Shell puts her hand over the mouthpiece. “Cady.”
She doesn’t have to say who it is. Only one person could be calling for me. My armpits sweat. Dad!
I leap forward and grab the phone out of her hand. “Hey!” This phone has a wire attaching it to the wall so I can’t move very far. I face the wall. The others keep working, but they’re quiet. I hope they don’t listen, but they probably can’t help it.
“Buttercup.” His voice is super scratchy and tired sounding, but it’s him. “How’s it going? Is your aunt Michelle treating you good?”
I look around at the pie shop. I don’t want to seem too happy or it might upset him. “It’s all right.” I lower my voice. “I didn’t know you still knew Aunt Shell.”
“Well. She was a last resort.” Dad sounds like he needs to blow his nose. “If those jerks at your school hadn’t called me in . . .”
My muscles freeze. Ms. Walker was one of those jerks. They were worried. But I don’t want to make Dad mad. I still want him to get me. I shouldn’t have gotten into trouble—if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here. “Yeah.”
“Well, Buttercup. Don’t you worry. I’m going to be getting you soon. This social worker says he knows of a program that can help get me a job, you know? It’s going to be great.”
“Social worker?” Maybe he’s not in jail for real, then. “Where are you?”
“Don’t you worry about that. Now, Buttercup, I want you to be a good girl and do what your aunt says. Except don’t let her take you to church. Got that? You say the prayers like I taught you.” Dad starts babbling and I stop listening.
He hasn’t even asked how I am.
I squeeze my eyes shut and lean my forehead against the wall.
I want to believe him. But I remember too many times when he’s made promises he had to break. Promising to come back at a certain time and then not showing up for two days. Promising to get clean. He always apologizes, and he always has reasons, but it doesn’t make it any better. I feel tears starting, hurt and anger that I can’t show him. I kick the wall.
“Got that?” he says again. “No church.”
I’m pretty sure Shell doesn’t go regularly, but now I just want to hang up, not argue. “Got it.” Please get fixed this time.
“Good. Put Shell back on, please.” Dad’s breathing like he’s run a race, and I imagine how he looked a few days ago, all pale and skinny, and he doesn’t seem better at all. I hand the phone to Shell.
I walk back to Jay, who’s measuring flour. I want to run out of the pie shop and into the mountains, as if I could outrun these feelings, but instead I put my hands on the counter and lean against it. He does a double take at my face. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. That was my dad. He’s going to get me soon.” I sound like a total robot to myself. Inside I’m churning like a river after a storm. With Dad, at least I know what will happen. Not like here, where every moment brings me something new. I’m not sure how much more new I can handle. I fidget anxiously. “I don’t know when.”
“Oh. That’s cool. I guess.” He hands me the measuring cup. “I hope you’ll come visit us.” Jay sounds more polite than friendly now, and it tears at me.
“Probably not.” There’s no way Dad can drive the rickety van all the way up here. And really, I should be happy—right? My dad’s okay and he’s going to come for me.
So why do I feel so mixed up?
“Cady.” Shell hangs up. I wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying to Dad. “You got to talk to your dad. Do you feel better now?”
“I don’t think she’ll feel better until she gets to see him.” María acts like she’s going to put her arm around me, so I dodge to the other side of the island.
“I’m fine.” I look at Shell. “Pretty soon you won’t have to worry about me.” I wait for her reaction—will she be relieved? Sad?
Shell opens and closes her mouth. “I’m—I don’t know.” She exchanges a glance with María, and I don’t know what that means either. Apparently nobody knows anything. I dump flour into the bowl, a cloud of dust poofing into my face.
“Well.” Shell stands there awkwardly. “If you need anything, I’ll be out making deliveries.”
I nod. My words and emotions are all gummed up inside me and I can’t unstick them. I’ll deal. That’s what I do.
I concentrate on the flour mixture in front of me. There’s one thing I can try. I’m going to be the best baker they ever saw.
Chapter 9
While María finishes making the store pies, Jay demonstrates a crust. I’ve seen people make crusts on Bake Off. But watching, it turns out, is a lot different from doing.
