The Sweetest Thing

by Christina Mandelski

  “How’s the cake for your party coming?”

  “The cake is made. I’ll cover it on Thursday and finish the flowers between now and then.”

  “Well, remember, it doesn’t have to taste good; it just has to look good.”

  I glare at him. “Yeah. I got it. But I am not going to the hospital. I don’t have time. You said Nanny’s out of it anyway.”

  Dad absentmindedly picks up a spatula and turns it over like he’s flipping imaginary burgers. “She’s better today. So come with me now, and I’ll help you later.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Sheridan, I grew up in this bakery. I could make a buttercream rose before I knew how to read.”

  Mr. Roz chuckles and walks back to the front of the 206

  shop. I don’t need him chuckling at me.

  “I don’t need help. I mean, thanks, but I have it all planned out. Tell Nanny I say hi and that I’ll see her soon.”

  “Look, we’re going. Finish up,” Dad says like the total dictator he is.

  Mr. Roz walks back in, comes to my side, pats my back.

  I flinch. He inspects the cake and grins. The man is always smiling. Drives me nuts.

  “Dis girl has the magic touch, no? What a beautiful cake, eh?” he says to Dad, who is busy sending a text.

  “It’s not done yet,” I say. It’s not bad. But there’s something missing. I stare at it from all angles. No, it’s not right.

  I close my eyes, think of her.

  What’s missing, Mom?

  “Hurry up, Sheridan. We need to get to the hospital,”

  Dad says.

  “No. I said I have too much to do.”

  “You need to visit your grandmother. We won’t be long.”

  The bell on the front door jingles. “Ah, dat would be Mrs. Ellis,” Mr. Roz says. “Here—I help you put cake in box.” He grabs a piece of flat cardboard and begins to fold it.

  “Okay, I’ll wait in the car, Sheridan. Get that cake out of here and let’s go,” Dad says, and walks out the back door.

  “Hello?” a woman calls from the front.

  “It’s not done,” I whisper. Mr. Roz is crowding my space, so I nudge him out of the way. “Something’s not right.”

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  “Oh, it’s perfect!” Mr. Roz glides in front of me, picks up the cake, and places it into the box he’s made. “One minute, Mrs. Ellis!” he calls up front.

  I slide the box and cake away from him. “It is not done.”

  I pore over every inch of the cake. What will make it perfect? I’m drawing a blank.

  He reaches for the box again. “Don’t!” I bat at his arm.

  “Sheridan.” He laughs, like I’m joking, and whisks the cake away from me. Again. “It’s just what she ordered. She will love it. Now is time to let go.”

  Let go? No. I won’t! Who is he to tell me when my cakes are done?

  But he takes it up front before I can stop him.

  I can hear the woman oohing and aahing over it. What does she know? Then I hear the cash register open and close, and hear my client walk out with an imperfect cake. I am furious.

  I toss some pastry bags into their storage bins, and am throwing metal tips into the sink when Mr. Roz comes back, whistling. Really, whistling? He goes to the sink and acts like nothing happened.

  “You got homework tonight?”

  “Of course I do,” I bark.

  He washes the tips, his back to me. “You good girl, Sheridan. I think you becoming a very fine woman. You have many gifts.”

  “Yeah. I’m like my mother. Except she never would have 208

  let that cake go unfinished.” I throw the buttercream into the walk-in cooler. Mr. Roz is quiet for a moment, then turns off the faucet. I look at him; he is staring at me.

  “Yes. Your mama was good—good for cakes. Nice with customers. But she did not make good choices. You make good choices.”

  I step back. It’s like he’s smacked me across the face, insulting her like that. Good choices and bad choices?

  “Really?”

  He turns back around and picks up a towel to dry the tips; he still hasn’t picked up on my tone.

  “Who are you to tell me about my mother? You have no idea why she left.” The words seep from my mouth like poison. He turns around slowly. Now he knows I’m mad.

