“Well, that’s all Bert,” she says, confirming my suspicions. “He saw a commercial for Pizza Hut while we were watching Rachel Maddow, and he just had to have it. We tried going there, but that stuff is awful and the staff was just rude. But he really likes that stuffed crust, so I made him a deal. We can pick up a slice for him, but it has to be to go, and then we’re going to Hot ’N Crusty. That’s our place, and you don’t mess with a good thing. Which makes it all the more heartbreaking that it’s closed, because I don’t care what those commercials say, that is not pizza over there at the Pizza Hut. It’s a salty, over-cheesed mess!”
Bert shrugs, like hey, the heart wants what the heart wants, and I can respect that.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” I say, miming a lock and key over my lips.
“Oh, it wouldn’t matter, dear. When you get to be as old as dirt, no one says boo to you. But I promise you this, if Hot ’N Crusty reopens, we will only eat there from now on! No more contraband pizza for us, you hear me, Bert?”
Bert nods, his loyalty to Hot ’N Crusty—or at least to his wife—trumping his love of the stuffed crust.
I head back into the kitchen just as the bride and groom are lining up to cut into Mom’s beautiful cake with what looks like a Napoleonic sword. Mom’s got fifty plates already laid out, with two more stacks of fifty on deck. It’ll be my job to move plated cake to trays for the cater waiters to distribute, then replace the empty spots with fresh plates until all 150 slices are apportioned. Getting it all done requires you to sort of slip into an efficiency coma, only coming back to yourself when the job is done. And when it is, Mom and I hop up onto the now empty prep table and sigh.
“I met with Del the other day,” she says.
“What about?”
“He’s helping me with some logistics. I think I found a spot to open up a storefront,” she says.
“Wow! Seriously? How did that happen?”
She shrugs. “It’s time. I love this, but I can already tell it’s getting too big for our kitchen at home. And I want it to get bigger.”
“I didn’t realize you were already at that point, though. Your own bakery? That’s huge.”
“Well, it’s time for me to have a thing. You’ll be off to college soon. And let’s be honest, you haven’t really needed me for a while.”
“That’s not true, Mom. I always need you.” I just haven’t been very good about showing it lately.
“I know, but the needs you have now require less of my actual day-to-day time. It’s not like when I had to match your socks up for you or cut the crusts off your peanut butter sandwiches. Soon you’ll just need me for a phone call or a load of laundry, if I’m lucky. And I’ll always be here for you, of course, but I can’t just sit around. I need to fill up my days.” She brushes away a smear of frosting on her pant leg. “I thought about going back to teaching, but I think I’ve been out of it too long. And this makes me really happy.”
“Well, you’re really good at it. I’m pretty sure every petit four you brought is already gone, and I doubt that cake is going to last long, either,” I say, and I watch her cheeks bloom under the compliment. “I hope you brought business cards, because I think you just wooed a bunch of new clients with tonight’s treats.”
She throws an arm around me, pulling me in. “I love you, kid. You’re the best, you know that?”
“Well, you raised me like this,” I tell her, leaning into the warmth of her hug.
* * *
The next day I call Del to check in, and he’s finally got some news. And it’s not good.
“The insurance company came through with the money that’ll cover the building repairs, but I also have to replace all the kitchen equipment. All of it was old, and paid off, so the insurance company didn’t offer much. The cost of buying that stuff new is astronomical these days.”
“Can’t you get a loan?”
“I’m having a hard time with the banks. HnC was profitable when everything was paid off, and I made a decent living. But when you factor in loan payments, it gets more dicey. And in this economy, banks are a little gun-shy about it.”
It’s the news I’d been dreading, but instead of falling apart, I feel oddly calm. I can fix this. I have to fix this. Hot ’N Crusty cannot close on my watch. It existed before me, and I need it to exist long after.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.
“Unless you’ve got an in with a loan officer, I think you’ll just have to cross your fingers, Beck.”
But that doesn’t seem like a good enough strategy.
“I just can’t believe Hot ’N Crusty would actually close for good. It’s an institution!”