Jay’s got sort of big hands, but he handles the knife delicately, cutting the butter into small cubes, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as he concentrates. Then he adds it to a bowl of flour. He picks up a thing that looks like it has four blades to mash stuff. “This is a pastry cutter.” He holds it up, reminding me of Ms. Walker showing us how to do a science experiment.
He cuts the butter into the flour so there are butter pieces sprinkled all over the mixture. Then he drizzles a little ice water from a cup onto the flour and butter and starts cutting it all together with the pastry cutter. “You have to work the butter and water into the flour. But you don’t want the butter to completely melt, or it’ll be tough. Just do it until it holds together, like Play-Doh.” He hands me the pastry cutter.
I understand what he’s talking about—I saw that on Bake Off too. “I know that.” I press and press the cutter down into the flour, watching the butter pieces get smaller and smaller. I think about Dad’s phone call and smoosh harder.
Jay watches with a raised brow. “Don’t do it too much.”
“It’s fine.” I’m embarrassed that I’m not paying attention. But these look pretty good to me, actually. Besides, everyone on Bake Off has a slightly different technique, so maybe I just work differently from Jay. Maybe I’ll be the only person ever who got to be an expert after one try! Won’t Shell be impressed?
“Now you should let it rest in the fridge for a half hour.”
“Should, or have to?” My stomach growls. I skipped breakfast, thinking I’d have pie right away. I don’t want to wait another half hour.
Jay considers. “I guess you don’t have to. . . .”
“Then I want to roll now.” Suddenly there’s nothing more important in the world than for me to see this pie crust all finished in the pan.
He purses his lips in that way he has. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I snap. Now that I insisted, I have to show him I’m right or Jay will think I’m dumb. Dad’s phone call flits into my head again. If I have to stand around doing nothing, I’ll start blubbering. I rock back and forth on my feet. “Come on. I want to roll.”
“Fine. Put a little flour on the table so it won’t stick.” He hands me a wooden rolling pin. “You want it to be an eighth of an inch thick all around. Roll like the crust is a clock—roll toward twelve, then six, then nine, then three. Go in one direction.”
I stop listening to him spouting out the details, concentrating on my crust. It sticks to the table and has more holes than Swiss cheese. My cheeks get hot and I steal a look at Jay. But his face is neutral. It reminds me of Paul Hollywood’s face when he’s watching contestants make things wrong.
I start sweating for real, my shirt sticking to my ribs and armpits. I roll it again, forgetting to roll like it’s a clock, pushing the pin back and forth. I don’t want to fail. It feels like everything in the world is at stake.
“Stop!” Jay puts his hands on the pin. “Cady, you’re killing the dough.”
I peel it off, dropping my head to my chin. He’s not very helpful. “Well, what am I supposed to do?”
Jay tsks. “You should have let it chill, like I said.”
He really is turning into Paul Hollywood. “You’re the one who needs to chill.” It’s as smooth as a bedsheet and it
looks good to me. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s your pie. Come on.”
I hate the way he says that, like he doesn’t want to have anything to do with my pie. I follow Jay to the big stainless-steel door. He opens the levered handle. “This is our walk-in fridge.” Inside it’s like a really cold closet. There are shelves stacked with bowls and some extra crusts wrapped in cellophane. I like how magazine-neat and clean everything is. “If we need more pies, we get the crust from here.” He takes down a large metal bowl filled with cut-up apple and spices and we go back out. He hands me an aluminum pie tin. “Time to bake.”
I sniff the apples. “What’s in here?” I smell cinnamon and sugar for sure.
“Granny Smith and Gala apples, cinnamon, nutmeg, brown sugar, white sugar, cornstarch.” Jay nods at the tin. “Put your crust in there.”
The bossy way he says it makes me want to crush the pastry into dust, just so I don’t have to follow his directions. I liked Jay better when we were playing around outside.
My crust lies crookedly across the tin, not quite big enough to completely cover it. He touches the dough doubtfully. Now I see how uneven it is, fat in some places, thin in others. “Do you want to make a new batch?”
