by Kym Brunner
I tramp over Mount St. Clothesheap and sprint to my window, hoping to catch one last glimpse of Giovanni. I am rewarded with the sight of Purple Hazel turning onto Milwaukee Avenue. I lean my forehead against the glass.
I can’t possibly go to Summerfest with Nick now.
Chapter 9
I SPEND ALL THURSDAY MORNING tanning in my yard while simultaneously texting back and forth with Giovanni. He is so funny and sweet that I can forgive him for being prompt. Staring at the picture I took of him at the beach, I kiss the screen. I quickly glance up, glad my mom didn’t walk by and see me do that. I’m sure she’d say that Giovanni’s cute face won’t pay for vacations or something equally as dumb.
On Friday, I get a friend request from Nick on Facebook. I hesitate a moment before thinking, “Why not?” A few seconds after I accept, he starts up a chat and flirts with me like crazy. Three times I start to type that I can’t go on Saturday, but then he asks me a question, and we go off on a tangent.
Next thing I know, it’s been an hour, and we’re still typing things back and forth, fast and furiously. It’s weird, but I can talk with Nick almost as easily as Giovanni—but about way different stuff. Giovanni is into food, family, and fun; whereas Nick is more about weed, wild parties, and wreaking havoc. To be honest, I’m a little nervous about how much partying he does anyway. When Nick finally texts me details about Summerfest, I don’t respond right away. Slicking on more suntan lotion, I try to decide how to break it to him.
Nick’s next text explains that he hopes I like it “loud and up close,” as he spent extra money to get tenth-row seats. He follows that up by telling me how the other couple we’re going with is so much fun—as if it’s already a done deal. He’s so excited that I don’t have the heart to say I changed my mind. Impulsively, I agree to go, figuring I can just play it cool that night and say I felt a friend vibe.
If that’s true, then why do I feel like such a two-timing skank?
I’m starting to think Busia was right. Two great guys at the same time is a curse. There was an old blues song that Giovanni played in his car the other night. Something about being “born under a bad sign,” and that if it weren’t for bad luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all.
Story of my life.
On Saturday morning, I wake up to the sound of some jerk in the parking lot with his car stereo cranked to the max. Hello? It’s nine thirty a.m! I’m about to pull the pillow over my head when I hear the distinctive chorus of Who Stole the Kishka? Horrified, I run to the window to yell at Mom to turn down the volume on her polka hits CD before someone realizes she’s related to me.
But when I peer outside, the scene in the mall stuns me.
The crumbling, pot-holey parking lot is jam-packed with cars, cops, and hordes of people milling around. I immediately worry that some calamity has befallen the neighborhood. But when I don’t see any burning buildings or bomb squads, I zero in on the cause of all this commotion—International Gourmet.
There’s a live band set up in front of the place—i.e., the losers blasting that lame song about a Polish sausage thief. International flags flap in the breeze surrounding the entire building. A massive helium chef holding a mixing bowl and spoon bobs up and down, straining to be set free from its tethers. Beside the balloon monstrosity is a lighted digital marquis flashing words in five alternating colors:
Grand Opening Today! 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.
Contests * Free food * Music!
For real? I slide my badly-in-need of-a-pedicure toes into my flip-flops and gape at the circus going on outside my window. Nothing cool like this has ever happened at Dull-Mont Plaza. And judging by the way people swarm the entrance, International Gourmet must have some awesome giveaways. There’s no way I want to be left out, so I grab the fake Coach purse my mom got me last year and dash downstairs through the bakery. Mom and Busia stand next to each other staring out the window. It’s kind of odd that there aren’t any customers in here at eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, but, then again, it’s not every day that a cool place opens in our very own strip mall.
I pop into the bakery, sliding past my mom. “Morning!”
“Hello, Sophie. Did you see what going on?” she asks.
I nod enthusiastically. “Yep! Saw it. Heard it. Going over to check it out now.”
Busia clucks her tongue. “I no like ’em new place. Too much…” Her voice trails off as if trying to think of what to say.
“Too much what? Fun? Excitement?” I offer, trying to supply the English word.
