by Janae Marks
I imagined all the things that could be inside the boxes. Baking supplies? Candy decorations? A secret ingredient?
Ariana opened the first box, and inside was . . . more cardboard. Flat pieces of cardboard in the bakery’s signature blue. Ariana pulled some of it out.
“You saw how busy it is out there,” she said, nodding toward the front of the bakery. “We’re going to run out of boxes pretty soon, so I could use your help putting some more together. It’s easy.” Ariana showed me how to fold the sides up and tuck them into flaps, so the cardboard transformed into a small box that could fit two cupcakes. “We also have boxes for four, six, and a dozen cupcakes. Think you can do this?”
That was it? I was going to help put together boxes?
“Are you sure you don’t need help with mixing red velvet batter, or decorating the cupcakes?” I asked. “I can help Corey with those sprinkles. I’m really good at sprinkles.”
Ariana saw the expression on my face. “I know this isn’t what you expected to do on your first day, but I could really use your help here,” she said.
“But—” I started.
“Ariana!”
We both looked toward the voice coming from the other side of the room. It was one of the employees from the front. “Phone call for you.”
“I have to grab that.” As she started walking away, she added, “Go ahead and get started on these boxes. I’ll check on you in a bit.”
I sighed and looked at the pile of pale-blue cardboard on the table. Was this all I’d get to do all summer? Make boxes and stare at everyone else while they actually baked? At least I got to see what it was like back there, in a real bakery kitchen. But I’d seen that on TV. I wanted to use the mixer and ovens myself. I wanted to learn how to pipe the icing on the cupcakes like Liz.
But Mom said I could audition for Kids Bake Challenge! if Ariana gave me a good review. I had to get to work on the boxes. It was so easy, I probably lost brain cells while doing it.
Pick up a box.
Fold up the sides.
Tuck in the flaps.
Repeat.
While I worked, my mind wandered and I started thinking about Marcus. He had to have gotten my letter by now. What did he think when he read it?
Would he write back? Did I really want him to?
I thought of everything Mom had said about Marcus.
Was I really about to become pen pals with a murderer?
Panic shot through me like icing out of Liz’s piping bag. Maybe it was a mistake to write Marcus back.
It was too late to get my letter back now. Focus on the boxes, I told myself.
Across the room, Ariana stood next to Vincent, talking to him about something as he scooped batter into large cupcake trays. I could do that. I was really good at scooping batter.
Ariana spotted me and the huge pile of folded blue boxes on the table and gave me a thumbs-up. I made myself smile.
Chapter Eight
If I couldn’t bake at Ari’s Cakes, at least I could do it at home. On Thursday, Grandma and I were in the kitchen getting ready to make fried Oreos, one of the recipes from Ruby Willow’s cookbook. I’d just mixed the batter that we’d dip the Oreos in, and now I was putting some confectioner’s sugar into a shaker. We’d shake the powdered sugar on top of the fried Oreos at the end, and eat them while they were still warm and gooey, with mugs of cold milk. Meanwhile, Grandma was busy pouring oil into a pot that was heating up on the stove. She was wearing my mom’s red apron over her white T-shirt and jeans. My apron, which my parents gave me for Christmas, had pastel macarons all over it.
My phone was connected to Bluetooth speakers on the kitchen table. I’d opened the music app and shuffled all of my songs. I was twisting the top back onto the shaker right as a Stevie Wonder song came on—“Superstition.” I had downloaded it after reading Marcus’s first letter.
“You like Stevie Wonder?” Grandma started bopping her head as she finished pouring the oil, making her turquoise beaded earrings jiggle. She loved fun earrings.
“I heard this song at Jasmine’s house once,” I lied. “Her dad was playing it. I liked it, so I added some of his songs to my playlist.”
“You’ve got soul. I love it.” Grandma wiggled her body as she sang along with the chorus. I started dancing, too.