“Julianne was saying something about trying to get a show of community support, but I don’t think that kind of thing holds much water with banks these days. We’re not dealing with the Savings and Loan. Letters of recommendation don’t go very far.”
When I hang up, something Del said sticks in my mind. A show of community support. Like how Bert and Birdie are missing their weekly pizza night? And I’m missing all my friends? There’s got to be more like us out there. Hot ’N Crusty was hardly a five-star restaurant, but we had our regulars who I’m sure miss us. All those houses Tristan would deliver to. Like Birdie said, Pizza Hut is no substitute. No, Del isn’t George Bailey, and communities are a little different now, anyway. But I might know how to harness the power of this one.
I fumble around my room, finding a torn-off cover of a phone book with Ken Lunn’s face on it, a donation to continue the Wall of Justice. And then, at the bottom of a pile, is the business card. I meant to throw it away, but it ended up on my desk in a pile of discarded receipts and scraps of paper that my mother is always pleading with me to please for the love of god just throw it in the trash can, Beck, it’s right there. It’s crumpled, but I can still read everything on it, including the email address.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Molly Landau didn’t answer, so I had to leave a message. I have absolutely no idea what I said. I think it was mostly a rambling mess, but I must have gotten the point across, because it took her under three minutes to call me back. She seemed afraid I was going to change my mind, because by the end of our conversation, she’d bumped a segment on a local corgi race so that I could sit for the interview the very next night.
My next call was harder to make.
It’s an hour and a half before I have to be at the studio when the doorbell rings. I bolt from my room and practically clothesline my dad to get to the door. “It’s for me!” I cry as I fling open the door. And there stands my glam squad, Natalie carrying a tote bag, Cora brandishing her tackle box, and Tamsin with a garment bag slung over her shoulder.
“Let’s do this,” Tamsin says, rushing past me toward my bedroom, Cora hot on her heels. Natalie pauses, though, still on the floral welcome mat that’s been in front of my house my entire life. It’s so old that the L has started to wear away, and now it just reads WE COME.
“Natalie, I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’ve been a shitty friend.”
“No, you haven’t,” Natalie says.
“I have. I haven’t been myself, and I acted like that was everyone else’s problem. And I ended up shutting you out because of it.” As I say the words, I send out a silent thank-you to Tristan, because even though it hurt to be called on it, I think without knowing what I needed to say to Natalie, it really would have been the end of our friendship. And it might still be, if I’ve waited too long to fix the damage I caused.
“Beck, I just want you to be happy. And I didn’t understand why you weren’t.”
“I don’t think I did, either,” I say. “But I do now. And I want to fix it. And most of all, I don’t want to lose you. You’re my best friend, Nat.”
“Are you sure? Because I felt like I was doing all the heavy lifting. I got tired of always having to be the one to call and make the plans.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m
going to stop just letting things happen to me, okay? I’m going to run this show from now on,” I say, pointing two thumbs at myself. I’m done taking the path of least resistance. I’m done being the girl with no plan, just a label. It’s time to take control, even if it means owning that label completely.
Natalie stands there, nudging at the newly fading C on the welcome mat. She hoists the tote bag up on her shoulder and sighs. “I hope so,” she says, finally looking up. My words may have started the process, but I can tell I have a long way to go before we’re actually back where we were—if we can ever get there. “I just thought you were so mad at me, and I didn’t know why.”
“I think I was mad at myself,” I tell her.
“Well, cut that shit out,” she says, looking back at her shoes. “That’s my best friend you’re talking about. You need to treat her nice.”
She says it grudgingly, but it’s a start. And I grin in spite of myself. She finally steps through the door. “Okay, well, let’s go make you turned up to eleven, shall we?”
It’s weird to be on the other side of the curling iron being fussed over, but I can see why it made Julianne so happy. As Cora gently brushes shimmer onto my eyelids and curls my lashes with what looks like a medieval torture device, she coos and tells me how gorgeous my cheekbones are. I try to pay attention to what she’s doing, but I lose the plot sometime around the eyeliner, which she draws into a tiny wing. Natalie skips the straightener on my already stick-straight hair, and instead pulls out a salt spray and a curling wand, shaping my hair into pretty, gentle waves. And Tamsin dives into my closet before declaring my wardrobe a lost cause, instead pairing my own dark denim jeans with an emerald green V-neck with a little knot detail at the point of the V.