“No, not that. I have bad feeling.” She shakes her head and rambles something in Polish.
I exchange a confused look with Mom. “Bad? How can it be bad? The more people that come to our mall, the more who see our bakery. What’s wrong with that?”
“I not sure, but watch your purse,” Busia warns, holding up a finger. “Bad guy take.”
I give Busia’s shoulders a little squeeze and plant a kiss on her cheek. “Don’t worry, Busia. I’ll be careful.”
“Yes, you do that. But I help too. I going to give Domovoy lunch now and ask him to watch over you.” She hurries away.
“Not necessary! But tell him I said thanks!” I duck under the counter divider and head for the door.
I’ve got the bakery door halfway open when my mom screeches, “Wait! I’m going with you, Sophie!”
One look at Mom’s outfit—a tight pink mini-skirt, a plunging white ruffled blouse, and a huge blue daisy on a black velvet chord hanging around her neck—and I say, “Not dressed like that you aren’t.” Pulling open the door, I step outside.
My mother’s heels clack loudly against the sidewalk as she hurries to catch up to me. “Why do you say things like that? Murphy told me I look like a model today.”
“He meant a Playboy model, Mom. Besides, Murphy’s old. Of course he’s going to like when you parade around half naked.” I pause to let a woman holding hands with two toddlers cross in front of me.
“Why do you say crazy things? I’m wearing clothes.” She catches up to me, struggling to keep my pace. “Plus, I got a good bargain on this outfit. Did you see my shoes? Only four bucks.” She stops and tilts her pink shiny pumps left and right. I half-expect her to click her heels three times and recite, “There’s no place like Dollar Dynamo.”
“Lucky you.” I slow my pace, knowing she’s going to follow me no matter what I say. “Not to be stingy, but don’t forget you promised me ten bucks to come with you. And whatever you do, please do not pick up any men while we’re here.”
“You never know.” She chuckles, and I glare at her.
She holds up a hand, smiling. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”
I’m not so sure that’s true.
We make our way down the congested sidewalk in front of our strip mall stores, bumping elbows and inhaling wonderful whiffs of fresh coffee. Tasty-looking samples carried by passersby make my mouth water. Must be a great cooking school—quick, too, judging by how many people have food already. A group of four guys around my age approaches us, happily munching something off wooden skewers. I recognize one of them as a senior who just graduated from my school. I hurry my pace, trying to distance myself from my mother.
My mom calls out, “Wait a minute, Sophie! My big toe is hurting.” She stops and leans her butt against the brick wall, slipping her foot out of her shoe. She bends her knee and brings her foot up so she can rub her toe, revealing more of her inner thigh than anyone should have to witness.
Oh. My. Fricking. Mother. Where is a falling piano when you need one? The guys burst out laughing, and I pray that it’s about something other than my mom. But then one of the guys calls out, “How much, lady?”
My mom yells, “Only four bucks. Dollar Dynamo. But they’re hurting my toes!”
They all crack up, and I’m mortified beyond belief. I bolt toward the entrance of International Gourmet, passing a family with plates of shish kabobs on their laps sitting on the bench where I drooled over Gi
ovanni. This time my mouth waters over a different sort of delectable delicacy—filet mignon.
“You see?” my mom says, as she elbows her way into line next to me. “Those boys liked my shoes. Maybe boys would notice you, too, if you wore something nice.”
That’s it. “No offense, Ma, but they thought you were a hooker.”
She waves her hand at me dismissively. “Pssh. You’re crazy.”
I sigh, waiting for the progression of people in front of me to shuffle inside. The band starts playing Liechtensteiner Polka, and the crowd roars its approval.
My mother asks, “How can they waste all of this money on the first day for a cooking school? I can’t believe this many people want to learn how to cook.”
Looking around at the sizeable crowd, it’s obvious that the store is bringing in a ton of cash. “Well, my teacher told us that that you have to spend money to make money.”
“How does that make sense? If I spend money, I spend it, not make it. Your teacher must be a Dumbelina too.”
