“Cady and I have a business proposition.” Mr. Miniver laces his hands together and I imitate him. Jay wiggles his eyebrows up and down.
“Oh, no. Shell’s not going to hear of it.” Suzanne shakes her head sadly. “Besides, I’m afraid the ship has already sailed. The new flavors might help us break even in three months, if we didn’t have an overdue mortgage and bills. I don’t know what else we could do to save the place. Even a cash infusion would only help out for a little while.”
Mr. Miniver nudges me. “That’s where my plan comes in,” I say. I take out the floor plan Mr. Miniver’s drawn up, along with the business proposal we wrote. “Voilà.” I put it on the log table with flair.
“Gluten-free pie?” She skims the plans. “Because of Jenna.”
“Not just because of Jenna,” I correct her. “Remember, lots of people can’t tolerate gluten anymore.” I tell her about the family that came in and the numbers I looked up. Eighteen million people have non-celiac gluten sensitivity, and six million have celiac. More people avoid it for other reasons.
Then I flip the page and show her the numbers. Cost of the pie kitchen remodel and rent. Ingredients. Truck, gas, driver. Sale price of the pie. Stores that want to buy the pie. I thought it would be a confusing jumble of numbers, but Mr. Miniver showed me how to put them into columns, and Jay helped enter them and double-checked the math.
“If we sent pies to all these stores, conservatively, we would be making money by month three.” Mr. Miniver points. “Plus, as far as I know, nobody else in town is on the gluten-free bandwagon.”
“That’s right.” Jay nods so dramatically that his chin hits his chest. “Shell’s will lead the way!”
“Hmmm,” Suzanne says. But there’s a new sparkle about her.
“Once again, I’m offering to front the necessary funds,” Mr. Miniver says. “In return for a fifteen percent stake.”
I hop up and down on my seat. This is exciting. It’s just like that TV show Shark Tank, where inventors present ideas to investors. Except Mr. Miniver’s both the investor and the inventor, so maybe not.
I hold my breath, waiting for Suzanne’s response.
“Ooh, is that our food?” Jay breaks the silence as a server walks by.
I shush him. This is too important.
Suzanne raises her eyes from the table. “We would need an excellent gluten-free crust,” she says. “It has to be palatable to the average person.”
“You mean tasty, right?” I say.
She nods. “Very tasty.”
I nod back. “I’m on it. I just need the flour to practice.”
“Well. If you can get that piece of the puzzle, then . . .” She slaps her hand on the table. “I’m in.”
“Yes!” I put my hand over hers, Jay slaps his over mine, and Mr. Miniver places his hand over Jay’s. Like a team. Team Pie.
The following Tuesday, Shell and I are at home while Suzanne’s working. It’s super warm again and there’s no air-conditioning at the house. Shell says in the old days, it didn’t use to get so hot. By old days she means the 1980s.
I’m testing my gluten-free pie recipe today, but my butter’s melting. Summer’s not the best pie-making time. Jacques and Julia and Tom all watch me prepare the crust, the dogs drooling slightly at the smell of the butter. “If these don’t taste good, you might get a treat for dinner,” I say to the dogs.
I read through three different recipes, deciding to combine them and try it out. One wants egg, one wants lemon juice, one wants something called xanthan gum, which I don’t have. This is hard. What does lemon juice do? I don’t know. I sigh and write the new recipe in the notebook. If it doesn’t work, I’ll try another.
Suzanne bought me a bunch of gluten-free all-purpose flour. Today I plan to make three pies with this recipe. Shell says you have to do that, to make sure you can get the same result every time. Baking is sort of like doing science.
These won’t be Jenna-safe pies, but right now I’m only worried about taste.
I have the ingredients lined up on the counter when Shell walks by. “What’s all this?” She picks up the flour, sniffs it, and makes a face. Gluten-free flour doesn’t have the best smell—it smells sort of like old radishes. “Where’d it come from?” She sees the huge bag in the corner, finally, and her mouth opens.
“Stuff for gluten-free pie. Suzanne got it for me.” I hum as I get out the food processor and plug it in.
