by Janae Marks
Trevor did the same. “Too last minute, I guess.”
I glared at him again.
“When are you going to tell me why you’re mad at me?” Trevor asked.
There was no way I was going to talk to him about that here. But before I could answer, Ariana appeared. “So, Zoe, remember Vincent, our head baker?”
I nodded.
“You’re going to shadow him today while he bakes a few batches of cupcakes.”
I smiled. “Cool!” Finally, I’d get to do some baking.
“He’s expecting you. Don’t forget to wash your hands.”
Trevor walked to the sink behind me. While we washed our hands at the sink, I scanned the room and spotted Liz mixing blue food coloring into a bowl of icing and Corey rolling out some red fondant—this thick, Play-Doh-like icing. Rosa was taking a tray of cupcakes out of the oven.
Trevor followed me to Vincent at the huge stand mixer. That morning, he was wearing a dark-purple bandanna.
“Hi,” I said. “Ariana said I’m—I mean, we’re—helping you today.”
“Right,” he said. “I have to make five hundred mini cupcakes for a charity event.”
“Wow. What charity?” I asked.
Vincent shrugged. “Don’t remember the name. That’s Ari’s job. I just bake what I’m told. Something to do with education, I think.”
“Interesting,” I said, imagining possible cupcake decorations. They could make little fondant pencils, and maybe even some fondant apples, with little worms poking out. That would be so cute. Maybe that was what Corey was making with the red fondant. Hopefully I’d get to help with that part.
“Better get started,” Vincent said. I watched closely as he turned the mixer on. First he put butter and sugar into the large metal bowl. When they were all mixed together, he slowly added a bowl of eggs he’d already cracked. I kept waiting for Vincent to stop and let me try a step—like adding in the flour and milk, which he did next—but he never did. I’d thought he might share a baking tip, but he didn’t say a word. It was like he’d forgotten I was there.
“This is boring,” Trevor said to me in a low voice. “Why isn’t he letting us do anything?”
“Shh.” I kept my eyes on Vincent as he added more flour and milk to the batter.
“I thought the whole point of an internship is so that you can learn how to do this stuff, too.”
“Would you be quiet?”
“Hey, Mr. Vincent?” Trevor asked, but not loud enough for Vincent to actually hear.
“What are you doing?” I hissed at Trevor.
“I’m gonna ask him if you can help.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said.
“You do it, then,” Trevor said. “Aren’t you getting bored just watching?”
I wasn’t bored, but I did wish I was doing something more. I thought this internship would be more hands-on. So far, all I’d gotten to touch in this place was cardboard.
“Okay. I’ll ask him,” I whispered.
“Excuse me? Sir?” I tried to speak loudly enough to be heard over the mixer.
Vincent glanced up at the two of us as he turned the mixer off. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if I could help with the next step?” I glanced at the table next to the mixer, which had a few large mini cupcake pans. There was also an ice cream scoop next to them. “You’re going to scoop the batter next, right? I can help with that.”
Vincent looked hesitant. “I don’t think so. This order is very important, and we can’t afford to start over because a kid messed something up.”
I’m not a kid. I’m an intern. “I won’t mess it up, I promise,” I said. “Let me scoop a couple and show you.”
Vincent still looked unsure. Then Ariana came over.
“How’s it going over here?” she asked.
“Great,” Trevor said, smiling. “Vincent said he’s going to let Zoe scoop the batter.”
I stared at Trevor.
“Actually, I’m not really—” Vincent started.
“Sounds good,” Ariana said. “Zoe, you only want to fill each cup in the pan about halfway, so there’s room for the batter to expand.” She picked up the ice cream scoop. “Want to give it a try?”
I beamed and grabbed the scoop from her. Vincent had to get out of my way in order for me to reach inside the mixing bowl. He didn’t look too happy about it, but I ignored him as I scooped up some batter and then dropped it into the pan. It was so easy; I didn’t know how anyone could mess it up.
