I suck in a breath. “Oh.” Suddenly, I feel terrible. Of course he wouldn’t want to spend the day doing something like that when he still misses his wife like crazy.
“It’s all right,” he says, patting my hand. “You kids have fun. I’m sure you’ll win the whole thing.” He gives me a big wink.
“Thanks,” I say.
As I go back over to my table, I groan inwardly as I see that Whit’s set up shop next to me. Even though we get to work alone today, I bet he’ll still be criticizing everything I do.
When class starts, I’m looking over the recipe for today’s chocolate-dipped cannolis when Whit leans over and says, “So how did your plan to thwart the Ladybugs go?”
I shrug like it’s none of his business and start measuring out ingredients. Who even uses words like “thwart,” anyway?
“Okay, fine,” Whit says after a minute. “I promise not to look over your shoulder while we’re making the cannolis if you tell me what happened. Deal?” I don’t know why Whit is so interested in this whole saga—maybe it’s better than listening to my nonsensical nervous babbling—but I’m willing to milk it for all it’s worth.
“Deal,” I say. As we get our materials ready, I tell him about how we succeeded at planting evidence in Angela’s room and how the Ladybugs got back at us with the flyers. I don’t mention “stealing” Angela’s shirt since that feels more like Marisol’s secret than mine.
As I talk, my voice shakes with anger. I’ve never seen my mom so sad for so long, not even after my dad left. I keep expecting her to go back to psychotically organizing things like she does when she’s stressed out, but ever since the flyer incident, mostly she’s been moping around the house and sighing a lot.
“How do you know it was someone from the other cleaning business who messed up the flyers?” Whit says.
“Who else would go to all that trouble?”
He shrugs. “I guess that’s true. So what are you going to do?”
“Well, I already did one thing the other night.” I tell him about the bad reviews I posted.
“Doesn’t that seem kind of extreme?”
“No! We haven’t gotten a single response to our flyers, not one! After I spent all that time making them and hanging them up everywhere. Not only are the Ladybugs taking our business away, but they’re keeping us from finding any new clients. I’m just returning the favor.”
“Rachel!” Chef Ryan calls across the kitchen. “Less talking. More cooking!”
My cheeks go instantly hot. I don’t think I’ve ever been scolded for talking too much. At school, my teachers are always telling me to talk more.
I focus on filling my cannolis while Whit starts dipping his in chocolate.
“Well, if you think of another way to get back at them and you need some help,” he says after a minute, “let me know.”
“Wow, thanks,” I say softly. Maybe Whit isn’t that bad of a guy after all.
He steps back and looks at one of his finished pastries. “This looks pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.”
Scratch that. He’s still as full of himself as ever.
“By the way,” he says, “I was at Moo Pies with one of my nephews last week. I thought I saw you there.”
My cheeks go hot again. “Um, yeah, I was there. I guess I didn’t see you.”
“Was that guy you were with your boyfriend?”
I stare down at my cannolis. “I–I don’t know. We haven’t exactly talked about that, um, yet.” Why am I telling Whit this? It isn’t any of his business. Why does he even care, anyway?
“Oh,” says Whit. “Well, I hope—”
Before he can finish, Chef Ryan calls out that our time is up. He has us line up like we’re in the army so he can inspect our cannolis. Mine look a little lopsided, but I think they taste okay. Hopefully, Chef Ryan will finally see that I’m not a total failure.
Mr. Leroy is first, and Chef Ryan lifts what looks like a charred lump off his shaking plate. I expect him to yell at Mr. Leroy the way he’d yell at me if those were my cannolis, but he only shakes his head and continues down the line.
Whit, of course, gets high praise from Chef Ryan. I can practically see his head swelling.
Then Chef Ryan stops in front of me and inspects my cannolis for a long time. “Let’s hope they taste better than they look,” he says finally.
He breaks off a corner and pops it in his mouth. Then he cringes and makes a big show of spitting the bite into a napkin.
I can’t believe he just spit out my food!
“Rachel, did you not hear me say that you should drain any excess water out of the ricotta?”
I gulp. “Um, no. I heard you.”
“But you didn’t do it.”
“Well, no. I–I was afraid it would make the filling too dry. The last time I made these at home, that happened, so I—”
“So you decided to ignore the instructions.” Chef Ryan cocks his head to the side. “Tell me, Rachel. If you already know how to make everything, why are you taking this class?”
My mouth drops open. I don’t even know what to say.
“You know what would happen if you were a professional chef and you ignored the instructions because you were stubborn and wanted to do things your own way?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“You’d get fired.” He marches away, leaving me staring at the tile floor, desperately trying not to cry.
Chapter 22
When Mom picks me up after class, I’m still shaken by what Chef Ryan said. I can’t believe he thinks I’m such a failure. Maybe I was kidding myself about becoming a pastry chef one day.
Usually, the minute I’m upset, Mom can sense it like she’s got a mood-o-meter in her brain. But today, she’s as grumpy as I am, probably because yet another one of our clients called this morning to “let us go.” Every week, we have fewer houses to clean.