  “You have no clue.” I’m finished cleaning up the counter, so I grab my schoolbag, still facing him. “But she loves me. I’ll bet she tells everyone about me. Tells everyone how proud she is of me. And she’s coming back, too. So don’t you dare judge her!”

  His large eyes turn downward. “Yes, I think she is very proud of you.” Then those eyes meet mine, and they are filled with so much love I can’t stand it. “You are wonderful girl. We al very proud of you.”

  I shake my head and push in a stool, banging my toe in the process. “Ouch!” I shout, much louder than necessary.

  Roz runs from the sink and catches my elbow. “What happen? You okay?” I wrench my arm out of his hand and 209

  hobble away, my bag on my shoulder.

  “I am fine! And don’t say another word about my mother. I talked to her, and she’s coming here. And stop acting like you’re part of my family. You are not my family!” I yell that last sentence and regret the words even as they roll off my tongue. But it’s too late to take them back.

  “Sheridan! Shut up!” My father is standing at the back door. Crap.

  “No, Donovan,” Mr. Roz says in a kind voice. “It’s okay.

  Really, this is hard time for her.”

  I wish he’d stop being so nice.

  “Get in the car. Now,” Dad says.

  I know that face, and I know better than to argue.

  I walk out the back door and get into the car. Dad doesn’t come out right away. Probably apologizing for my horrid behavior.

  A chill runs through me. I pull out my cell phone and scroll down to my sent calls. Look at the number for Mom’s bakery. I want to hit the number so bad and ask her why she hasn’t called back.

  Dad slams his way out the back door and looks like he’s going to kill me.

  He slides into his seat, grabs the phone out of my hand, stares forward in silence for a long minute.

  “Are we going?” I barely finish the question when he snaps his head to look at me.

  “First of all, if you ever talk to Jakup like that again, you 210

  will never drive, never leave the house, never decorate another cake again. Got it? He is the best kind of person, and he’s working his ass off right now!”

  I look out the side window and don’t say a word.

  “And second—am I right in hearing that you called your mother?”

  I shrug.

  He starts the car and peels off down the alley. I still don’t answer.

  “What did she say to you?”

  I shrug again. “Nothing. She said she’d call back.”

  He snorts.

  “What? What’s wrong with me talking to my own mother?” I ask.

  “You are a real piece of work. Tell me, has she called back, Sheridan?”

  “She will.”

  “Sheridan! Your mother is not going to call you back.

  Trust me. I’m sorry, but she’s not. It’s just you and me, kid!”

  He’s ranting like a lunatic, and I just want to jump out of the car. “God, I wish you’d stop acting like a four-year-old and accept the fact that you got stuck with a shitty mom.”

  I gasp. My eyes narrow. I completely hate him. “How can you say that? You know what?” I face him, my voice positively thunderous. “Do your show without me. I quit!

  I’m sure they can find someone else to play me; just tell them that I act like a four-year-old and can’t handle it!”

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  He sneers. “Oh, no way. You are not quitting. I don’t care if I have to paint a smile on your face; you are not blowing this for us.”

  “For us?” I throw my hands in the a
ir. “What part of this is for us? It’s all about you. You just want to get out of here and get famous. So go! Go get famous. Leave me. I’m not doing it.”

  He slams on the brakes when we come to a stop sign. The car jerks backward. He turns to me and sticks a finger in my face. “Stop this, Sheridan. Right now. You aren’t going to be like her. I won’t allow it. Your mother is selfish. Can’t you see that? She was never able to put anyone else over herself. But that’s not how I raised you. You are not going to be like her.”

  “What? I want to be like her. She’s not selfish. You are.

  All you think about is yourself!” I take a deep, heaving breath, and my upper lip starts to spasm. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold back tears.

