The Sweetest Thing

by Christina Mandelski

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, attempting to move out of his way. As I do, I stumble on a crack in the linoleum. I start to fall and prepare for extreme embarrassment. But I don’t make it to the floor, because Ethan reaches down and rescues me. He’s holding my arm.

  My eyes travel from his feet all the way up to his blue blue blue eyes. I am a powerless dust mite being sucked in by one of those fancy British vacuum cleaners. No hope for me

  “Hey, Cake Girl,” he says, like we talk every day.

  “Hi . . . um, hey,” I say in a voice that’s somewhere between a croak and a squeak.

  “You okay?” he asks, still holding my arm.

  No, I am not okay. I’m going to die right now. “Yeah, thanks. I’m good.”

  “Good.” He lets go and winks at me. I watch him walk away, and when he turns back around and smiles, I snap my head in the opposite direction. Real smooth.

  Jack blows through the front door of the school so hard it slams into the wall. “If you were going for cool, you blew it big-time,” he says as I catch up with him on the front steps.

  I smack his arm. “Thanks a lot. Real supportive.”

  He smirks. “You want me to support your liking that guy? Sorry, but that ain’t happening.”

  54

  “Jack?” I smile. “I thought you wanted me to change? A date would be a change!”

  “Date? Do you ever listen to me? That guy will date you, get what he wants, and then move on to the next available sucker.”

  I’m not smiling anymore. “Oh, so now I’m a sucker?”

  We stare at each other.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “It was implied.” I hoist my bag up on my shoulder.

  “God, Jack.” I say, and walk away. “I’m going to work.”

  “I saw the way he looked at you, Sheridan. You’re on his radar. Just be careful,” he shouts to my back.

  I wave him off and wind my way down salty, wet sidewalks. Pretty odd for the middle of April. But “pretty odd”

  fits perfectly with the rest of this bizarre day.

  I turn down our alley and all of a sudden the day gets infinitely weirder. Blocking the whole road is a line of shiny black limos. My feet do an about-face. I’ll head back around to Main Street and just go to the bakery. Home can wait.

  “Sheridan!” It’s my father. “Sheridan!”

  I keep walking in the opposite direction, trying to control myself. I can hear him running through the crusty snow.

  “Hey, stop!” He catches up and touches my shoulder.

  He’s wearing jeans and a University of Chicago T-shirt. Almost looks like a normal dad; not like a soon-to-be celebrity.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I say, but don’t give him a chance to answer. I point backward with my thumb and swallow.

  55

  “Gotta get to work.”

  “I talked to Nan. You’ll be late. There are some people I want you to meet.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Dad. I’ve got a lot of work to do and tons of homework.” I pat my messenger bag to drive the point home.

  But he talks over me like I haven’t said a word. “I’d like for you to come in and meet the people from the network.

  They really want to get to know you.”

  “Oh,” I say. “No thanks.” I turn and walk away.

  “Sheridan. Come back here.” I do what he says, cock my eyebrows, and wait. “This isn’t really a request. . . .” He tilts his head and chuckles. “Look, come in. It’s cold out here.

  Come on, do this for me. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Don’t bother, I’ll just be swamped.” I shrug. “I did have time to talk last night, but apparently, you had more important things to do.” I pass him and walk toward what I feel is my certain doom. With every footstep toward the house I can see my entire world crumbling.

  I think of Dad, a long time ago, lifting me gently into our sailboat, strapping on my life jacket, reciting his long list of water safety rules. Holding me in his arms when the wind picked up and I got scared. Where did that guy go? That guy would do anything for me. This guy is throwing me to the sharks.

  “Here they are!” A gray-haired man in a suit and tie pokes his head through the back door and scares away the 56

  memory. The smiling stranger ushers me into the kitchen.

  There are others here, too. An impossibly tall amazon woman with one of those edgy New York haircuts and superchic brainiac glasses. A young guy who looks totally wired, looks like a surfer, and probably uses “Dude!” as a greeting.