“Perfect,” Ariana said. She went over to Vincent and put her hand on his shoulder, whispering something to him that I couldn’t hear.
I scooped the rest of the batter into the pans, and then Vincent lifted them into the oven. He clicked a timer on it.
“Right. This oven will warn us when it’s almost time to take the cupcakes out, at the eighteen-minute mark. While we wait, we can start the next flavor,” Vincent said, taking the dirty bowl out of the mixer.
While he did that, Trevor whispered to me, “You’re welcome.”
I scowled at him. “For what?”
“You got to scoop the batter because of me.” He looked satisfied with himself.
“Because you lied to Ariana.”
“It was a tiny lie,” Trevor said. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but . . . I told you not to mess this up for me.”
“I’m not. I just made it better for you.”
Vincent cleared his throat, and I looked up at him. The mixer now had a shiny new bowl in it. “Are you ready to bake,” he asked, “or do you need more time to finish your argument?”
My face suddenly felt as hot as the oven. “I’m ready.”
I glared at Trevor one more time, and then set out to ignore him for the rest of the morning.
Chapter Ten
Trevor and I didn’t say anything to each other for the rest of our time at Ari’s Cakes, and after Grandma picked us up, we stayed quiet during the entire car ride home. When Grandma pulled in front of our house, Trevor’s brother’s car was parked in the driveway, with the trunk still open. A rolled-up sleeping bag and duffel bag were on the ground. Simon, a taller version of Trevor but with glasses, came out of the house and picked up the sleeping bag, tucking it under his arm. He waved when he saw us.
“Thanks for the ride,” Trevor said to Grandma before jumping out of the car.
Grandma looked at me, her hands still on the steering wheel. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I unclicked my seat belt and reached for the door handle.
“Wait,” Grandma said, putting her hand on my leg. “You want to run an errand with me?”
I glanced out the window at Trevor helping Simon bring more camping stuff inside. “Yes, please,” I said, and put my seat belt back on.
When I realized Grandma was driving to Cambridge, I knew exactly where she was taking us: her favorite tea shop, Cambridge Tea Room. They sold loose teas in all sorts of interesting flavors. Some of them even tasted like baked goods, like blueberry muffins and banana nut bread. There were always multiple Cambridge Tea Room containers on the counter in Grandma’s kitchen, and she even left one at our house.
When we got there, Grandma went to the counter to place her order while I went to see what samples they were giving out that day. According to the cards on the two dispensers, that day’s sample flavors were a cold watermelon mint and a warm chocolate chai. I filled two small cups with each. The chocolate chai was yummy and smelled amazing. I didn’t love the watermelon one, so I poured myself another sample of the chocolate tea to get rid of the taste.
Then I joined Grandma at the counter. “What flavors are you getting?” I asked.
“Another container of green ginger, my favorite. And I’m going to try the new pink lemonade flavor. It sounds summery.”
“It’s really good,” the lady behind the counter said. “I love your earrings, by the way.”
Grandma’s earrings of the day
were blue, yellow, and black-and-white feathers hanging down from gold studs.
“Thank you,” Grandma said, beaming.
Grandma got pink lemonade tea for both of us, plus chicken salad sandwiches with salt-and-pepper chips. Then we sat down at a table near the window.
“I want to talk to you about something,” Grandma said when we were done eating.
“Okay. About what?” I took a sip from my cup. Even though it was hot, the tea tasted refreshing, like pink lemonade would.
“Your father. Marcus.”
I coughed, and tea dribbled down my chin. I wiped it off with my napkin.
“You saw his name on my letter,” I said, tensing up in my seat.
She folded her hands on the table. “Yes.”
I tried to read Grandma’s face, but I couldn’t figure out what she was thinking.
“Mom and Dad don’t know about it,” I admitted.
“I figured that,” Grandma said.
“How?”
“If your mom knew, she would’ve told me.”
