My Ideal Boyfriend Is a Croissant

by Laura Dockrill

  “Who is the new manager?” Not that I care. (But obviously I do.)

  “Marcel.”

  “Marcel?”

  “He’s great with the customers and he makes a hell of a cup of coffee. Have you seen his latte art? I mean, it’s totally off the chain!”

  “He draws BREASTS with hot milk, Alicia.”

  “Well…” Alicia sucks her cheeks in. “I’ve never seen the breasts.”

  The cakes stare back at me. Their silence speaks volumes. I feel betrayed by the whole building and everything inside it. It’s almost the start of term and I don’t have an apprenticeship. I don’t have anything to go back to. I told Julian from Careers, I told Mum, I told Dad and Dove and Cam and Max. And now I’ll have to face them all.

  “Don’t be upset. Have a hot chocolate and help yourself to a pastry.”

  “I don’t want a pastry.”

  “Why don’t you just pop yourself in the diary more, like we talked about, get those shifts up, and when you’re eighteen maybe you’ll get the chance to even be manager yourself? If that’s not an incentive, I don’t know what is. Maybe you could even apply before you turn eighteen? That way you’ve got something lined up.”

  Suddenly I see myself: washed-out. Working as the Planet Coffee manager until I’m forty. Earning more money for Daerren at a business I could run myself. My kids at the table, slurping their babyccinos as my boobs begin to look less and less like the ones on Marcel’s coffee froth.

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “You said you’d make sure you had the apprenticeship lined up for me. I’ve told my school….”

  “Yes, I know, which is why I’ve kindly taken the time to write this letter to your school to say there was a miscommunication on our part.”

  She holds the letter out in front of me. I reach for it. Alicia snatches it back.

  “Aha! Not so fast, earthling. Less of that attitude, missy. I’ve got you out of a hole here.”

  “Not necessarily. If you hadn’t left this so late, I could have found another solution.” I am so hurt. I don’t know what I’ll do now. I’ve been working so hard at everything, only for life to kick me right in the teeth.

  “I didn’t say it was a definite, Bluebelle.” So then why does she look guilty? “Now, are you going to stop playing the blame game and calm down so I can hand you this letter?”

  “I am calm.”

  “You don’t sound it.”

  “I am.”

  “Give me one good reason why I should give it to you.”

  “How about: I’ve made hot drink after hot drink, sandwich after sandwich, scrubbed the toilets, scraped bogies off the walls, cleaned the fridges, I’ve emptied bins and mopped up YOUR SICK. I’ve smiled when I’ve not wanted to smile and gotten dribble on my hair and chewing gum on my dress. I’ve put up with rude comments from customers and never once been rude back. Once.”

  “Oh, newsflash, shock horror, it’s called WORKING IN A CAFE, princess, get over it. Sorry it’s not good enough for you.”

  “Whatever, I’m going home.”

  Alicia’s jaw drops off. “Oh no you don’t.”

  “I’m sick of proving myself. I don’t want to be here right now. I want to go and so that’s what I’m doing. I’m listening to myself.”

  “If you leave now you don’t have a job. Not even a weekend one. You will be an alien no longer. You can wave goodbye to THIS planet once and for all, and let me tell you, Planet Earth will not be as lenient with you as I’ve been.”

  “Fine. I quit.”

  “Oh, soz that you just decided you don’t want to work here right now because things aren’t going your way, Little Miss Choosy Brat-Face, but that’s not how real life works. If you’re leaving, it’s called TWO WEEKS’ NOTICE. Read the small print.”

  “Life is too short for small print, Alicia.”

  Alicia frowns. She tries to reach her hand out to me. “OK, here’s the letter.” She boots her chin out to stop it wobbling from nerves. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind just bleaching the back b—”

  “I’ve just told you I’m leaving,” I say. Alicia looks at me like she’s been slapped round the face. She turns ugly immediately.

  “I’ll rip this letter up right now, right in front of you, missy moo. Then you’ll be sorry.” She is shaking; she has worked herself into such a stupid frenzy. Her wrists are rattling.