  They look me up and down and grin. Gray Hair leads me to the long dining table in our kitchen and pulls out a chair for me. They stare at me as I fix my gaze to a spot on the far wall. We recently studied Marie Antoinette in world history. She was the famously clueless and eventually head-less queen of France. I feel like her, on the chopping block.

  What was it she said? Yeah. Let them eat cake.

  God, if only it were that easy.

  57

  Chapter 5

  you catch more flies with

  honey than vinegar

  So I sit at the head of the table and wait. A group of three men walk in from the front of the house, one of them carrying a big camera. Our roomy kitchen suddenly seems very small, almost claustrophobic.

  “Well,” Gray Hair says, “let me introduce myself. I’m Randall Beaumont. I’ll be producing your father’s show for ExtremeCuisine TV. It’s very nice to meet you, Sheridan.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say quietly, now feeling like the frog in ninth-grade biology, laid out and ready for dissection.

  “This is Jacqueline,” he says, pointing to Amazon. She nods in my direction, all business. “And this is Ricky.”

  Surfer flashes me the peace sign. “And here’s Dylan, Luke, and Will, our camera crew. They’re here scouting locations for the shoot.”

  Dad is leaning against the counter, looking nervous.

  “So.” Gray Hair takes the chair next to me, sits back, crosses a leg, and folds his hands in his lap, real casual. “As you know, your dad’s show is called The Single Dad Cooks.

  The network has ordered ten episodes, but we’re planning tons of merchandising tie-ins. Cookbooks, aprons, coffee mugs—the whole nine yards. We have every reason to believe it’s going to be a big success.” He smiles, clearly proud of his newest star. “But of course, since being your dad is central to the show, we have a proposition for you. What we’d really like is for you to be in the pilot episode.”

  Say what?

  “Me? Oh, no no no,” I say without pause, smiling but emphatically shaking my head. No way. Dad stares at me, his eyes steady. Don’t blow this, Sheridan, those eyes are saying. Don’t you dare.

  “Well now, hear me out”—Gray Hair laughs—“before you say no. You don’t need any experience, so there’s no need to be nervous. It’s reality TV, so you’ll just be yourself.”

  He thinks this is about me being nervous? My eyebrows crinkle. I’m not nervous at all.

  “We understand you’re celebrating your sixteenth birthday soon?” he says.

  “Not soon. In July.”

  Amazon crosses the room. Her perfect black suit looks out of place. She belongs in an office somewhere, not here 59

  in my kitchen.

  “Sharon,” she says. “We have a fantastic idea. But we need you on board if it’s going to happen.” Her big eyes, surrounded by those nerdy glasses, bore into mine.

  “It’s Sheridan,” I half-whisper. “My name is Sheridan.”

  “Yes,” she says, like I’m the one being annoying. “Listen. We want to film your birthday celebration for the first episode. What better way to showcase the Single Dad at his best?” She motions toward Dad like he’s the grand prize on a game show.

  There’s a knock on the back door, and I turn to see Jack through the glass.

  Surfer hops across the room like

  someone put a firecracker down his pants. He opens the do
or and Jack comes in with a drink tray full of insulated cups.

  “Dude, finally. Java!”

  Jack stares at Surfer like he’s an alien from Mars. He glances in my direction, and I mouth the word help. I can tell by his contrite look that he realizes how wrong he was earlier, lecturing me about Ethan. This is good because right now he is my only ally.

  The whole room swarms over Jack, trying to figure out whose double soy latte no-foam is whose. All except for Gray Hair, who doesn’t take his eyes off of me. He does look like a nice guy, with a genuine smile and kind eyes. So I almost feel bad that I’m about to give him a big fat “NO WAY.” But he doesn’t give me the chance.

  60

  “What we propose, Sheridan, is a party. For you. Filmed right here in St. Mary. But obviously, we need you to agree to this. You can even make the cake. I hear you’re pretty well known for that.”

  I rub my neck. My fingers are itching for a pastry bag, or a big clump of fondant to knead. Anything. Of course I’m going to say no.

