by Kym Brunner
Mom hurries past with a stack of napkins, so I politely say, “Excuse me, Mom, but do you hear the way Eliza’s talking to me and Busia? Pretty rude, don’t you think?”
Mom grabs the napkin dispenser and starts loading the napkins. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m too busy right now. She has work to do, so please be a good girl and move a little bit for Eliza.”
I mentally knee Eliza in the face and body-slam her to the ground so that I can allow myself to sidestep six inches to my left. Busia slides the display window open with a bang and starts placing her paczkis onto the empty tray with robot precision. Her hairnet lies crookedly across her forehead, her earlobes pulled awkwardly upward, and the ill-fitting plastic gloves barely fit over her knobby arthritic knuckles. Just looking at her makes me uncomfortable. Stupid Eliza and her asinine rules!
Hurrying over to Busia, I gently touch her shoulder. “Let me fix your hair a second, Boosh.” I tuck the edges of the hairnet above her ear and fix the front edge so it’s even with her hairline. “There. That’s better, right?” Busia nods, her eyes filled with doubt.
I give her a big smile. “Even with this silly hairnet on, you still look mega-piekny.” Busia’s been telling me how beautiful I am my whole life, and it’s time I returned the favor.
Busia’s expression doesn’t soften as she uses her chin to indicate Eliza. She whispers, “Apron is brzydki. Ugly.” She glances over her shoulder. “I not going to wear it.”
“Me neither.” This reminds me of conversations I’ve had with Teegan, when we rag about teachers we mutually dislike. For the sake of solidarity, I’d even wear one of Busia’s aprons today. Anything to irk Eliza scores big points in my book.
Busia points to the pink scones with little green chunks. “These scone ugly too.” She sticks out her tongue in disgust.
Checking out the misshapen pig-colored blobs with grassy lumps, I can’t help but grimace. Eliza’s pastries definitely look different than anything we’ve ever sold before. And Busia’s right—they sure don’t look very appetizing. But as much as I hate Eliza, if these ugly pink-and-green scones are the result of some unusual-but-delicious flavor combinations, like cherry-pistachio or strawberry-kiwi, I’ll have no choice but to go along with her ideas. If International Gourmet steals any more of our customers, we’ll be in bad shape.
I take a deep breath and force a smile. “Don’t worry, Busia. It’ll all work out.”
“We will see.” She lets out a chuff before retreating to the sink with her empty tray.
Eliza takes out a roll of double-sided tape and places four squares on each of the postcard-sized metal signs she bought. No wonder those things cost three hundred bucks. They look indestructible—like they’re made from recycled defense missiles or something. She hustles through the dividing section in the counter, sticking signs on the glass as she walks along.
I head to the customer area to see what she’s doing, and gasp when I read the signs. Instead of “Kolaczkis—2 for $1,” like we used to have, the names of weird-ass foods that we’ve never sold before are featured—Banana-Beet Bran Muffins, Artichoke Anti-Oxidant Loaf, and Cinnamon-Garlic Gluten-free Bread. Yuck, yuckier, yuckiest.
“Ohmigod, ohmigod!” I murmur, sweat breaking out all over my body as I peruse the display cases. We’ve made a huge mistake! “Mom!” I squeak, my voice weak from shock. I clear my throat and stumble toward my mother to try again. “Mom! Did you agree to this? Have you seen what she’s doing?”
Mom’s got her back to me, and the whirring of the coffee grinder must be drowning out my plea, because she doesn’t flinch. I take a deep breath, ready to scream her name louder when Busia appears in front of me waving her arms violently. “Sophie!” She puts a finger to her lips, temporarily confusing me. When she pats her heart and touches her forehead, I remember her instructions: Matka need to get rid of Eleeta and hire you instead. All on her own.
I’d better be more careful, or my bad luck won’t be changing anytime soon. I nod, letting Busia know I got her message. Turning my frustration on Eliza, I point at the green-and-pink monstrosities. “Asparagus-Cranberry Muffins? I’m going to be sick!”
Eliza tapes the last sign into place and strolls to the front door. “Then do it upstairs in your room. I have customers to attend to.” And then louder, “It’s six o’clock, ladies. Time to let in a new, healthier client! Stand back, and be amazed.”