Then my phone chimed, interrupting the song. It was my alarm set for noon. I practically jumped to turn off the alarm, before Stevie Wonder’s voice filled the kitchen again.
“What was that for?” Grandma asked.
“Nothing.” I wiped my hands off on a towel and grabbed my phone. “I’ll be right back. Don’t start without me!”
I bolted down the hall to the foyer and peeked out at our street from the storm door. A minute later, like clockwork, the mail carrier walked up the porch steps. He saw me standing there and gave a quick wave. I opened the door and he handed the mail to me.
“Thanks!” I said.
“Enjoy your day,” he said and turned to go.
I let the door close behind me and quickly flipped through the stack. There it was at the bottom, with the same prison return address, the same flag stamp, and my name and address handwritten again. But this time, Marcus had written with black ink instead of blue. The envelope was a little thicker, like there was more than one sheet of paper inside.
My heart raced. I left the rest of the mail on the foyer table and went straight to my room to read it.
To my Little Tomato,
I can’t tell you how happy I was to get your letter. I actually shed a few tears and people here thought someone must’ve died. I can count the number of times I’ve cried as an adult on one hand. Getting your letter was one of them. Want to know another time? When I first found out your mother was pregnant with you. When she told me, I burst into tears and actually fell down to my knees. I always wanted to be a father, since my dad was always such a great one to me. I wish I’d had the chance to be a better dad to you. When I found out I was going to prison, well, that was another time I cried. I hate that I’m missing out on your life, and so many other things.
But, back to happy stuff. You asked about Little Tomato. It’s from a song. You can probably tell I’m really into music. The song is called “Hang On Little Tomato,” and it’s by a group called Pink Martini. I liked the sound of Little Tomato for a nickname, so I started calling you that. Now you’re Zoe, but you’ll always be my Little Tomato.
Speaking of names, yes—you can call me Marcus. I understand how weird this is for you. Don’t feel bad about that. It’s got to be especially strange since it sounds like you never got my other letters. I’ve sent you a lot over the years, but when I never heard back, I figured either you didn’t want to write me, or maybe your mom wouldn’t let you. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. But I kept sending letters so you’d always know that I wanted to hear from you. I’m so glad you wrote back now.
I’m happy you want to get to know me. You can ask me whatever you want, and I promise to answer honestly. You’re probably wondering about my life. Prison is not a great place to be, but I try to keep my head down and focus on my studies. I first got here right after I started college. Getting a degree was always really important to me, and I didn’t want being in here to change that. It took me a while, but I eventually got my bachelor’s degree from a college that mails the coursework to inmates at my prison. I decided to study sociology—why people are the way they are. Now, I’m working on my master’s. It helps me pass the time and keeps my brain working. I hope you understand how important it is to have an education. Do you like school? What else are you into?
I hope you’ll write me another letter.
Love,
Marcus
My mouth dropped open as I finished reading.
I read the letter again. Was he pretending to be nice, to care about me? He seemed so sincere, so real.
My gym class teacher once had us do this relaxation exercise where we had to lie on the floor, tense up all
of our muscles one at a time, and then relax each muscle one at a time. I thought it was pointless, and the mats we were lying on smelled like a hundred sweaty armpits. But by the end of the exercise, I actually did feel better. Looser. Reading that letter, it was like I’d been tensing my whole body for all of my twelve years, and now I could finally relax. At least a little bit.
“Zoe, what’s wrong?”
I startled at the sound of Grandma’s voice. She was now standing in my bedroom doorway. I gripped the pages in my hand, almost crushing them.
“You were gone for a while.” She took a couple of steps closer to me, worry lines all over her face. I sat on top of the letter so she couldn’t see what it said.
“What’s going on, baby girl?” Grandma asked. “You can talk to me.”
I said the first thing that popped into my head. “It’s, uh, Maya. She wrote me a letter from camp.” The words tumbled out. “I miss her.”