He’s got to be joking. My shoulders ache and I’m starving. “I thought you said it’s my pie.” It’ll turn out fine, I say to myself, like I can will that into happening. Like when I don’t know the answers on a math test and just bubble in random responses, hoping it will be all right. Even though, deep down, I know it won’t be.
“Whatever.” Jay sniffs. “You do what you want.”
“I will.” I hurriedly spoon in the apples.
“Where’s your top piece?” Jay looks around like I’ve stuck it under a table.
I glare at him. “What top piece? You didn’t say anything about that.”
“You’ve seen the pies. They have top pieces. That recipe was enough for top and bottom.” Jay twists his mouth up impatiently. But wasn’t he teaching me?
I let out a groan the size of Kentucky. I should have stayed home watching television. But I make another piece of dough, faster this time. This one is dry, with pieces of flour flaking off onto the counter, but it holds together okay. The butter will melt and make it pretty.
At last my pie is ready to go into the oven. It’s superlumpy, and the neat pinched-crust edge that the other pies had is nonexistent. It’ll be fine when it’s cooked.
I know, just like with the math test, that I’m telling myself a lie.
We sit at the back table, eating fresh apples. My head’s pounding and I really want to go back to bed. But now I have to see how the pie turns out. Besides, Shell’s not here to give me a ride.
I have a sour Granny Smith while Jay has a sweeter Gala. Jay explains that not every apple is good for pies because some of them, like Red Delicious, turn mushy, so it’s like eating applesauce. “Did you know these apples were probably picked over a year ago?” Jay says, eyeing me. I can tell he wants me to say, No, I didn’t, Jay. Tell me more. I’m getting sick of being lectured. But I shake my head anyway. “They stick them in a cold storage unit that’s oxygen controlled so they last all year. That’s why we can buy apples even when they’re out of season.”
“That’s nice.” I wish I could tell Jay something he doesn’t know, but I can’t think of anything. Jay grins at me and continues eating his apple. This guy. Nothing seems to bother him.
The timer pings and I race to get my pie out. It’s a nice golden brown, bubbling under the crust. It’s much better looking than I thought. And it smells delicious, warm and sweet. My mouth waters. Maybe I will be Star Baker!
Jay sets it on the cooling rack. “I don’t want you to drop it,” he says, and I want to push him over. Maybe he and I won’t be friends after all. It’s probably good that I’m leaving. “Now we really have to wait a half hour,” Jay says. “Or you’ll burn your tongue.”
I roll my eyes and sit down on a stool.
“What?” Jay says.
I shake my head, refusing to answer. My stomach growls so loud María looks up from her work. “Are you all right, Cady?”
I nod. Just wait until Jay and María and Shell taste my pie. Then Jay will be sorry.
And Shell—Shell’s going to be so impressed. She’ll want me to stay here forever. Not that I want to. I just want her to want me to. I want her to like me so much that she’ll drive down and get me, take me to Julian to visit whenever I want.
Pretty much everything depends on this pie. I swallow hard against the knot in my throat.
Aunt Shell gets back from her deliveries, hanging up her key on the hook. That didn’t take her very long—she must not have had to go to many places. “How’s it going?”
“Shell! Aunt Shell! Look what I did.” I pick up the pie from the cooling rack and pretend like it doesn’t burn my fingers, setting it on the counter. It steams into my face. I pick up the knife. “Ready?”
“We should let it cool some more,” Jay says.
I stick out my chin. “It’s fine.”
Shell leans over it and sniffs. “I could use some nourishment.”
Jay shrugs as if to say, It’s your funeral.
I slice into the pie. Or try to. It’s hard to get the knife through the crust. Like, I have to start sawing as if the crust is a tree branch. I glance up at Shell and she’s frowning, but her lips turn up when I catch her eye. “Keep going, Cady.”
María claps my shoulder. “Not bad for a first try.”
“She didn’t listen to me,” Jay complains. “I’ve been making crust since I was three years old and she thinks she knows better.”
“I did so listen to you.” It’s a punch in my gut that Jay’s been making pies since he was three. Not fair. He’s known Shell so much longer than I have, it’s like he’s her nephew and I’m the stranger. Well. This pie will prove that I’m Shell’s niece. I keep cutting.