I’m amazed all right. Amazed that my mom could be so stupid to let this…this Holistic Vegetarian Whacko plan our product list. Eliza unlocks the door and whisks it open. I picture myself drop-kicking her across the parking lot and locking her out when Murphy strolls in and disrupts my revenge fantasy.
“Good morning, my fine ladi—” He tilts his head and stops dead in his tracks, looking around. “My, my. We’ve been busy little bees since yesterday, I can see.”
“Oh, yes,” Mom calls out. “So many things. Eliza’s plan took a couple weeks, but finally I made the big change. Do you like it, Murphy?”
“Sure. Yes, very nice.” He’s smiling, but I can tell by his tone that he doesn’t much like the changes around here. “Let’s see. You’ve gotten a few new pictures on the wall, and new blue tablecloths. Oh, even our old friend the pope is gone.” He chuckles. “I didn’t think Stella would ever allow that.”
I glance at the place where our clock used to be, horrified to see a blue malformed octagon with yellow lightning bolt clock hands in the pope clock’s place. Murphy announces, “As long as the food didn’t change, I’ll be fine and dandy.”
He coughs when he walks up to the display case. He reads a few names of the products aloud, nodding. I see him hide a grimace under his hand.
Busia hobbles out carrying two loaves of bread, looking like a mess. Her hairnet is crooked, the plastic gloves are nearly off her hands, and she’s got a piece of Scotch tape under each eye. “Hello, Murpee. I make two loaves Polish rye with seeds, the way you like.”
“Wonderful!” he replies with gusto. “How’s my favorite salesgirl?”
Busia blushes, waving off his compliment.
“I’m terrific, how are you, sir?” Eliza strides over and practically blocks Busia’s path to the counter. “I just want to point out that today is the last day for the Polish rye—” she turns and gives Busia an icy stare “—but we do have some wonderful new loaves of bread for the health-conscious consumer. How about a loaf of Wheat Grass Reduced Fat bread? High in protein, gluten-free, and low in fat.”
He clears his throat. “Um…not today. But I will take a dozen assorted kolaczkis.”
Eliza smiles. “Those cholesterol killers are gone, but how about a Lemon Rhubarb tart? It’s sweetened only with pure Agave sugar and fortified with vitamins A, E, and K.” As Murphy strolls along the counter, Eliza follows his pace, her ponytail bobbing along in perky obedience.
He smiles uncomfortably. “Okay, sure. Why not?”
“I’ll get your coffee,” Mom chimes in.
Setting the broom in the corner, I walk over to talk to our now ex-best customer. “Hi, Murphy. How’s it going?”
“Princess!” he cheers. “Glad to see something familiar around here!”
I inadvertently glance at Mom but don’t point out the obvious—Murphy doesn’t like the changes we’ve made. Correction: that Eliza made.
We bag up his stuff and hand it to him. Murphy thanks us and heads for the door. The bell jingles as he opens it, but then he stops. “Oh, I almost forgot. My doctor said that I need to lose weight, so, uh, unfortunately, I can’t come every day anymore. But don’t worry, I’ll see you all very soon. I’m excited to try this pastry, though.” He holds up his bag as he heads out the door. “See you soon!”
Seconds later, he discreetly deposits the small white bag in the trashcan next door.
Apparently, I’m not the world’s worst liar after all.
Chapter 18
THREE HOURS LATER, I’m still at the bakery, and I’m bored out of my gourd. As much as I used to hate t
he never-ending line, I’d give anything to enliven this morning’s hush. When’s Mom going to realize Eliza doesn’t know shit about marketing? About anything, really?
Mom stands by the picture window, perhaps wishing for customers to spontaneously materialize. I check my cell for the thirty-seventh time this morning, hoping Gio texted me back. Donut holes for us both.
Mom wrings her hands. “It looks like a lot of people are going to International Gourmet today. I wonder if they got something special going on?” She sighs and looks at Eliza. “Maybe I should go over to see?”
“No need to compare us to them, Irene.” Eliza straightens a picture on the wall—an ugly painting of three blue stripes and a yellow swirl, making me wonder what happened to the panorama of Warsaw that had been hanging in that spot since the bakery opened. Eliza smiles at Mom. “Don’t panic just yet. We’re only slow because people don’t know we’re offering a whole new line of organic foods.”
