed so useless and my laptop is calling me.

I scour the Internet for “mackinac island bakery” and get a bunch of hits, but nothing seems like a clue. I type in

“maggie taylor mackinac island” and I find the photo that Jack showed me. It’s on the hotel’s Web site, but it says to call or e-mail for information. I want to e-mail them right away.

But then I remember Jack’s words, and how I’ve been disappointed—and, okay, almost arrested—in the past. I don’t want to be let down this time. This time, it’s got to be
her
.

I do some research on Mackinac. Print out the driving directions. A little more than five hours. Maybe I could get Jack to drive me up there, if it comes to that.

Around midnight, the phone rings. It’s Nanny.

“Is that dummy son of mine home yet?”

“No.”

She lets out a breath. “Doggone it. I’m gonna skin him alive.”

“Yeah. I guess he decided to celebrate his dream coming true in his own special way.” I sigh. “No big surprise.”

“You wanna sleep over here?” Nanny asks.

41

I look around my room. Over the years, I’ve spent a million nights at Nanny’s, when Dad worked late at the restaurant or was traveling or working as a guest chef somewhere.

He’s been gone a lot of nights, but I always knew he would come back. But tonight feels weird, like he’s already there in New York City and he’s left St. Mary behind, like an old piece of furniture that wasn’t worth moving.

“No,” I say, knowing I am too old to run to Nanny.

“That’s okay. Got homework.”

“All right. Well, lock the doors. I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Yeah, I know.”

At one o’clock, I can’t focus my eyes on the computer screen anymore. I want to throw the stupid thing across the room because I’ve been through so many Margaret Taylors, Margaret Wellses, and even Margaret Kirbys, though she never used that name on the cards.

The cards. I grab the box out of my closet and pick up the one with the oldest postmark. She left a few months before I turned eight. There was a decorating contest in Dallas, and she’d been practicing for weeks. It was all she talked about; she was so excited. On the morning she left, she packed me a lunch, took me to school, hugged me tight, and told me to say a prayer so that she’d win.

But she didn’t win, and when her plane back to Michigan left Dallas that Monday, she wasn’t on it. She’d met a man named Frank Kirby and had fallen for him hard.

42

I was so little, Nanny told me Mom was taking a vacation. Dad told me nothing. But I figured that if she was on vacation, she’d certainly send me a postcard or something. I checked the mailbox every day. And one day, just before my birthday, it was there. An envelope, with my name scrawled on the front in her handwriting.

I’m holding the card in my hand now. It is cut in the shape of a big number 8 and covered with glitter and stars.

I have the message inside memorized, but I read it anyway.

I’m sorry I’m not there for your birthday. I miss you so
much and will send you something from Scotland. Would you
like a kilt? I’ll see you soon, I promise Cupcake. Love you,
Mommy.

I close the card, put it back into the box, crawl into bed.

I flip onto my side, stare out the window, and imagine her love. I can feel it, just as real as the blanket on top of me. I’m fifteen years old, but right now it’s like no time has passed.

I’m still eight, waiting for my kilt to show up in the mail, waiting for her to come home.

I know she hasn’t been an ideal mother. I’m not stupid.

But I also know that she loves me. She’ll come back. Maybe so much time has passed, she’s feeling awkward and just needs to be asked. And Dad will stay in St. Mary when I explain how I feel. I mean, they are my parents; they’ll want what’s best for me, right?

I try to concentrate on the snow outside my window, falling harder now. The wet flakes sparkle in the glow of 43

the front porch light, which Dad will turn off when he gets home. I watch and wait, but finally my eyelids give in and close like shades pulled tight.

44

I wake up with the perfect plan to find Mom. I’ll e-mail the hotel in Mackinac and tell them that I absolutely love the monarch butterfly cake and must have the number of Maggie Taylor. Then I’ll call Maggie Taylor, tell her I want her to make my wedding cake, and ask when I can come in for a consult.

We’ll make small talk, and I’ll ask her some questions.