“Am I in trouble?” I braced myself for another lecture about why I shouldn’t communicate with Marcus.
“Not at all.” She sipped her tea.
“I’m not?”
Grandma sighed. “It’s natural to want to know about your father.”
“Even if he’s a criminal?” I asked.
“Even if he’s a criminal,” Grandma repeated.
The worry deep down in my belly lifted up and away like the steam from my teacup.
“How long have you been writing to Marcus?” she asked.
I wasn’t sure if I should tell her, but it seemed like if anyone would understand, it might be Grandma.
“Not long,” I said. “He sent two letters, and I sent two back.”
Grandma nodded. “That time I saw you with a letter in your room? It wasn’t from your friend at camp, was it?”
I shook my head.
“You were upset. Are the letters bothering you?” Grandma asked.
“No! In that letter, Marcus said that he wanted me, before I was born. I wasn’t expecting that.” A lump appeared in my throat.
“I see,” Grandma said.
“Do you think Marcus is bad?” I asked. “He sounds nice when he writes to me, but he’s in prison for doing something terrible.”
Grandma shook her head. “You know, there are multiple sides to everyone. People aren’t so black-and-white. Sometimes good people do bad things, and bad people do good things.”
“So, you think Marcus is only somewhat bad?” I asked.
She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then changed her mind and closed it.
“What?” I asked.
“I think Marcus is a good person at heart,” she said.
“I kind of want to keep writing to him,” I told Grandma. “I still have so many questions. But Mom can’t know about this.” I paused. “Will you keep my secret?”
Grandma exhaled. “I don’t know, baby. I shouldn’t keep secrets about you from your mom.”
“Please? I promise I’ll tell her. I just want to write a few more letters to Marcus. Before she makes me stop. You know she won’t let me write to him.”
A few long seconds passed as Grandma stared thoughtfully out of the window.
“You’re probably right,” she said, looking at me again. “I still don’t like the idea of lying to my daughter, but this situation is not normal. And I think your mom has been stubborn. She’s let her own feelings about Marcus get in the way.”
Grandma paused, and then said, “How about you give him my address instead. You can read his letters at my house. But I’ll read each of them first, to make sure they’re okay.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes. But you have to come clean with your mom,” Grandma said. “Before the summer is over.”
“Okay.” I had no idea how I would tell my mom about this, but I’d figure that out later. “I guess I’ll write to Marcus tonight and give him your address.”
“Good idea. I’ll mail it for you tomorrow.”
I leaned over and gave Grandma a hug. She smelled like the lemonade tea and honey. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” She squeezed me back. “I love you, baby girl, you know that?”
“I love you, too.”
From the Desk of Zoe Washington
July 11
Dear Marcus,
I told my grandma about these letters, and she’s glad I’m writing to you. Do you mind sending your letters to her house instead? Her address is below.
I paused and pressed the back of the pen against my chin. I thought about what Grandma said about people not being black-and-white. Maybe that’s how Marcus was—he did something terrible, the worst thing I could imagine. But at the same time, he’d been sweet to me in his letters and had interesting things to say. I still wanted to know more about him. Maybe he’d changed and was a better person now.
The one thing I’d been holding back talking to Marcus about was his crime. Before I could change my mind, I started writing again.
I’ve been wondering about what you did. I know a little about it. I don’t want to think about you being a murderer, not when you’ve been so nice to me in these letters. Are you sorry you did it?
Zoe
PS Please send another song. I started making a playlist called “Little Tomato’s Playlist.” I thought you’d like that.
Chapter Eleven
On Saturday morning, I walked into the kitchen, itching to bake something. I opened the fridge and spotted Mom’s container of raspberries. She liked to put them with granola on her yogurt for breakfast. The container was still almost full, so I took it out, thinking of the raspberry crumb bar recipe in Ruby Willow’s cookbook. I was pretty sure we had the rest of the ingredients I’d need. I ran to get the cookbook from my room.