“Jewel tones look great on TV,” she assures me.
“It’s a smidge heavier than I’d normally do, but you’ll be under bright lights, so I didn’t want to screw around,” Cora says, presenting me with a hand mirror. And when I glimpse my reflection, I see that, yeah, the eyeliner is dark, and the blush is a bit bright, but I still look like me. She didn’t doll me up or turn me into a Vogue model. It’s still me … just an amplified version.
Beck Brix, who loves Apex Galaxy and has never ever won the table game.
Beck Brix, who loves her friends, even if she doesn’t always understand them.
Beck Brix, who was born on the bathroom floor of Hot ’N Crusty pizza.
“Thanks, you guys,” I say, the words sounding watery in my throat.
“Don’t you dare cry,” Cora says, fanning her own face to beat back the tears. “I used waterproof everything, but that’s still no guarantee.”
“Okay, so let’s skip the tears and just say this,” Tamsin says, snapping the lid on Cora’s tackle box. “Beck, we love you. And we’re here for whatever you need, glam or otherwise. So stop acting like that’s not true, okay?”
I glance over at Natalie, who nods and finally gives me a big smile. Leave it to Tamsin to finally broker the peace. I suck in a breath and nod, too, afraid of my voice and the tears that are welling in my eyes.
“Now get to that studio and show Molly Landau that you’re just as much of a boss bitch as she is.”
I nod again, and they file out of my room. I emerge into the living room, where my parents are waiting to drive me over to WCVB.
“Oh, Beck, you look beautiful!” Mom says. “I mean, you always look beautiful, but today you look TV beautiful.”
“Well done, ladies,” Dad says, nodding at Natalie, Tamsin, and Cora.
“Thank you, thank you,” Tamsin says, dropping into a deep ballerina curtsy.
“Get up, you dork,” Cora says, still sniffling.
“We should get going,” Mom says, her voice suddenly wavering, too, and my god, I’m going to be in pieces before we even get in the car.
“Go save Hot ’N Crusty, Beck,” Natalie says, stepping forward to wrap me in a final hug.
“Seriously, I love those garlic knots,” Tamsin says, making me let out a much-needed laugh.
* * *
I tried to get Molly to pretape the interview, but she swore up and down that it would be better—and fine, just fine—to do it live. But as I sit in a gray armchair that is way less comfortable than it looks, an assistant clipping a microphone to Tamsin’s shirt, I can’t help thinking that nothing about this is fine.
In sixteen years of being the Hot ’N Crusty bathroom baby, I’ve never spoken on camera. That is, unless you count my righteous shrieking as a newborn. And with the lights bearing down on me, Molly sitting across from me getting brushed with all manner of things by a professional makeup artist (who took one look at me and nodded in approval—well done, Cora), I’m remembering why I made that policy to begin with.
“Okay, just like we talked about, there will be a short video package that’ll play first, then they’ll throw to us here in the studio. Just be yourself, and be honest. If you do those two things, you’ll be just fine,” Molly says, and for the first time I think she’s being sincere. There’s no polish, no shellac on her as she gives me that advice. She’s really trying to help me.
The only problem is “myself” and “honest” are two things I haven’t been very good at being lately. In fact, sitting here ready to talk to however many people watch the nightly news will be my first attempt at rectifying that.
“Are you ready?” she asks as everyone clears the stage and takes positions behind the massive cameras pointing at us.
“I think so,” I say. My fingers tell a different story as they tap out a syncopated rhythm on the chair.
“Deep breath,” she says, inhaling and gesturing me to do the same. I do, thinking of Tristan as I consciously pull my shoulders out of my ears, my tongue out of the roof of my mouth. Unclench. We blow out our breath together. We do it twice more, and I find my fingers settling, my heart pounding a little more gently. Then she hits me with a sweet smile, and I honestly cannot tell if it’s fake or not. “You’re going to be great.”