Like, does she have any kids? And she’ll say, “Yes, I have one daughter,” and then she’ll start crying. And I’ll tell her to stop, and that she doesn’t need to cry; I’m here, waiting.

My cell phone buzzes on the nightstand. I pick it up and see a text from Jack.

Don’t e-mail the hotel yet.

I throw back the covers. It’s disturbing to have a mind reader for a best friend.

There’s another text, from Dad, sent at two a.m.

Got caught up here.

No “sorry for missing dinner” or “we need to talk” or

“I’m not gonna do that show after all.” Nothing.

I don’t text him back.

My thoughts turn to school and how badly I don’t want to go, especially with the week I’ve got coming up. On Sunday, Sheridan and Irving’s will host their annual Easter brunch, and I am expected to help. Plus, the Bailey wedding cake is due on Saturday morning.

I walk past Dad’s room on the way to the shower and see that his bed is still made. Did he even come home? Was it the giggly waitress? Yuck.

I hop in the shower, tromp downstairs, shove spoonfuls of instant oatmeal in my mouth, and work my way through the rest of the Algebra II homework. We don’t see eye to eye on many things, Dad and I, but we have one very clear understanding: if I screw up in school, drink, or do drugs, I am off cake duty. Oh, and also I am not supposed to get knocked up. As if that was even a possibility.

Dad and I used to have dinner in his office every Monday night, so he could check up on me and recite the rules, just so I didn’t forget them. But we haven’t even done in a long time, not since he’s been so focused on getting this show.

46

I throw an apple and a bag of chips into my bag and notice my dog-eared art class sketch pad—still waiting for me to start my last big assignment of the year. So far, I’ve got nothing. I asked Mrs. Ely if I could sketch cakes. She looked at me funny, pulled me aside, and told me she wanted to see what else I could do.

Whatever, Mrs. Ely.

I shove on my boots, put on my coat, and sling my bag over my shoulder. When I open the back door, I see that the alley and the parking lot are covered with a thick layer of pure white snow. It’s pretty, but positively arctic. I hurry across to the bakery, where Lori waits by the back door.

“Morning,” she says, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “So

. . . any naughty dreams about Ethan?” She laughs.

“Funny. I’m so glad you’re around to crack yourself up.”

“Somebody has to.”

We walk through the door and are greeted by the most wonderful smells. Sugar, spice, chocolate, and fruit whirl around us like a scented dust storm. Mr. Rasic (aka Mr.

Roz), Nanny’s baker since forever, is pulling a sheet of cookies out of the oven.

“Ah, vat’ll it be this morning, ladies?” he asks in a thick Kosovan accent, his paper hat askew on his white hair.

Lori smiles sweetly. “OMG, if you have any raspberry cream cheese, I will marry you.”

“Ha!” He walks to a rack stacked with trays of baked goods. “You marry a nice young man, and Mr. Roz bake 47

you wedding cake, okay?” He tosses a muffin into a small white paper bag.

“And for the star?” He looks at me and winks.

“Star?”

“Well, daughter of star?”

I smile politely. I love Mr. Roz like he’s my own grandfather. But this is not how I want my day to start.

“No. There’s not going to be a show.”

He and Lori stare at me like I’m crazy. I change the subject. “Any lemon poppy seed?”

The Mr. Roz smile returns instantly. “Aha! Today you want the sweet with the tart, eh?” He bags my muffin and Nanny walks in.

“Good morning, girls. Now don’t hold up Mr. Rasic; please just get your muffins and go.” She looks at me.

“Goodness, child, where are your mittens and scarf?” She reaches over and pulls my coat zipper up to my chin.

“I’m fine,” I say, shooing her away.

“It’s colder than an ice cube in Alaska out there. Don’t tell me you’re fine.” She tries to push up my hood, but I squirm out of her grasp.

“Girl, put that hood up! And both y’all get out. I don’t have time for tomfoolery today.”

I am pretty sure that Nanny is the last person on earth who uses the word
tomfoolery
. She shoves us out the back door.

“Confounded teenagers!” she hollers to Mr. Roz. Lori 48

and I laugh as we head down the alley toward school.