Mom was in the kitchen refilling her coffee mug when I got back.
She watched as I found the recipe and started pulling flour, sugar, and butter from the cabinet and fridge.
“Can I use the oven?” I asked, since that was the rule. “And can I use the rest of your raspberries?”
“Yes, and yes,” Mom said. “Would you like some help?”
“That’s okay,” I said as I grabbed the rest of the ingredients and organized them in the order I needed to use them. I was old enough to bake by myself, just like I was old enough to write to Marcus. Not that Mom understood that.
“Are you sure? I’d like to help.”
I silently put on my apron.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. I’ll be your . . . what’s it called? Side chef?”
“Sous-chef,” I corrected as I turned the oven to preheat. “But I don’t need your help.” I got out the mixer and some utensils.
“Okay,” Mom said, sounding a little disappointed. She sat at the kitchen table with her coffee.
If Trevor and I were still friends, he could help me bake. He’d probably ask me to sneak some chocolate into the recipe. Actually, white chocolate would taste pretty good with the raspberries. Maybe I should make a white chocolate drizzle to go on top.
No. What’s the point? Trevor isn’t going to eat them. My heart sank a few inches.
I started on the raspberry preserves, rinsing off the berries and dropping them into a small pot on the stove with some water. Once it was simmering, I partially covered the pot and got to work on the crumble.
I cracked an egg into a mixing bowl and then measured two and a half cups of flour.
“Are you still mad at Trevor?” Mom suddenly asked, as if she could tell I was just thinking about him. “You haven’t been hanging out with him.”
I groaned.
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“No.”
“You should.”
I stared at the mixing bowl as the ingredients transformed into a crumbly mixture.
“I know he misses you,” Mom said.
Did he miss me? It seem
ed like he was doing just fine without me.
“You get it from me, you know,” Mom said. “I have a hard time letting things go, too. But think of it this way. You’re the one holding all this pain inside of you, which hurts you more than it hurts Trevor. If you can forgive him, it might help you let go of the pain. And you’ll get your friend back. It’s a win-win.”
Then Mom added, “That doesn’t mean you have to forget what he did. There’s a difference.”
Why was she lecturing me? “Can you please butt out of it?” I said. “I really don’t need your advice.”
“Okay,” Mom said quietly. She stood up from the table and grabbed her coffee. “I’ll leave you to it.”
As she left, I thought of Marcus. It didn’t seem like Mom had forgiven him—for what he did, for not being there when I was born. That was why she didn’t want me to talk to him. But then again, what he’d done was way worse than what Trevor did to me.
Maybe I’d talk to him.
All of a sudden, I smelled something funny. The preserves! I ran to the stove and pulled the lid off the pot. The raspberries inside were all burned. Either I hadn’t put in enough water or I left the heat on too high.
Great. I turned the stove off and put the pot of burnt raspberries into the sink. There were no more raspberries left, and I didn’t feel like asking Mom to get me more. I took the bowl off the mixer and dumped the insides into the trash. Then I took off my apron and threw it on the floor.
Later that week, Grandma gave me a letter from Marcus. As my parents were leaving for work, she slipped the envelope to me. I went straight to my room to read it.
To my Little Tomato,
I got your last two letters. Actually, I started responding to the first one when the next one arrived.
I remember your grandmother well. She was always nice to me back when your mom and I were dating. Her house was always like a second home to me. Does she still drink a lot of tea? She used to always love her tea.
As to your question about my crime. I promised you that I would answer all of your questions honestly. I can’t give you much from in here, but I can give you my word—I will never lie to you.
I hoped you wouldn’t ask about this, because it opens up a can of worms. There’s no easy way to put this: I didn’t do it. I’m innocent. I have an alibi and there was even a witness, but I’m in here because my lawyer couldn’t prove that I didn’t do it. Even after we appealed my conviction. It’s unfair, but nothing can be done.