  “Rip it up, Alicia. I don’t care. It’s just a stupid letter from you that will mean absolutely nothing. I could die in this place. I’ve got things I want to do, so…I’m going.”

  I unpeel my apron. Alicia cries out some annoying dramatic gasp that I adore to ignore.

  Marcel comes in from a break, smelling of stale fags and chewing gum.

  “Where you off to?”

  “Home.”

  “Did you hear the news? You’re talking to the manager of Planet Coffee! Imagine all the girls I’m gonna get!”

  “Yes, congratulations. I’m leaving now.”

  “I thought your name was on the rota. Aren’t you meant to be working?”

  “Nah. I’m going to hang with my sister.” I pick up the glass jar of dusty pink, purple and white mini marshmallows by the till. “And I’m taking these too.”

  Both Alicia and Marcel stare at me, mouths ajar, in absolute shock. Alicia runs after me, her clip-cloppy heels and annoying voice yelping behind me.

  “Wait!” Marcel shouts. “You have to ask me! I’m the manager!”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve not even started your job and I already quit. Great managerial skills.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Oh, and Marcel, just a few tips…Your breath stinks of dehydration: drink more water. Which reminds me, if you ever want to get a girlfriend maybe stop being such a sexist pervert?” I bark. Marcel and Alicia stand stunned as I turn to leave. “AND will you widen this bloody door so wheelchairs can get in and out, and lose that stupid step, get a ramp? Seriously.”

  And I just manage to hear Alicia say to Marcel, “Well, she’s not wrong, is she?” And I smile in the end-of-summer sun.

  THAI RED CURRY

  I think one of the worst things that could ever happen to a person would be for a bottle of fish sauce to smash on their dress. Imagine that? IT ABSOLUTELY STINKS.

  I help Dad with the curry. We make a paste out of ginger root, lemongrass, garlic, chilli, sugar, oil and fish sauce and add it to fried onion. The broth is silky-smooth coconut milk and stock. The king prawns need their gross horrid grey veins scooped out of their backs. It’s the nerve. That gets the information to the prawn’s head.

  “What information does a prawn even need?” Dove asks innocently.

  “Information that says…AAAARRGGHH I AM IN A POT OF BOILING HOT WATER before dying,” Dad shrieks.

  “Dad, did you just act out a prawn?”

  “Yes, I’ve perfected it, I’m waiting for my call—Prawns, the movie.”

  Dove takes a carrot from the fridge and chomps off with it.

  * * *

  —

  We plop the prawns in at the end, top with coriander and a squeeze of lime. We have it with steaming jasmine rice. Some people HATE coriander, it’s like one of those things that you’re programmed to either love or hate. I think it tastes different to different people. To me, it’s aromatic, but to some people it’s like skunk stench.

  Mum and Dove join us at the table. Mum and Dad have beers; they offer us one each too but we say no.

  The curry is warm and friendly, a comforting spicy bowl of heat.

  I take another spoonful of the aromatic curry. The prawns feel fleshy and human, like eating fingers.

  Dad proudly places the bottle of fish sauce in the larder. He can begin restocking it.

  Dad’s n
ose is already starting to crisp up, thanks to the sun. It looks like it’s healing. Thank goodness. I’ve had enough of him walking round like he’s earned the injury like a member of the Mafia, replying to the neighbours’ questions, “Don’t you worry ’bout where that came from.”

  He’s just happy he feels a sense of community. Of belonging.

  But really, though…

  “BB?” Dove asks. “Was it you that left a jar of marshmallows on my bed?”

  “Maybe.”

  BREAD

  “What would be your last meal on earth?” Max asks as we picnic on the trifle.

  “Hmm. Bread. Any bread. Farmhouse tin loaf with crusty edges, stale bread, warm bread, tiger loaf—did you know the crackly bit comes from ground toasted rice?”

  “Yeah, I heard that.”

  “Isn’t it great? I heard that a little girl wrote to a supermarket and said that the bread looked more like a giraffe than a tiger and so they changed it to giraffe bread instead of tiger. How good is that?”