We’re behind schedule, so we speed-walk until we’re up the front steps and through the double doors of St. Mary High. We part ways in the main hall, and I head to chemistry.

Whoever had the brilliant idea of forcing adolescents to mess with covalent bonds first thing in the morning definitely wasn’t playing with a full deck. But here we are anyway.

Mr. Wasserman looks up over his reading glasses as I slide onto my stool next to Matthew Dunhill, my good-for-nothing lab partner. Wasserman lets out a psychotic chuckle; he’s the original mad scientist.

“Ah, nice of you to join us Mizzz Wells,” he says, wad-dling his enormous belly over to our station. “Lab report done, I imagine?” He holds out a waiting hand.

“Oh. Yes.” I grab my bag, rifle through my folders, pull out the report, and give it to him. “All done,” I say, waiting for him to walk away.

Instead, he leans his head toward me and in a very loud whisper says, “I understand we have a celebrity in our midst?” His bulging eyes are rolling around in his head, and his hair is sticking out in every direction.

“What?” He’s caught me off guard.

“Well,” he announces as he walks to the front of the room, “we’re all pretty pleased for you and your father. I have a feeling he’s gonna turn St. Mary into a real hot spot.”

49

And then leave us all behind
, I think as twenty-four pairs of eyes sear into me like lit Bunsen burners. I hear low laughter from the back row. Haley is in this class, along with a few of her pals. Now I’ve got goose bumps.

I can’t believe we were ever friends—until eighth grade, when I overheard her talking to our group of friends, calling my mom a slut, and calling me stupid for believing she’d ever come back. I was so mad, I told her I never wanted to speak to her again. But she wasn’t sorry; she just got meaner.

Now we are pretty much sworn enemies.

I can imagine what she’s saying about me now. The witch.

“Open your books to page ninety-two.” Wasserman finally decides to get off the topic of my dad’s impending star-dom and do his job.

Matthew sits next to me, notebook open, doodling. He’s drawing a caricature of Mr. W with Albert Einstein hair; big, bloodshot eyes; and a brain in his hand. It’s funny, but I’m in no mood to laugh. The whole school knows: Donovan Wells has hit the big-time, and he’s dragging his daughter along for the ride.

By the time I get to last period, or Art Hell, as I like to call it, I have experienced firsthand the power of the St.

Mary telegraph. From what I can gather, sous-chef Danny told his daughter, Lucy, who told Dora McBride, who told Payge Nelson, who relayed the information to Sydney Mann, who everyone knows has the biggest mouth at St.

Mary High. Once she got wind of the news, that was it; she 50

ran it up the flagpole, and now there isn’t a living soul in a twenty-five-mile radius who doesn’t know.

I slip into my chair next to Jack. “Hi.”

“Hey. I just heard you’re playing yourself in the made-for-TV movie of your dad’s life.” He is mocking me. But the rumors have really gotten that weird.

“Not now,” I warn.

The bell rings and Mrs. Ely stands in front of the class.

She’s practically glowing; that’s how excited she gets about art. We’re studying van Gogh today, the crazy guy who sliced off his own ear.

“Take out your assignments, please, and pass them to your left,” Mrs. Ely says, impossibly frumpy in her black artist’s smock and Sears clearance-rack comfortable shoes.

I pull out the homework, a time line of Vincent’s life, which was kind of short, thank goodness.

I gotta hand it to Mrs. Ely. She doesn’t mention my father or the show or anything related to cheesy cable TV

stations. We just slip into a nice discussion about art and insanity. Yes, it’s depressing, but at least no one brings up ExtremeCuisine TV.

As we wait for the bel to ring, Ely sidles up to our table.

“Hey, Sheridan.” Here it comes. “How are your nature sketches coming?”

“Um . . . okay,” I lie. I’m a terrible liar.

“Listen.” She taps the table with a chipped fuchsia fingernail. “There’s this art camp for incoming juniors and seniors.

51

It’s in Upstate New York. I thought you might want to apply.