Grandma nodded. “I can understand that. I promise she’ll be back home before you know it.”
I nodded, barely able to look her in the eyes. I couldn’t tell her who the letter was really from. She might tell Mom and Dad.
Grandma glanced at my desk and saw the open box of stationery. Her face lit up. “You’re using the stationery I gave you.”
“Yup.” I had to think of a lie—fast. “I’m, um, gonna write Maya back at camp.”
“Great.” She flashed me a warm smile. “Well, the oil’s hot and ready. I don’t know about you, but my mouth is watering thinking about these fried Oreos.” She winked.
I glanced down at the letter and then back at Grandma. Writing back to Marcus could wait. “Mine too. I’ll be right there. Just give me a minute.”
“Okay,” Grandma said.
She left, and I folded up the letter carefully, putting it back into its envelope. I opened my desk drawer, took out my sixth-grade math notebook, and hid the envelope between two random pages.
That night after dinner, I went into my room, closed the door, and read Marcus’s letter again. I knew I’d only planned to write him back one time, but I still had so many questions for him.
I couldn’t believe he’d sent other letters, and I’d never gotten them. I wondered how many he’d sent, and what could’ve happened to them. Maybe they got lost in the mail, or he didn’t have my address correct until now. I wish I knew what they’d said.
I grabbed a fresh piece of stationery and put on my headphones. I’d downloaded “Hang On Little Tomato” to listen to as I wrote. It was totally different from the Stevie Wonder song. The first half was instrumental, with only a horn playing the melody, and then a woman started singing along in the second half. She had a really pretty voice, and she sang about hanging on when you felt sad or alone. If you hung on, everything would be all right. I wasn’t completely sure what you were supposed to hang on to, but I liked the message—the idea that things would get better eventually. Maybe it meant things between me and Trevor could get better.
It wasn’t until the song repeated for the third time that I realized the words “little tomato” weren’t even in the lyrics. Why name the song that, then? I thought about it, and figured that Little Tomato must be who the song was for—the person the singer was singing to. The picture on the song’s cover was a guy holding a small child in the air. Maybe it was a message to that little kid that everything would be okay. It made me smile.
I thought that Dad would like the song, since it had a jazzy feel to it. I couldn’t tell him about it, though. I wouldn’t want to have to lie about how I discovered it. Plus, I kind of wanted to keep the song to myself.
I played it again and started to write.
From the Desk of Zoe Washington
July 7
Dear Marcus,
I’m listening to “Hang On Little Tomato” right now, as I write this. It’s not the kind of song I normally listen to, but I like it. I never thought I’d want to be called a vegetable . . . or is a tomato a fruit? That always confuses me. If it’s a fruit, then why is it always in regular salads with other vegetables, but never in fruit salad? Anyway, after listening to the song, I don’t mind the nickname.
That’s cool that you’re getting your degree. I like school, too. I know it’s not for a long time yet, but I’m excited for college. I really want to go to the CIA. No, not the government CIA. (People always ask me that.) The Culinary Institute of America. My dream is to become a pastry chef and make desserts all day long. This summer, I have an internship at a bakery in Beacon Hill. If I do a good job, my mom will let me audition for a kid baking show on the Food Network. I really want to get on the show so I can win the prize money, and have my very own published cookbook. It’d be a dream come true.
Besides baking, I like riding my bike, reading, and hanging out with my friends. Except right now, I’m sort of in a fight with one of my friends. That’s a whole other story. My favorite subject in school is French class. I like languages. I want to become fluent in more than one. Maybe I can even become a pastry chef in France.
What did you like to do when you were my age? Also, I’m curious about your family. Where are your parents? Do you have any siblings?
Sincerely,
Zoe
Chapter Nine
The next morning, after my parents left for work, I poked my head into the living room, where Grandma was reading a book on the couch.
“Hi, Grandma,” I said. “Can I walk to the mailbox? I’ll be right back. I have a letter for Maya.”