I roll my eyes. Why does my mom only see things in black and white? “No, Mom. She has a master’s degree in business. And if you ever listened to my advice, maybe you’d find out I’m not as much of a Dumbelina as you think.”
She laughs. “Good one. Let’s go see why everyone is making such a big fuss today.”
As we inch our way to the door, two pretty women flank the entranceway. Both ladies wear traditional German Oktoberfest dresses—the kind with the elastic neckline and tight black vests with colorful embroidery. Their breasts, each the size of Teegan’s yappy dog, Trotter, greet the customers as they walk in. One deep breath and those puppies will be taking a walk.
The smell of cooked meat makes my stomach growl in anticipation.
“Guten tag!” the first one says, welcoming us. “Free bratwurst sample?” She holds out a tray of steaming hot bratwurst slices, each with a toothpick with the colored plastic fringe.
The second woman adds, “Every item International Gourmet sells is imported directly from the country of origin. Our Nuremburg bratwurst are on sale today in Germany.” Before I can question what she means by that, she turns slightly and indicates the region of the store directly behind her.
I glance over her shoulder and see a giant German flag strung up under a neon sign that has Germany spelled out in fancy red script. Red, yellow, and black balloons stake out the perimeter of the section, tied to the ends of the display cases.
“Thanks!” I grab two bratwurst samples and step off to the side of the main traffic path. While I’m hungrily munching on the sausage, I check out my surroundings. There are neon signs, flags, and balloons from at least twenty countries in this warehouse-sized space. The bratwurst is delicious, but my stomach twists in concern.
This is no cooking school.
“I would go broke if I give out so much free food like this.” My mother squints into the distance. “Do you see Poland?”
Skimming past hordes of signs and flags, I finally spy Poland’s red-and-white flag at the complete opposite end of the store. I point. “There it is. But we need to walk across a few continents to get there.”
She nods. “Then that is what we will do. Let’s go see what they sell. I’m hoping it’s not pastries.” Her brown eyes are filled with such intense worry, I feel sorry for her.
I pat her on the back gently, hoping to ease her anxiety. “Don’t worry, Mom. Even if they do sell pastries, no one’s going to walk a football field every time they want a paczki, right?”
She frowns, a sheen of sweat now evident on her cheeks. “I hope not.”
We walk through Germany, strolling past beautifully arranged displays of breads, desserts, and meats. An older guy wearing leather shorts with suspenders calls in a thick German accent, “Wie gehts! Hallo, ladies! Come check out my fine sausage.”
He takes off his dark green felt hat with the little feather on the side and swipes across the counter in front of him. A man my mother’s age within arm’s reach is always bad news. Mom wanders closer. “So, tell me, how long is your sausage?”
What is wrong with this woman? “Ma!” I stare at her, my mouth wide open.
“What?” she asks, an angry expression on her face. “I’m just asking a question! Some sausage comes in five-inch links, some are seven.”
“We have some of each.” He picks up a package and hands it to my mother. “Authentic German Thuringer from Thüringen.”
“Oh, very nice.” Mom takes the package from his hands and inspects it.
Thankfully, a family of four walks up to the display and Sausage Man starts up with the same spiel he gave my mother. My mother taps my arm and points to the price tag. “Such high prices! I buy Thuringer at Dlugopolski’s for half this much.”
I frown. “Yeah, but this one’s not half-goat.”
She clucks her tongue at me. “Aaach! That was only one time. Stoshu only charged me a dollar a pound for it. You need to learn to be frugal, Sophie.”
“I’d rather be poor than eat goat.” A queasy feeling sweeps across my gut remembering how I felt when I found out I ate goat meat.
“Thank you!” she tells Sausage Man, setting the package down. “Maybe next time.”
We stroll past a vertical neon sign that reads ASIA in big red letters, with one Chinese symbol, also in neon, underneath. I start to head that way to see what free samples they’re giving out, when Mom tugs at my arm. “No! I want to go to Poland now. Please.”
The pleading in her voice makes me ignore the delectable scent of orange chicken. I’ll have to come back later. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“Thank you, Sophie. I’m getting very nervous,” she shouts over the din of shoppers around us. There are people everywhere—laughing, eating, each one pushing a small red shopping cart laden with packages. “This could be very, very bad for us.”