  “So good.”

  “Or…warm baguette—the ends, the knob bit, with a wedge of thick cheese or butter, ooooh, or even cheap sliced bread, toasted, buttered. Garlic bread with warm, leaky butter—cheap garlic bread where the garlic butter is sponged into the centre and it’s pre-sliced…don’t care; it’s a different taste, ready for a different day. Or those half-baked baguettes that come in the plastic packets?”

  “Ah yeah, my brother likes those.”

  “Complete lifesaver, full of raising agent but can transform a lunch when you’re too scared to face the rain. Olive bread, studded with little black and green nibs wearing treasures of salt crystals and the toasty top. Cheese bread. Ummm. Cheese and ONION bread…mmmmmm. I like ripping the inside out of bread, rolling it in between my hands into doughy cigars, housing my hand in the new mitten.”

  “Hahaha, Bluebelle, you’re so funny.”

  “I want to try fool’s gold loaf, have you ever heard of it? It’s the sandwich that Elvis Presley would order and gobble with champagne. It’s eight thousand calories per serving!”

  “Huh? What the—how come?”

  “Errr, because he can have whatever sandwich he wants. He’s Elvis!”

  “Fair enough. What’s in it?”

  “Basically it’s a whole loaf of white bread with all the soft middle innards scooped out so you are just left with the outer crust, then all that middle stuff is replaced with the filling. First it’s smeared with butter, then it’s stuffed with fried bacon, peanut butter and jam. Then the whole thing gets wrapped in foil and put in the oven. I would so eat that. Just to taste it.”

  “Me too, sounds unreal.” Max nods. “Any other bread?”

  “Focaccia. With rosemary needles and olive oil. Wafer-thin ham and milky cheese. Ciabatta, stuffed with mozzarella, tomatoes and pesto. Any bread. At any time.”

  “Yeah, I think bread’s a pretty good last meal. You know those people who do the no-carbs diets? That’s crazy, I could never do that.”

  “I know, so unhealthy. So they can eat a whole entire plate of cheese and salty bacon and fatty sausages but they can’t eat ONE slice of bread. I just think that’s mental.”

  “I can actually make bread.”

  “Can you?”

  “Yeah. When I was younger I used to be well into it. Now I only bake every so often. It just takes so long, with the yeast and everything.”

  “PLEASE bake me some bread.”

  “OK. I’ll put your order in.” Max goes quiet. “I’d like to be a baker, actually.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Yeah, it’s so therapeutic working with dough. Really calming. I’d like to do brioche and croissants and buns and all that.”

  “How did I not know this about you?”

  “I just…I dunno…Planet Coffee kind of sucks all that stuff out of you, I guess.”

  “I think you’d make an amazing baker.”

  “How’d you know? You’ve never even tasted my bakes!”

  “My bakes!” I imitate him.

  “What?” He giggles. “That’s what you say.”

  “Did you know you shouldn’t feed bread to ducks in the pond because sliced bread from the supermarket has calcium in it and ducks don’t like calcium? It’s bad for them. Maybe it makes their beaks grow bigger and it weighs them down so much and drowns them.”

  “I did not know that.”

  “My last meal on this earth would be bread and butter made by you. Then I’d die happy. I’m so happy anyway. Without the bread.”

  CHOCOLATE CORNFLAKE CAKES

  Dove stirs the cornflakes into the chocolate and they soften under the weight of the warmness and wetness.

  “Gimme one of them, then?”

  “No, they need to cool down in the fridge first and then I put the chocolate eggs in the nests.”

  “Come on, Dove, I’m going to yoga; I’ll be starving!”

  “Go on, then….”

  Warm, melty chocolate on my tongue. The soft, golden flakes dissolving, cracking apart on my tongue, crowning my teeth. Sticky goodness buckling from the golden syrup. “You’re not the worst chef in the world; these are AMAZING!”

  “Ah, thanks!” Dove smiles, smearing chocolate from the wooden spoon onto her cheek.