Grandma put her book down and then twisted around to peer out of the window. “Isn’t it raining outside?”
Streaks of rain slid down the outside of our window.
“I think the mail carrier will take the letter if you leave it in your own mailbox,” Grandma said.
“Ours usually forgets,” I said, not knowing whether or not that was true. “Anyway, I don’t mind the rain. I have a rain jacket, and I’ll carry an umbrella. I’m only going to the corner of our street.”
Grandma stood up and joined me in the foyer. “I guess that’s all right. Hurry back though, in case it starts to thunder.”
“Okay.” I was holding Marcus’s letter, and I tucked it under my chin, address side down, while I put on my rain jacket. As I slipped my left arm into the sleeve, the letter fell to the floor.
Address side up.
Marcus’s name was right there in plain sight.
Grandma bent over to help me pick the envelope up, and it was like I was watching her in slow motion.
“I’ve got it!” I yelped. I bent over and snatched the letter off the floor before Grandma could, bumping heads with her in the process.
“Sorry!” I said as she stood up again, rubbing her head.
“That’s okay, baby.”
I hugged the letter to my chest as Grandma looked at me funny.
Had she seen Marcus’s name and address on the envelope? I couldn’t tell from the expression on her face.
Before Grandma could say anything, I grabbed the umbrella from the holder in the closet and opened the front door.
“Be right back!” I said and hurried outside to the mailbox, my heart thundering in my chest.
Trevor was in the back seat of Dad’s car when it was time to leave for Ari’s Cakes on Monday morning.
I opened the front passenger door. “What are you doing in here?”
Trevor shrugged. “I’m coming.”
“What?” I turned to Dad in the driver’s seat. “What’s he talking about?”
“He’s coming with you to your internship,” Dad explained. “Just for today. Patricia got called into work, and asked if he could spend the morning with us.”
“What about Simon?” Watching Trevor was supposed to be his brother’s responsibility.
“He’s still in Maine,” Trevor said. “Camping with his friends. He comes back today.”
“It’s only for a few hours,” Dad said. “I already asked Ariana, and she said it was fine.”
&n
bsp; Why didn’t anyone ask if it was okay with me? This was so typical.
“Get in, Zoe,” Dad said. “We’re going to be late.”
I jumped into the car and put my seat belt on. Dad pulled out of the driveway and I leaned my head against the window. Not even Dad’s light jazz radio station could calm me.
“How’s your summer been?” Dad asked Trevor.
“Okay, I guess,” Trevor said. “I’ve been playing basketball a lot.”
“You’re a point guard, right?” Dad asked.
“Yeah.”
I stared out the window and tuned them out.
My headphones were in my backpack, so I dug them out and put them on. I listened to music for the rest of the ride.
Dad dropped us off in front of Ari’s Cakes twenty minutes later, and Trevor and I got out of the car without speaking a word to each other. But I wasn’t going to let him ruin my mood.
It was much less crowded in the bakery than on the Fourth of July. There were only a few customers in line, and Ariana was behind the counter, helping one of them with their order.
“Hey, Zoe. Hey, Trevor,” she said when she spotted us.
“Hi,” we both responded in unison. I glared at Trevor, wishing he would disappear.
“Zoe, why don’t you go grab your apron,” Ariana said. “Get one for Trevor, too. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
I headed to the kitchen and stopped at the closet with the aprons. I grabbed one for each of us.
I shoved an apron at Trevor. “Here.” In a low voice, I said, “This internship is really important to me. My parents said I can audition for Kids Bake Challenge! if I do well.”
“Wow, so you might get to be on TV?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“That’s cool.”
“Anyway,” I said, “you better not embarrass me here.”
Trevor looked offended. “Why would I do that? I didn’t ask to come here.”
“Why didn’t you go hang out with Lincoln or Sean instead?” I asked as I pulled my apron over my head.