“Cady.” Shell frowns, puts her hands down on the counter. “I’ve already told you—we shouldn’t be doing any other kinds of pie.”
I spoon flour into a cup. That’s the way you’re supposed to do it, instead of scooping the cup right into the flour, by the way—it’s more accurate. I wish Mr. Miniver were here. He said he’d “lay out the facts for Shell,” but it’s up to me right now.
Maybe she’ll listen to me. “That’s not true. We should be.” My heart pounds. I think of the plans Mr. Miniver’s drawn up.
Shell does a double take, her eyes bugging out. “What do you mean, it’s not true? Do you think I don’t know what’s best for me, for the business? Did Suzanne put you up to this?”
“No. I mean, she got me the stuff. But she didn’t tell me to talk to you about gluten-free pie.” I tap the cup on the counter, making sure the flour’s settled, and scrape the top off with a knife. “Mr. Miniver said he’d invest. The shop next door is available. And Mr. Miniver says you have to spend money to make money.”
“I’ve already spent money making those new pie flavors,” Shell says slowly. “What do you think is going to happen if I expand and it fails? Mr. Miniver will lose his money, too.”
“The gluten-free pie isn’t like the others. I’ve got stores lined up and ready.” I tell her about my market research. All the details.
“Wait a minute. You called stores?”
I nod. “Of course, we’d have to get a delivery truck and someone to deliver the pies.”
“Cady, I’m very impressed with your planning. I don’t think any of this is a bad idea. But there are lots of great ideas that can’t happen without the right conditions.” Shell shuts her eyes and sighs. “Really, I’m so tired of saying this. Let’s get through this summer.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Shell slams her hands on the counter. Tom runs away. The dogs look worried.
I stick out my chin. Shell doesn’t scare me. This is like when I shoved the pie. She’s not mad at me—she’s mad at the situation. And she probably needs to take a nap, judging from the bags under her eyes. When Suzanne’s not here, Shell barely takes care of herself. Once I woke up at two a.m. and she was still down in the living room, paying bills before she had to go to work. “I’m trying to help.” I put the flour into the food processor.
“I know you are, Cady. I know.” Shell looks ferocious. “But I don’t need to drag everyone down with me.” She turns on her heel and goes into the yard. The dogs and I watch her leave.
“It’s going to be okay.” I crouch between them, put my arms around them. I’m with Suzanne. This will work. We’ve got to make Shell see it with her own eyes. No matter what I have to do.
The pie dough is as sticky as the recipes promised it would be. But I roll it out onto greased parchment paper, and it comes off just fine. I’m careful and slow. I keep ice in the water and I let the dough rest.
When the pie is done, it smells good. Like regular pie. No more of the icky smell. I let it cool, then cut out a piece. It’s exactly crispy enough.
I take a piece to Shell, who’s in the living room, working through yet another pile of paperwork as she watches a TV game show. “Is this it?” She barely looks up.
I hand her the plate. I used apple. The apples are already gluten-free, because we mix them with cornstarch instead of flour to thicken them. “Yep.”
I sit down in the armchair and take a bite from my own plate. The crust is surprisingly good. It’s not as flaky, but it pretty much tastes like a regul
ar crust.
Shell chews thoughtfully. She takes another bite. She chews some more. Someone on Family Feud cheers and I look at the TV. When I glance back at Shell, her pie plate is empty.
Finally I can’t stand it anymore. “Well? What’d you think?”
Shell taps her fork on the plate. “Not bad, Cady.”
And that feels better than the time I got 100 percent on a science chapter test.
Chapter 33
I never thought I’d like getting up so darn early every day, but somehow it’s easy to wake up in the bedroom that used to be my mother’s, my feet swinging down to touch the floorboards that she touched, too. Only Tom the cat tries to stay in bed, giving me an are you crazy? stare. Maybe I am.
It’s the end of the second week of August and Jay and I are going fennel hunting while it’s still cool. And it will get hot again, I can tell. Heat rises up from the earth, evaporating in sweaty layers all over us as we hike into the woods with our canvas bags for the fennel, Jacques and Julia trailing us on their leashes.