I shudder as I imagine the day when we have no clients at all.
“No.” There is no way I’m going to let that happen.
“What?” Mom says, glancing over at me.
Oops. I hadn’t realized I’d said it out loud.
“I just, um, hope business picks up again soon.”
Mom sighs. “I wish we could do some more advertising, but it’s too expensive. And making more flyers seems like a waste of time.”
“Do you think maybe Mr. Hammond would help?” I ask, realizing that might be a solution to at least some of our problems. Now that he and Mom are officially a couple, he’d probably be happy to pitch in.
Mom’s lips pull into a tight line. “I can’t ask him to do that.”
“But he’s your boyfriend now. Isn’t that kind of what boyfriends do? Help you out if you need it?”
She shakes her head. “I will not allow Robert to solve my problems. I made that mistake once, and I will not do it again.”
It takes me a second to realize what she means. “You’re talking about Dad, aren’t you?”
She sighs. I feel like more and more, she’s been starting every sentence with a sigh. “Your father wasn’t a mistake. I don’t mean it that way. I only mean that I put my faith in someone who disappointed me. Both of us. I can’t do that again. From now on, I’m going to depend only on myself.”
“And on me, right?” I ask.
Mom actually smiles and reaches out to squeeze my hand. “And you. Honestly, Rachel, I don’t know what I would have done all these months without you.”
I wonder if this is why Mom hasn’t been spending as much time with Mr. Hammond recently. Maybe she wants to prove to him, and to herself, that she can do things on her own.
As we pull up to our first house of the day, I keep thinking about what Dad said about maybe coming back home. What if he asks me about it again? Or if he finally brings it up with Mom? How will he re
act when he finds out that she is never really going to let him back into our lives?
•••
When I get home, the last thing I feel like doing is baking, but I promised Evan that I’d make something for the party, so I try to quiet Chef Ryan’s voice in my head and get to work.
But he won’t shut up. I can hear him criticizing every move I make. I try to slam cupboards and pans around to drown him out, but Chef Ryan just talks louder in my head. Great. I’m totally losing my mind.
“What are you making?” Mom finally asks from the living room. “Percussion pie?” She laughs weakly at her terrible joke, but I can hear the strain in her voice.
“Butterscotch macadamia cookies,” I say.
“Can you try making the quiet version?”
Maybe it’s a good thing I’m leaving the house later. Having the two of us under one roof can’t be safe. We might set the place on fire with our extreme crabbiness.
I’m barely paying attention as I grab the rest of the ingredients. I want these cookies to be done so I can stop hearing Chef Ryan saying, “You’d be fired,” over and over again.
As I go to grab the baking soda, my phone rings. It’s Dad.
I can’t deal with talking to him right now, not when he might tell me that he was only kidding about moving back up here, and not when he might ask me about my class and accidentally make me burst into tears over what happened today. So I let it ring and ring as I scoop some baking soda out of the box and dump it into the batter.
“Are you going to answer that?” Mom asks after the fifth ring.
“My hands are dirty,” I say, which is only sort of a lie.
I shove the phone farther down the counter with my elbow and breathe a sigh of relief when it finally falls silent. Then I slide the cookies into the oven, slam the oven door closed, and go to get ready for my “date” at Evan’s house.
Chapter 23
When I ring Evan’s doorbell, I’m shaking all the way to my toes. Even the plate of cookies in my hands is wobbling. I was too scared to try the cookies after I made them, thanks to Chef Ryan’s voice in my head.
Right as I’m about to dump the cookies in a nearby bush and make a run for it, Evan opens the door.
“Hey,” he says, his face lighting up at the sight of me. “We were just going to start watching.”
He steps in to hug me, but I kind of duck out of the way and shove the plate of cookies into his hands instead. I’m still so upset that I can’t deal with anyone touching me. There’s too high of a chance I’ll burst into tears.
Evan frowns but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks me down the hallway into the living room.
“Hey, everybody,” he says to the three guys sitting on the couch. “This is Rachel.” He goes down the line and does introductions, but I forget everyone’s names almost the second I hear them. The first guy is tall and stick-figure skinny, the second has the biggest and blondest afro I’ve ever seen, and the third is small and toadlike in a way that’s actually kind of cute.
“Hi!” I whisper, trying to wave but only managing to smack the side of my own head. Classy.
“Rachel made cookies,” says Evan. He unwraps them and makes a big deal about how good they look. I get fixated on my shoes and don’t look up as the guys crowd around the cookies and dig in. Normally I love watching people enjoy my baked goods, but not today.
And then the coughing starts.
First Blond Afro starts making weird phlegmy sounds. Then Stick Figure grabs his soda and chugs it like he’s trying to wash down the cookie before it kills him. And finally, Toady spits part of the cookie back into a napkin, making me flash back to Chef Ryan spitting out my cannolis in front of everyone.
“Are they that bad?” I whisper.
Evan’s the only one who hasn’t taken a bite yet. He picks up a cookie and takes a nibble.