  But Dad isn’t done with me yet. “Oh, you think she’s not selfish because she sent you those cards? You have got to be kidding me.” A cruel laugh escapes him as we sit at the stop sign. “I’m wondering when you’re going to see the pattern in those cards; promising you this or that; sounding like she’s missing you, like she thinks about you all the time.” His booming voice hurts my ears. “And then another year passes and nothing. When are you going to see? Not only is she selfish, she’s a lying bitch—”

  Oh, that’s it. “Don’t you ever talk about my mother like 212

  that!” I scream across the space that is rapidly closing in on me. “You’re the liar, you’re selfish one! You’re the one who wants to take away everything that I love!”

  Hot tears pour like mini-waterfalls down my face. I can’t fight them anymore. I grab for the handle and yank the door open. There’s a car behind us now. I step out onto the street.

  “Get in the car!” he bellows with fury.

  “No!” I slam the door shut as the car behind us honks.

  And then the greatest dad on the face of the earth hits the gas and squeals off, out of town and away from me. I watch the car until it rounds the corner, then I turn, unable to see through the fog of tears in my eyes.

  “You okay, honey?” The honking car’s passenger window is rolled down, and I see the tourist lady who was in Sweetie’s the other week. The one who wanted my father’s autograph and thought he was a doll. I wonder what she’d think of him if she knew he just abandoned his daughter by the side of the road.

  I force a smile and nod. “I’m fine.” I point to my head.

  “Allergies.”

  She gives her boorish husband the go-ahead to drive away, and I trudge up a hill. My father says he loves me, but he does not. He’d be happy to leave me in St. Mary and go to New York alone. I’m sure of it.

  I reach the top of the hill and see all of St. Mary below: the high school football field, the town square, the court-house, and even Lake Michigan. But for the first time in my 213

  life, I wish I were someone else, somewhere far away.

  In the center of my vision, I see Ethan’s mansion. The red brick almost pulses in the pinks and yellows of the setting sun. Like it’s alive, calling me over.

  Let go? I think of the voice I heard in Lori’s bathroom Oh, yeah, I’ll let go. My feet step one in front of the other, and I know that I have to see him, hold him, kiss him, feel his arms around me. I force everything else from my mind.

  I wipe my eyes, sniff, and straighten my back, determined. Ethan thinks I’m different, in a good way. He thinks I’m special. Not just for my cakes, but for everything I am.

  By the time I get to the gate, I am practically running.

  The front door knocker is a giant lion, like the one in A Christmas Carol where Marley’s face pops out of Ebenezer’s door. I half expect a ghostly version of my grandmother to show herself, warning me not to do what I’m about to do. So I bang on the thing hard and then cover it with my hand.

  One more knock and I hear the lock unlatch on the other side. The door creaks open, and I am staring into the face of Haley Haversham. I can tell she is surprised to see me, but a wicked grin spreads across her face, like a wound peeling open.

  “I got it!” Ethan yells from inside the house. He appears in the foyer, waving some money.

  “Sheridan!” he says, and goes all pale.

  “It’s not the pizza guy,” Haley snickers.

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  I turn and walk away before I start bawling like a pathetic loser in front of her.

  “Wait!” Ethan runs up behind me, but now I’m running, too.

  “It’s okay,” I call over my shoulder, concentrating every ounce of energy in my body to keep myself together. “I get it; it’s no big deal.”

  I am almost to the gate when he catches the side of my arm and turns me around to face him.

  “Come on, Ethan,” Haley calls from the front door. “Let her go. I’m sure she’s got some cake to make or something.”

  She’s laughing.

  “Sheridan . . .” He is breathing heavy; his voice is a harsh whisper. “This isn’t what you think. She came over. I don’t want her here.” His voice breaks, like he might cry. “I want you.”

  “Ethan!” Haley again.

  I wrench myself out of his grip. “Come on.” I step back from him. “This isn’t going to work. I don’t have the time.

  So this is fine.” And here come the tears. God, I’m turning into a human sprinkler.

  “No. Don’t say that.” He grabs me again. “Don’t go away like this. I’m so sorry. She called and wanted to study. We are not back together.” His eyebrows are all scrunched up.

  He does look sorry.

  “Really, Ethan.” I pull myself away again. “It’s okay.” No matter what he says, nothing changes the fact that Haley is 215

  standing in his doorway. And I am not.