We slog through a field. Wind blows hot and dry, sending my hair into my eyes. Thunder sounds in the distance like a far-off car playing loud hip-hop beats. “Look at those.” Jay points. Above us there are actually no clouds at all, but dark flat-headed thunderheads hang low over the distant forest and the hillsides. “This weather is weird.”
“It hasn’t rained, but it looks like it’s going to.”
“My mom says this is a dry thunderstorm.” Jay shrugs. “It tries to rain, but it dries up before it hits the ground.”
“Should we be outside?” I try to remember what I’ve heard about storms. Get to low ground? Don’t be in a tree?
“Eh.” Jay continues walking. “It’s way over there. If we stayed inside every time there was bad weather, we’d never do anything around here. Come on.” He jumps off the path suddenly, through dense bushes. A small flock of quails flies out, the single long feather on their heads bobbing like a fishing lure. If I were a cat, I’d definitely hunt those.
As we hike, I start our knock knock jokes. That’s what we do while we wander around, try to remember the funniest jokes we’ve ever heard. “Hey, Jay. Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“A broken pencil.”
“A broken pencil who?”
“Never mind. It’s pointless.”
Jay giggles. He holds some brush steady so I can get past. “Hey, Cady. Will you remember me in a year?”
“Yes.”
“Will you remember me in a month?”
“Yes.”
“Will you remember me in a week?”
“Yes.” I haven’t heard this one. I wonder where it’s going.
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
Jay turns and grins at me. “You already forgot who I was.”
I let out a snort, but then wrinkle my nose. Because I already know. Even if my dad comes back for me and I have to move away, I’ll never forget him.
Late in the morning, I make another strawberry basil pie and put it in the oven. Then I go to the pie numbers and scratch out another mark. Yes.
I’m getting closer. By next month, I should be done.
I inhale deeply, feeling like I’m getting close to the end of a good book. I want it to keep going forever.
Right after lunch, I bring ice cream and pie to Señora Vasquez, Esmeralda, and Claudia. They’re hanging out because Mr. Miniver’s taking them on a city college visit in a little bit. Claudia’s arguing. “I don’t see what the point is.” She kicks her legs out and Esmeralda imitates her.
“There’s a program where you can go to school for free,” her grandmother says in a tired voice, like she’s said this a hundred times. “We’re going to get you registered with the DREAM Act. That way they can’t kick you out of the country.”
“Are you kidding? It’ll put me in an official system. If things go bad, we’re the ones who’ll get deported first. Besides”—she lowers her voice—“even if I get a degree, it won’t help me become a citizen.” Claudia sticks out her jaw.
“The government wouldn’t trick you like that, would they? For something that was supposed to help you.” I wait for Señora Vasquez to tell me Claudia’s wrong, but she just looks at the table. Claudia gives me her patented Come on, you know better stare that she gives me when I’m sloppy with the coffee.
For a minute, the only sound is Esmeralda happily slurping her ice cream, but soon even she catches on to the mood and stops, her eyes as huge and innocent as an anime character’s. “Why are you mad?”
Claudia picks up her sister’s hand, kisses it. “We’re not mad at you, mi querida.”
“Claudia’s . . . got a point,” Señora Vasquez says in a low voice.
“People like us—we’re nothing to politicians. Just chess pieces they play with to buy votes.” Claudia sounds like she’s choking on a twisted piece of lemon. “They don’t care if they use us to pick their fruit. Or that they need us for the economy.” She wipes at her eyes with a trembling hand.
A kind of hollowness fills me. An awful hopelessness. I search for a way to fix it. “Is there any way you could get, um, documented?” I ask. “Like, could you get married or something?”
“She’s not getting married,” Señora Vasquez says sharply.
Claudia shakes her head. “Yeah, marriage won’t help. To become a citizen, even if I were married, I’d have to go back to Mexico and apply to come back. Which has a twenty-year wait list.”
Twenty years? She’d be thirty-nine years old by then. That’s even older than my dad. “That’s crazy!”