  But “um . . .” is all that comes out. I can feel my heart racing. I stare across the table, where Mom used to sit. I imagine what would happen if she were here right now.

  She’d breeze into the room, lace her arm through Dad’s, and gently pat his bicep.

  “Donovan,” she’d say. “Tell these people to get lost.”

  “Sheridan?” Dad’s voice shatters my little fantasy. He squats down next to me, his face close to mine. “What do you say?” He shrugs. “I think this could be fun.”

  “Fun?” Only he catches my snarky tone.

  “Yes. Fun,” he says, his voice full of warning.

  My mind is twisting, turning inside out. These Suits have taken over our kitchen and are trying to take over our lives. They’ve convinced my father that he’s better off in New York; that I’m better off in New York.

  I wonder, if I say no to this birthday party, will they cancel the show? Could it really be that simple? Or maybe, if I say no, they’ll just move on to another idea and want us in New York even sooner. On the other hand, maybe saying yes will buy me some time to talk Dad out of this craziness.

  61

  My mind is whirling with all of the possibilities.

  “Sheridan?” Dad asks again through the uncomfortable silence. Everyone in the room is waiting for my answer.

  “My birthday isn’t until July,” I say, trying to stall, trying to think this through.

  Surfer springs across the room and lands right in front of me. “That’s the magic of television, girl; you can have a party now and another one in July, right Don?”

  Okay, no one calls my dad “Don,” but he doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Maybe your dad’ll even buy you a sweet ride for your birthday,” Surfer offers with a wink.

  I clasp my hands on the table, try to remain calm and meet this weirdo’s gaze. “Oh, but I don’t really need a car,”

  I say. He looks at me like I’m nuts. “Really, I don’t. You can walk across St. Mary in ten minutes.”

  “Well.” Gray Hair gently pushes Surfer aside while giving him a definite dirty look. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Ricky. Where we’d like to start, Sheridan, is to set a date, come up with a production schedule, and shoot the episode in time for the summer season. Which means soon.”

  Soon? I can feel beads of sweat popping up on my upper lip like dandelions in the summer grass.

  “Maybe you two need a moment to talk?” Gray Hair nods to Dad.

  Then, by some miracle, a plan starts coming together in my head. I look around the room, my eyes fall on Dad, then move away.

  62

  The cake. That’s it. I find Mom and ask her to come back and help me make the cake for this fake party. She’d love to have one of her creations on TV, except that this would be better. This would be our creation.

  If we actually found her, I can call and invite her down.

  She won’t say no. Dad will be totally furious but he’ll have to be civil to her with the cameras on him. Maybe this is the excuse she’s been waiting for, to come back to me. Oh my God, it’s perfect.

  “Yeah, maybe we need a minute,” Dad says quietly as I figure out the details of this plan.

  “No!” I push back my chair and stand, smiling. “I’ll do it!”

  A tentative grin slides across Dad’s mouth. “Really?” he says.

  I nod eagerly. This is going to work.

  “That’s wonderful,” Gray Hair says.

  “Awesome!” Surfer chimes in.

  “Great,” Amazon says. “But are you sure you can handle the cake?” She so doesn’t know me. “No offense, Sherry, but it’s got to be spectacular.”

  Dad leans back against the counter again. “Don’t worry.

  Her cakes are better than my food.”

  I stand up a little straighter. That’s the nicest thing my father has said about me since, well, forever. I look at Jack, who is waiting by the back door, his eyes doubtful. He points to his watch—he’s got to get back to Geronimo’s—then raises a hand to his ear in the “call me” signal.

  63

  “This is brilliant.” Gray Hair laughs. “Completely fresh concept. Genius. Single Dad throws his daughter a party, and she’s following in his culinary footsteps. I love it!”

  The Suits spin around the room, throwing out ideas like balls at the batting cages. (Jack made me go with him once; my left eye was black for two weeks.)

  “We need a theme!” Amazon says, staring at the ceiling as if she’ll find one up there.

  Surfer stops in his tracks. “An Extreme Sweet Sixteen Luau!”