  “No, Sheridan. Listen to me.” He’s moved so close that I can feel his breath on my face. He puts his arms around my waist. “Don’t go away like this. You are the one I want to be with. Not her.”

  I don’t want him to hold me, not in front of her, but then I breathe in that Ethan scent and I am toast. I don’t know if I should believe him. God, I love being in his arms.

  “When? When are we supposed to be together?” I look up at him with worried eyes.

  “We’ll find the time.” He touches my cheek, wipes away a tear.

  “Ethan! Here’s the pizza. Finally!” Haley is losing patience, watching him hold me in the front yard.

  “When?” I ask.

  “Tonight? Can you get out?”

  “No. I told you.” I shake my head. It’s the truth. They’re filming us at the bakery later, even though I just quit. But I also know that if I refuse, Dad will make me pay. As in, no cakes. There’s no quitting. I’m stuck.

  “Okay, tomorrow night. Even just for a walk? Meet me at the harbor. What time?”

  “Probably not until late.”

  “Ten?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. That’s fine. Just try. Good.” He leans in like he’s going to kiss me, but I step away. There’s no way I’m going 216

  to kiss him while she’s watching. And certainly not in front of Grant Flickner, the pizza guy, who walks through the gate at that moment.

  “Hey, Cake Girl!” Grant says as the pizza box tips pre-cariously in his hands. I made a Fender guitar cake for his bar mitzvah a few years ago. It looked just like the real thing.

  “Hey, Grant,” I say, avoiding his eyes and walking out of the gate wishing that the ground beneath me would open up and swallow Cake Girl whole.

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  Chapter 18

  sour grapes

  The farther I get from Ethan’s house, the better I feel.

  The sobbing stops, and now I am resolved to see my plan through. I will call Mom as soon as I get home. And if she’s not there, I’m leaving a message. As for Haley being at Ethan’s, I’m still trying to work that one through. If this was happening to Lori, I would tell her to forget him. But now I know firsthand that’s easier said than done.

  When I turn the corner near the restaurant, I see limos and trucks all over the p
arking lot. They’re swarming in and out of the restaurant: the Suits, cameramen, and crew. No way can I run into one of them now.

  I turn around, head back down the alley, and enter the house through the back door. I run upstairs, close my bedroom door, turn on my laptop, and go to my jewelry box. Mom’s note floats on top, Jack’s bracelet just beneath it.

  I stuff the heart-shaped piece of paper into my front pocket, then pick up the bracelet, slip it around my wrist, and fasten it tight.

  I growl at the computer, which is taking its sweet time booting up. Since Dad took my phone, I need to get the phone number for Mom’s bakery off the Internet. I am going to call her and very simply insist that she come back.

  Finally, I get online and google Sweetie’s in Sault Sainte Marie. I punch the long Canadian number into the cordless and wait. I am not even a little bit nervous. This is no time to panic. This might be my last chance. Do or die.

  The phone rings and rings, and then finally the voice mail picks up, again.

  “Hello. This is Sheridan.” I pause. Too late to change my mind now. “Um, you said you’d call me back.” Okay, so I am a little nervous. “Uh, you need to call me back. You promised, Mom. This is my number.” I leave my cell number, but as soon as I hit “off,” I realize I just gave the number to the phone that Dad took away.

  Oh crap. This day just keeps getting better. I toss the phone onto my bed, grab my bag. Jack’s bracelet gets caught on my sweater sleeve. I miss him. It’s like there’s a big hole where he used to be, like a missing piece to a puzzle. I miss his goofy sense of humor. I miss him just being here.

  There’s no one I can talk to like I can talk to Jack. I want 219

  to be friends again.

  The doorbell rings, but I grab my coat and schoolbag, tiptoe down the stairs and sneak out the back door.

  I head down the alley and around the corner to Main Street, walking west toward the church rectory. It’s five thirty and the sun is starting to go down, but there’s enough light to start a few more drawings.