“Let’s see what they’re selling in Poland first, okay? Maybe they don’t even sell bakery goods,” I say, hoping to reassure her, but I’m nervous too. Looking at the hundreds of people in here at this very moment, I know that’s how many customers we’d serve at our bakery in a week. Maybe even a few weeks. If they sell bakery goods, we’re sunk.
My mom clings to my arm, trailing behind me as we walk through the throngs of people milling about in Italy, Russia, and Greece. This place is so enormous that it could almost pass for its own continent. Arriving in Poland, we are greeted by a cute old woman standing behind a table with a red-and-white checkerboard tablecloth. No sexy models here, thank goodness. Delightfully chubby grandmas are the staple of Polish culture. Very authentic, if you ask me.
“Dzien dobry!” She’s got rosy cheeks, twinkling blue eyes, and a white embroidered babushka around her face. “Good morning! Welcome to Poland! I have samples of pierogi today. You like ’em one?” This woman could pass for Busia’s sister.
“Sure!” My mouth salivates in anticipation of the dumpling with sweet white Ricotta cheese inside.
“All our foods are from famous Poland store—Polska Foods. You know it, yes?” She fixes me a plate with one cheese pierogi sprinkled with sugar alongside a dollop of sour cream.
“Tak,” my mother agrees in Polish, nodding.
The woman’s face lights up. “You buy there too?”
“Nie,” my mom replies, shaking her head no. The two start blabbering away so fast, I can only pick up a few words. Mom says piekarz, which means bakery, or maybe slippers, but I’m too interested in dipping my pierogi into sugar and then into the sour cream in just the right amounts to concentrate. I take my first bite, expecting it to taste like Busia’s.
It doesn’t. Nowhere near as good, in fact. Still, it’s not bad enough not to finish it, so I dip and eat until it’s gone. This pierogi certainly wouldn’t win any awards, but it was decent. I toss my plate into the trash and wait for my mother to tire. There are rows upon rows of Polish jellies, chocolates, and bags of kluski noodles. Luckily, no pastries. I sigh with relief. Mom was worrying about nothing.
Finally, the conversation wanes. The old woman nods her head enthusiastically, and my mother mimics her, the two of them like giant size bobble-heads going back and forth repeating, “Dzienkuje, Pani,” to each other three times before they’re satisfied that they’ve thanked each other enough.
Mom tugs at my arm, and we continue into central Poland. She stops to talk to—no, flirt with—a handsome Polish stockman. I keep walking, turning the corner past a barrel of dill pickles.
That’s when I see it.
An enormous display in the shape of Poland’s tallest building—the Castle of Culture and Science—stacked with baked goods galore! Kolaczkis, elephant ears, chrusziki, and paczki—all of our bestsellers—with different colored icings, flavors, and sizes. The bread display along the west wing features Paul Bunyan-sized loaves of every type of bread I can imagine. Red-and-white halogen lights illuminate the pastry spectacle like actors on Broadway.
“Mom!” I interrupt her conversation with an unshaven worker who seems to be having a conversation with my mother’s chest. “Come here.”
She nods and waves good-bye as she struts her way toward me. It takes one-point-two seconds for her face to go from tease to deep freeze. “No! This is not fair! I was in this mall first. They must take this down!” She looks around like she’s ready to call the cops. Her neck now has big red blotches on it.
“They can sell what they want, Mom. There’s nothing we can do.” I swallow hard, trying to think of something positive. “But don’t worry. If their pastries are as mediocre as their pierogies, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Except that everyone thinks new means better.” She bites her lip, frantically glancing at all of her surroundings.
Her face looks so sad, I want to hug her and tell her everything will be okay, but I don’t believe it myself. Swirling around, taking it all in, I’m not sure what to think. If I were looking for Polish pastries, would I rather come to this giant marketplace or our slightly-rundown-but-homey bakery? It would be much faster and easier to come to our place, but on the other hand, you could buy foods from seventeen different countries including Poland, which might be hard to pass up.