“Or maybe because people know we’re offering a whole new line of organic foods,” I mutter.
“Have you tasted any of the new products, Sophie?” Eliza asks, looking at me. “Because it’s hard to judge a pastry by its name. I mean, you of all people should know that, considering your last name is Dumbrowski.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I can’t tell if she’s insulting me or making a valid point.
“I mean that people might make assumptions about you based on your last name that are entirely untrue.” She pauses, smiling. “Know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do,” I reply, smirking. “Guess I’m not as dumbrowski as I look.”
“Exactly my point,” she says, grabbing a yellowish-brown scone from the tray. “Let me go cut one up so you can taste it. Being knowledgeable about your product line is important.”
“I’ll try it, but I hope I won’t need an antacid afterward,” I retort, making Eliza visibly tense. What can I say? I’m not looking forward to eating something that looks like cat puke.
Mom lifts the counter divider and leaves it up. “Sophie, why are you still here? You know you’re not getting paid for today, right?”
“I know.” Smiling, I grab the broom from the corner. “I’m here because I’m enjoying myself. Sweeping away my troubles. Tra-la-la.” There’s no way I’m not doing everything perfectly this morning. Once Dola sees how nice I am to my mom, and Mom sees how nice I am to the world, poof! Giovanni will show up in a limousine with a massive bouquet of flowers and whisk me off my size-eleven feet.
Eliza returns with a plate loaded with scone segments. “Come on; try a bite of this Apricot-Okra Low-Sodium Scone!” She sets the tray on the counter next to the register, but I don’t budge—even though I am a bit curious to see if something that sounds so awful can as good as she claims.
“The way I see it,” Eliza continues, “we need more people to become aware of our products.” She taps the counter, as if thinking. “Hey, what if we have a Grand Re-Opening this Saturday? Buy a few balloons, play a little music, hand out samples? If you want, Irene, I can make some phone calls and see how much a full-page ad in the Chicago Tribune would run us.”
Us? Like she’s part of the family now? I clench the broom handle to keep myself from shooing Eliza out the door like an unwanted little mouse. “A full-page ad in the Chicago Tribune? That’ll cost a fortune.” I need to steer the conversation away from anything involving Mom’s bank account. “What else would you like me to do, Mom? Clean the toilet? Wash the floor?” Unable to stop myself, I glance at Eliza. “Maybe get rid of the trash?”
“O moj Boze.” Busia kisses the cross on her rosary and shoots me a nervous look. I shrug, thinking I never made a deal to be nice to Eliza, just to Mom. Still, based on Busia’s worried expression, I don’t want to take any risks that could blow my second chance. I smile at Eliza, even though she’s a money-sucking leech pretending to be a marketing expert.
“Time for your break, Sophie.” Mom looks at me sternly.
“Only if you insist.” I feign disappointment, not wanting her to think I’m all about the breaks, which was what got me into trouble the last time.
“I do insist. It’s the law, remember?” She opens her eyes wide, as if making sure I catch her sarcasm.
I might recall using that argument on her once or twice in the past. “Yes, Mother. And because I’m feeling so helpful today, I’m even volunteering to run to Starbucks for you. I’ll fly, you buy?” I hold out my hand, hoping she understands the implication that she’ll be buying one for me too.
She waves me off. “No more Starbucks anymore. My coffee is just as good.”
“But you don’t have caramel frappucinos,” I say, swallowing. “With whipped cream.”
Mom hesitates, but only for a split-second. “No, I don’t. I can live without it.”
Damn. She’s not budging today. “Fine. I’ll just go get some fresh air.”
“You know what?” Eliza calls out. “I’ll take you up on that offer, Sophie. My treat.” She crosses the room, grabs her shiny D&G purse and sets it on the counter.
Seeing as I have all of sixty cents left to my name, I won’t refuse freebies—even if it means shagging coffee for Evil-liza. If she’s going to treat, I suppose I could try being a tad nicer. “Cute purse. Is it new?”
“Yep! And my shoes, too.” She steps one foot forward.
I look down and see gorgeous black flats adorned with the famous MK symbol of the Michael Kors brand.