  * * *

  —

  In yoga I manage to do a headstand for the first time in my life ever. I wasn’t even aware I was doing one and then I basically just was. I pretty much got tricked into doing a headstand and loved it. At school I wasn’t one of those girls who could just flip upside down in front of a wall. But here I am. Belly out. Boobs by my eyes. Holding a headstand. It must’ve been the power from the chocolate cornflake cake.

  I feel the blood flood to my head. I grin with pride.

  The yoga teacher winks at me.

  I watch myself in the mirror. I am pleased with what I see. A thousand pairs of eyes staring back that aren’t really there…I don’t need to worry or wonder why the world stares at someone like me; they need to worry and wonder why THEY stare at someone like me.

  And if I could talk to little me now, I would tell her that she’d matter more to me than anybody will ever matter. Look at you now, Bluebelle. Just look.

  MIDNIGHT FEAST

  I come home after seeing Max and Cam for enchiladas by the river. The house is a blue moon and still. Dad’s flat cap sits on the banister. I lift it and smell it. Wax. Age. Musk. Familiar. His beaten shoes are by the door; he likes to be barefoot, feel the ground under his feet. I’m glad he’s here.

  Dove’s casts are getting really dirty. Covered in tags and glitter and scribbles. The silver brightness of her laptop shines a pale moonbeam glow over the room. I poke my head in her downstairs room….She’s got her eyes closed like she’s sleeping. The screen is playing a wheelchair basketball game.

  “Dove?” I whisper. “Dove, you awake?”

  “Ah. Hi, B.” She turns. “Yeah.”

  “So…I don’t have an apprenticeship at Planet Coffee.”

  “Oh.”

  “Alicia didn’t give it to me.”

  “What a chief.”

  “I know.”

  “What happened?”

  “She’s basically a modern-day crook.” I shake my head like I’ve been absolutely taken for a mug. “She said she’d sort me a job and basically didn’t. She took me for a fool.” I add, to enhance the drama, “But it’s OK, I’m not going to let her incompetence stop me.”

  “So what now, then?”

  “Hmm…remember before…I said we’d watch Snow White?”

  “Errr…yeah?” She smiles.

  “I think I just want to do that for now.”

  Dove smirks. “Well, that sounds ideal. Why don’t you go and get them cornflake cakes; they’ll have set by now
.”

  I crawl into bed next to her. Elbow to elbow. The plate of wonderful chocolate nests in front of us.

  “Actually,” I say, “let’s not watch Snow White; we’ve seen it hundreds of times.”

  Dove looks disappointed. “Fine. Are you gonna go up to bed?”

  “No way! Let’s watch your basketball. I want to know all about it….” And her face goes into a wide smile.

  “Really?”

  “Course.”

  “Well…,” she begins.

  SANDWICHES

  I hate it when they put raw red onion in these sandwiches. It makes me so livid. It repeats on you all day like some annoying oniony TV jingle.

  Dove’s made hers for lunch without onion. Because she’s not insane.

  I decide to wear the rainbow kaftan with the black leggings and the pom-pom shoes.

  “You look like a girl I snogged at Glastonbury a LONG time ago.” Dad sniggers over his morning coffee.

  “Hideous.” I ignore him, filling a mug with water; my mouth is so dry.

  Dad’s eyes glaze over like he’s trying to see her face and relive the moment, a big grin splattered across his dummy face. I’d rather he didn’t. “What was her name now…Barbara? No, not Bar—Deborah? No, Donna…Sure it was Barbara, Barbara Glastonbury,” he establishes like it’s her legitimate surname. “Anyway, she was wild, whatever her name was. Yes, you look just like her.”

  “Although I bet she was about ten times thinner.”

  “Hmm.” Dad considers it. “I was too drunk to remember.” He leans against the sink, uncrosses his arms. “But I know for a fact she wouldn’t have been half as gorgeous.” He backs the rest of his coffee. “Not with these genes!” We laugh. Dove enters; she is in her school uniform. “Speaking of genes, here’s more proof of my talented puddings! Doveling, you ready to fly?”