“They taste like…” He’s obviously having a hard time swallowing. “Like…”
“Soap,” Blond Afro chimes in. The others nod.
I stare at them. Soap? How is that possible? And then I remember my phone ringing while I was making cookies, me angrily dumping white powder into the batter, barely paying attention to what I was doing. Is it possible that somehow I’d used dishwasher detergent instead of baking soda? As crazy as that sounds, the two boxes were right next to each other on the counter. And I was really distracted.
Oh my goldfish.
“I’m so sorry!” I cry.
Evan laughs like it’s no big deal. “You can’t poison us that easily, Rachel Lee!”
I can tell he’s trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t work. I can feel my face burning. I’ve been in Evan’s house for all of three minutes, and already I’ve practically killed his friends. Luckily, they all look fine now—I don’t think any of them got more than a bite—but I still feel horrible.
I can’t believe this. Is Chef Ryan right? Should I just quit? I used to think I was a great pastry chef, but in the past few weeks I’ve done nothing but mess up in one major way after another. And now I’ve started almost poisoning people!
“Okay, let’s watch some Pastry Wars,” Evan announces.
But I’m already making my exit. “I can’t. Sorry. I have to go.”
“What? But you just got here.”
“I know,” I say as I push past him into the hallway. “I’m sorry.”
Evan doesn’t give up that easily. He stops me before I get to the front door and says in a low voice, “Don’t worry about the cookies. Trust me, it’s not a big deal. Those guys will eat anything.”
“No, it’s not just that.”
“Then what?”
The way he looks at me makes me want to tell him about what happened in pastry class today, but I can’t open my mouth. If I do, I’ll start sobbing, and I can’t do that, not in front of Evan, not when his best friends are in the next room.
“Sorry,” I say before darting out of the house.
“Rachel!” I hear him call after me, but I don’t turn back.
Chapter 24
The next night, Mom pokes her head into my room even though I don’t feel like talking to anyone. She comes to sit on my bed and laughs at the sight of Mr. Hip propped up against my pillow.
“I forgot about this little guy,” she says, stroking his faded pink ears. “You used to go everywhere with him. Even into the bathtub.”
“No wonder he’s all lumpy,” I say.
Mom sighs. “Rachel, I know you’ve been having a rough time, so the last thing I want to do is make things worse. But…” She clears her throat. “I was just talking to my sister, and I mentioned to her that I was thinking of selling the house and—”
I sit up. “Aunt Nelly?”
Mom nods. “And she offered to let us stay with her for a while so we can save some money.”
“But she lives all the way in Connecticut!” Not to mention the fact that she hates anyone who’s under the age of twenty. She always calls me “the child” like I don’t even have a name.
“Nothing is decided,” Mom says, “but I wanted to let you know that it was a possibility. The truth is, honey, that unless something changes, we’re starting to run out of options.”
My body sags as I think of having to leave not only our house but our town. Leaving Marisol, Evan, school, and even Ryan’s Bakery.
Mom pulls me toward her and kisses the top of my head. “We’ll figure it out,” she says into my hair.
A second later, my phone starts ringing. It’s Marisol.
“Do you want to answer that?” Mom says.
I shake my head, but she’s already getting to her feet. “It’s okay. We can talk later. I know you’ll probably want to tell Marisol about this.”
After my mom closes the door behind her, I brush away a stray tear and answer the phone.
“
Rachel?” Marisol says. “Are you busy?” Her voice is low and serious in a way that instantly makes me nervous.
“Are you okay? Did something happen with Andrew?” I ask.
“No. It’s nothing like that…” She lets out a long breath. “I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this. I know you’re still upset about the whole poison cookie thing, but I—”
“Tell me.” The last thing I want to think about is what happened at Evan’s yesterday. He hasn’t called me, which should make me happy since I don’t have to explain why I ran off, but it also makes me feel worse that he doesn’t care enough to check up on me.
“Fine,” she says. “But don’t freak out, okay? You know how you posted those reviews of the Ladybugs? Well, I was just looking at them and—”
I gasp. “Did they take them down? They can’t do that, can they?”
“No, they’re still there. But while I was on there, I noticed some new reviews about…about you guys. Ones that weren’t there before.”
“Were they bad?” I say softly.
“Um, yeah… They’re, um, kind of…”
“Marisol, spit it out! I thought you weren’t afraid to be honest, right?”
She sighs. “Okay, you’re right. I’ll just tell you. They talked about the stealing, which I guess is kind of to be expected, but then they said a bunch of other things. Really bad things.”
“About us?”
“About you.”
I blink, trying to understand what she’s getting at. Then I realize that she means the bad things are about me personally, not about our business in general. “Where are the reviews?”
“I don’t think you should read them,” she says. “I wanted you to know because—”
“Tell me. I need to see them.”
Finally, after a lot of badgering, she tells me which websites they’re on. When I look through the reviews, tears start stinging at my eyes. “Rachel is immature.” “The owner’s daughter is a klutz.” “The girl is a reported thief.” The words float in front of my eyes.
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