“Nice.” I don’t want to be jealous, but she’s obviously making enough money off my mother to have loads to blow on designer things.
Eliza hands me twenty bucks and tells me her order. “Irene? Stella? You want anything?”
Busia grunts, which I assume is a no. Mom says, “No, thank you. I’ll get my car keys.” She drags her purse onto the counter and hands them to me. “Don’t drive too far, okay?”
“Too far? I’m going like three blocks.” I grab her keys and shrug.
“Gas costs lots of money. No driving around for fun, that’s all.” She pulls out a gold lipstick cylinder from her purse and twists it open.
As I watch her put on a thick layer of Sock It To Me Red, I notice that three of her acrylic nails are missing from her fingertips. “Whoa, Mom. Time for a manicure, woman.”
“I decided I won’t be needing fake nails anymore, either.” She caps the lipstick and pulls her hair into a ponytail. “When these fall off, I’m done with them.”
Now that I’m looking at her, I can’t remember the last time she ever had her hair up in a ponytail. Horrified by what I see, I whisper, “Mom, your roots are gray! You want me to talk to Javier and see if he can sneak you in later today?”
“No, thank you.” Mom zips her bag and tosses it into her purse. “I’m going natural.”
I grimace at the image of my mom going as gray as Busia. It’s just not like her at all. “But what about your entire ‘I must look good for the customers!’ plan? Or is looking like a mess with a skunk stripe down the center of your head another gimmick for selling organic foods?” I can’t understand why else she could be doing this, if not for Eliza’s advice.
“Are you leaving now?” Mom looks at the clock. “I thought you wanted that drink.”
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving.” With a heavy sigh, I head across the bakery. “Thanks for the moolah, Elooza.” As I walk out the door, I’m assaulted by eighty-five degrees and major humidity. Thank God for air conditioning in the bakery. If we didn’t have it, I think our food would be melted into one giant blob.
My body turns to liquid in the heat, and I trickle over to Mom’s car. My fingers sizzle on the handle as I fling open the two doors wide to let out some of the heat. I lean in and start the engine, blasting the A/C. I know I’m supposed to be in a rush, but I can’t risk my health, not even for iced coffee. As I stand outside waiting for the car to cool, my cell vibrates in my bra. I check and see that it’s Teegan. I don’t know if I want to go to Arcade World yet, so I ignore the c
all.
That’s when I notice I had one missed call. I check to see who it was, and it says blocked. When did I miss a call? I check the time the call came in. Figures. It was during the five minutes I set it down to run upstairs for a hair tie—per Eliza’s ruling. Who would block their identity from me?
A teeny nagging voice says it’s Giovanni wanting to surprise me, but I dismiss the thought. When he used to call, my phone said Gio-yummi, the way I programmed it. I throw my phone into my purse and brave the interior of the car. It’s still a sauna, but I take off for Starbucks nonetheless. My Venti iced coffee with whip and three pumps of classic syrup will cool me off perfectly. When I get inside, Starbucks is super crowded. I wait at the end of the parade of customers, feeling sad, when I remember how our place used to be like this.
My cell phone vibrates, and I see that it’s a text from Nick.
Morning, Sophie!
I’m getting ready to buy supplies
for our trip to LG.
Please tell me you’re coming!
It’ll be super fun
and it’ll be the perfect night.
Just wait and see. ;)
I smile at his persistence. Super fun and the perfect night do sound enticing. I take a deep breath, having mulled this idea over many times in my head. He might not be exactly my type, but he definitely knows what he’s doing in the romance department. I figured that sex couldn’t possibly be bad as Teegan made it out to be, because it seems it’s all anyone wants to do. I decide that it’s time for this girl to take the Big V out of Lake Geneva.
Sounds great!
I’m ready to rock LG!
Can’t wait. xoxo Sophie
As I drive back to the bakery, my face feels flushed, as if I have a fever. Whether it’s from the heat of the day or the thought of Friday night, I don’t know for sure. When Nick said he’ll buy “supplies,” was he talking about protection? Or does he think I’m already on birth control? Oh God, I’d better take a closer look at those Cosmo articles. I take a deep breath, trying not to worry about how little I know in the sex department.