Damn. Molly Landau is good.
And then my thoughts are swept away as the anchor at the desk across the studio launches into the intro, reminding everyone of my humble beginnings and promising a check-in. I watch on a monitor as bits from my original story appear under Molly’s crisp, bright narration. I watch Del, slightly slimmer and with a whole lot less gray in his hair, talking excitedly about my birth, then presenting my parents with a comically large check (which they still have in the garage) promising them free pizza for life. There’s an array of photos from my birthdays over the years. And then the camera cuts to a shot of Hot ’N Crusty, wet and smoldering shortly after the fire. Molly’s voice gets serious as she talks about the destruction and the high cost of repairs. And there’s Del again—Del now, gray hair and all—talking about the enormous expense of reopening, and how he’s not sure if he’s going to be able to secure a loan.
And then the monitor blinks out, and Molly takes a breath in. It’s the reminder I need to smile and sit up straight.
It’s time.
“Beck, thank you so much for being here today,” she says.
“Thank you for having me,” I reply.
“How does it feel to see those images of Hot ’N Crusty?” she asks, going straight for the kill. Which I guess she has to. This isn’t Oprah; we don’t have all night. There are at least a few people at home watching who want to hurry up and get to the sports highlights.
“It hurts,” I tell her, the truth of it settling on my shoulders. “When my mom heard the news, she started crying. Because Hot ’N Crusty is where our family started. And since I started working there a few months ago, it’s become a whole new family for me, too.”
“So if the restaurant were to close, that would be devastating for you,” she says. Not a question. More of a signal.
“It would. And I don’t think I’m alone in that. We have so many regulars for whom coming to Hot ’N Crusty for pizza is a part of their lives. They’ve watched their
kids grow up and go off to college there, had first dates and first loves. Del says more than one couple has gotten engaged there. Hot ’N Crusty is part of our community, and losing it would be devastating for everyone.”
“Have you thought about what might be able to help Hot ’N Crusty survive?”
“Of course, but I’m only sixteen. How many bake sales can one girl hold? Although I do think we’d bring in a pretty penny with my mom’s cakes from Sweet Jessie’s,” I add as Molly winks at me, because yeah, I just hustled for my mom on live television. “What Hot ’N Crusty really needs is an investment from the community. No, it’s not some hot new start-up, but it has serious value, and we need someone to take a chance on that. Which is why I’m starting a FundUs campaign. You can donate any amount to help Del rebuild and reopen. We can help save this beloved institution.”
Okay, maybe I’m laying it on a little thick. I don’t think anyone has ever referred to Hot ’N Crusty as “beloved,” except maybe Del. And if you’d have told me a few months ago that I would be sitting on live television calling it that, I would have tried to slap some sense into you. But I’ve got to pull out all the stops. I looked up how much a single pizza oven costs, and let’s just say my dad is currently driving around in one.
And now it’s time to go in for the kill.
“I had a customer once ask me how my unusual birth affected me,” I say, putting a charitable spin on selfie-lady. “I’ll be honest, for a long time I wanted to hide from it. I just wanted to be me, Beck Brix, not the Hot ’N Crusty Bathroom Baby. But then I realized that I can be all those things. That maybe being born in that bathroom stall was the best thing that ever happened to me. It brought me a whole other family, a second home—one that I don’t want to lose.”
I look into the camera, feeling the first tear crest my cheek. “It took losing it to realize just how much I cared about it,” I say, and my mind flashes to Tristan, hoping he’s watching. Despite saying we’d be friends, without Hot ’N Crusty, it hasn’t meant much. Except now he gives me a smile and a nod as he breezes through the cafeteria. But I miss him. I miss Cecilia, and I miss listening to the Beatles with him even if I don’t love them as much as he does. I even miss his snark. But if I can’t have him, at least I can show him that he helped me find myself. And for that, I’ll always be grateful. So I clear my throat and try for a smile. “And if you care about Hot ’N Crusty, too, then please donate. Every little bit helps.”
It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story Page 21