  That’s the lamest idea I’ve ever heard.

  “Yes. That’s perfect,” Amazon says. “And if we can get some teenage girls in bikinis, we might even pull in the eigh-teen- to twenty-four-year-old male demographic.”

  “We’d need an indoor pool. Blue chicks aren’t sexy,”

  Surfer says. He is so right, but if he thinks I’m getting into a bikini with my winter-white skin and total lack of boobs, he’s got another thing coming.

  “Maybe not a pool. How about the restaurant, Donovan?” Gray Hair suggests. Dad smiles.

  “Can you do luau food, Don?” Surfer asks.

  Dad laughs. “I’ll think of something.”

  “Well, Sheridan, Donovan, I predict this is going to be the hit of the summer.” Gray Hair grabs Dad’s hand and shakes it. “We’ll get back to the hotel and hammer out a production schedule.”

  He holds his hand out for me to shake, too. I have an 64

  overwhelming feeling that this handshake will seal my fate.

  Here’s hoping that fate is on my side.

  The Suits gather up their briefcases and drain their coffee cups. Amazon gives some orders to the camera crew, and then they talk among themselves. I hear Surfer: “This is gonna be the show to beat.” I hear Amazon: “We’re going to bury Food TV during sweeps.”

  Dad touches my arm. “Can I have a word with you?”

  I narrow my eyes and follow him to the kitchen island.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Dad takes a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water from the sink. He takes a swig, swallows hard.

  “You really okay with this? You sure changed your mind fast.”

  That’s when Nanny’s voice pops into my head. One of those phrases she’s always saying: You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Be nice to these people, cooperate with them, and maybe I’ll get what I want.

  “Yes,” I gulp, thinking of honey, lots and lots of honey.

  “I just thought this might be a good way to spend time together, since we hardly even talk anymore.”

  If I was Pinocchio, my nose would be about a mile long by now.

  He eyes me suspiciously. “Just promise, no funny stuff, okay?”

  Who, me? I’l be nice to the Suits; I’l slay them with my charm, stun them with my reality TV presence. Maybe they’ll 65

  realize that St. Mary is the bes
t place to film this show. Why not? This is where my reality is, after al . It’s worth a try.

  “Right.” I nod. “No funny stuff. Promise.”

  Dad’s eyes suddenly get wide, weird-looking. He focuses on my face, and in that split second, I see something come over him. He softens, like butter left out on the counter.

  “Good. I’m so glad you’re on board. Thanks, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart? He reaches up, smooths my hair, leans over and kisses my forehead. Okay. He hasn’t called me that or kissed my head in years.

  I smile even though I’m so not on board, and I have no intention of moving to New York City. The honey worked.

  This fly is mine.

  The Suits are at the back door, bundled up and ready to hop into their limos.

  “We’ll get back to you later tonight, Donovan,” Gray Hair calls.

  “Great. Just great,” Dad says, and walks to the door to see them out.

  I let out a deep, deep sigh. I’ve got a lot of work to do.

  Later that night, after finishing a few birthday cakes at the bakery, I walk into an empty house. Dad is at the restaurant, and from the looks of the parking lot, they are booked solid.

  The front room is warm and cozy tonight. I sit on the big old leather sofa, drop my bag, and flick on the lamp beside me.

  66

  Reaching for my chemistry book, I see my art sketchbook, still neglected and sad. I may just flunk that class.

  Instead, I pull out my laptop and start drafting an e-mail. I’ve started a lot of e-mails like this, trying to contact my mother, and I’ve been wrong about the person every time. But Mackinac Maggie, she’s the one. I know it.

  Jack wants me to wait until we find more evidence.

  But what does he know, anyway? I need to find her now if this plan is going to work.

  So I write.

  To Whom It May Concern: I am planning a summer wedding and am wondering if you can give me the contact information for Maggie Taylor, who decorated the butterfly cake on your Web site. Thank you.

  I mean, that’s a pretty innocent e-mail. No restraining orders could possibly come from this.