“It’s nobody’s fault, Jay.” María glares at him.
Finally I manage to get a piece of pie out. The crust pretty much falls apart. I dish the pie onto plates, the filling oozing out with steam, and Jay gets us some plastic forks. “We’re looking for sheer perfection,” I say, like Mary Berry, and Shell chuckles. I blow on the pie, then finally work my fork in and chew.
And chew some more. The apple flavors are good—I didn’t make that part—but the pastry is as tough as beef jerky. The worst part—the bottom of the pie is soggy. Mary Berry always says, “We don’t want any soggy bottoms.” My shoulders sag. This is far from sheer perfection.
Jay and Shell and María are all chewing bravely. “It’s a nice color,” María offers.
“The apples are good, at least,” Jay says. Of course they’re good. I didn’t make them.
I narrow my eyes. “If someone had told me to make two crusts, then the bottom crust wouldn’t be so thick.”
“If someone had been listening instead of doing whatever she wanted, then maybe the pie would be perfectly fine,” Jay counters. “Don’t blame me.”
“Don’t blame me if you’re a bad teacher,” I say.
“Stop, you two!” María says. “It’s only a pie crust.”
I shovel another piece into my mouth and gnaw away. It’s not only a pie crust to me. It’s everything. I pull the hairnet down over my face.
Shell doesn’t say anything. I know what she’s thinking. The dough’s overworked. I made the butter melt with my hot hands and Hulk-grip on the rolling pin. I developed the gluten! It’s as tough as bread. Paul Hollywood would tell me how wrong I was. Even worse, I bet Mary Berry would look at me sympathetically and give me a tiny compliment, like “The cinnamon is very cinnamon-y.” Which means your baked good is horrible.
I spit the piece I’m chewing into the trash can. I can’t believe I’ve wasted my whole morning. And for what? Nothing.
I’m nothing.
I shove the pie tin hard across the table. It flies off, landing with a splat and a clatter on the floor.
“Cady.” Shell’s voice is calm. “That is an unacceptable reaction. Clean that up.”
My eyes fill with angry tears, and I almost walk out of the store. Shell regards me solemnly and Jay and María don’t say a word. My face heats. I stomp over and pick up the tin, hurling it into the trash can. I try sopping up the apples with paper towels, but end up smearing the stickiness farther across the floor. Great.
“You need to use wet paper towels.” Jay tries to help me, but I muscle him aside. “Hey, let me show you.” He sort of pushes me back. “You’re doing it wrong.”
I can tell I’m doing it wrong. I’m doing everything wrong and Jay does everything right. I shove him with my shoulder so he skitters sideways. “You’ve shown me enough, Jesús Morales!” I yell. “Why didn’t you make me do it right?”
He glares at me, his hands on his hips. “You wouldn’t listen!”
“All you do is lecture and act like a know-it-all.” Snot’s coming out of my nose, and I sniffle it back in.
Jay gets in my face. “That’s because I actually do know more about this than you do!”
“Cut it out!” Shell makes the safe signal like an umpire and both of us go quiet. “Jay, use some cleaner for the stickiness. Cady, you’re on dish duty. Maybe that will teach you how to control yourself.” Shell gestures to the deep sink at the far end of the workshop, on the other side of a half wall, stacked with pie tins and mixing bowls and small white plates.
“Fine. I love doing dishes.” I go behind the wall to the sink. It doesn’t matter. I’m never going to be a baker. I’ll be leaving soon anyway.
I stack the tins noisily. Shell can’t actually make me stay here and clean all day. I’m a kid. I don’t want to clean dishes. I want to go to Shell’s and watch TV. But not the Bake Off.
Jay whispers behind me, “My first pie was so bad, we had to give it to the pigs.”
I’m too cranky to respond. My skin is on fire. “Leave me alone.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Look, I couldn’t catch a baseball the first time I tried. Or dribble a basketball. But I kept trying. And now I’m good at both. Haven’t you ever been bad at something, then gotten better?”
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 6