“That’s how it is.” Claudia twists up her mouth. “Plus, I can’t just walk out of the US. I’d have to sneak out, because I don’t have a passport.”
Like with Jay, I don’t know what to say. “I wish there was something I could do.” Instinctively, I touch Claudia’s arm, half expecting her to make some kind of sarcastic remark.
Instead, she puts her hand over mine and takes a big breath. “I’ll be okay, Cady. Thanks.”
“You going to eat the pie?” I nudge it toward her. Pie makes me feel better.
She shakes her head.
“What’s the downside of going?” I ask her. That’s what Mr. Miniver had me do with the bakery addition: make a list of the “upsides” and “downsides” of the project. He said this helps people make up their minds and also makes you think about any potential problems.
Claudia looks at me, thinking. “I guess, if I don’t sign up for that program, nothing.” Some cloud seems to lift and she pulls the pie toward her. “Maybe I should do it before Jay. Be the guinea pig.” She half grins, spooning pie into her mouth.
“Finally, some sense.” Señora Vasquez looks out the window. “Where is he? I hope Mr. Miniver remembered to put those doors on his car.”
“Pretty sure you told him five hundred times.” Claudia twists a straw wrapper into a rose for Esmeralda and wipes the vanilla ice cream off her face. It looks like there’s more of it on her chin than went into her stomach.
“You never know. Old people and their memories.” Señora Vasquez shifts nervously. “Claudia, take Esmeralda to the bathroom again.”
“She just went.”
“You never know.”
Claudia disappears into the back with Esmeralda.
Mr. Miniver pulls up and parks in the handicapped spot, and Señora Vasquez breathes a sigh of relief. “Finally!”
A big white work truck follows Mr. Miniver. It says JULIAN COMMUNITY SERVICES DISTRICT on the side. A man in an olive uniform gets out.
“Oh crud.” Shell goes pale. She pushes her way out through the line of customers, slamming the door as she goes. I follow, as do Mr. Miniver and Señora Vasquez. “Can I help you?” Shell asks the man.
He takes off his cap, scratches his bald head. “I’m here to turn off your water.” He holds up an orange piece of paper.
Shell flushes a deep scarlet. She looks like
she wants to go hide under the earth. I remember the feeling all too well. It happened every time my dad came to school. “I only got one notice.”
He checks the paper. “You’re three months behind.” He seems almost apologetic. He hands the paper to Shell, then gets a padlock and some kind of tool that looks like a metal walking stick out of the truck. People are staring.
Shell’s red turns to ash when she sees the total. She gulps, visibly. “I can have that in two days. Is that possible?”
“I still gotta turn off the water.” He walks over to something in the ground and sticks the metal thing in. “Then you have to go pay the bill in person. Then we have to schedule someone to come back out. That will be at least four days from now.” He sounds flat. “And we don’t count the weekend, so it’d be Wednesday.”
Jay and I exchange a horrified glance. That’s a week. We can’t be open without water. It’s unsanitary. And four days closed means no money coming in. That means we can’t pay for more supplies.
We’re done this time. For real.
Chapter 34
“You can’t do that!” Señora Vasquez waves her cane at him as if it’s a club. She would have made a great angry villager in medieval times. “We have rights.”
“Abuela!” Jay says sharply. “She’s going to get us deported,” he whispers into my ear.
Mr. Miniver puts his hand over hers. “The man’s only doing his job. They don’t give him the authority to fix anything, now do they, son?” he asks the man. The man shakes his head no. He looks like he’d rather be any place but here.
Suzanne’s black car pulls up and she pops out like a vengeful Tinker Bell. “What’s going on?” She marches over, her small hands clenched into fists.
Shell tilts her head at the ground. I’ve seen that look before. Shame. I’ve had it on my own face when we couldn’t pay a motel bill. I step forward and speak for my aunt. “It’s the water.” I take the bill and give it to Suzanne, praying she can fix it.
Suzanne doesn’t roll her eyes or sigh or tell Shell she’s a dope. She looks at the bill and takes out her wallet. “Can I pay by credit card?”
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 20
