Maybe This Time

by Kasie West

  When she said it like that, it sounded like a passing thought and not my everything. “Yes.”

  “Have you applied for my scholarship?” Mr. Washington asked. “You’re a junior this year, right?”

  I tightened the bow tie and stepped back. “I am. But you haven’t changed the rules of your scholarship, have you? I thought it was only for students who want to go to college in Alabama.” Mr. Washington had more love for Alabama than anyone I knew, and he had been bribing students to fill its colleges for over twenty years now.

  “It is.”

  “I’m going to school in New York.”

  Mr. W’s wrinkled brow became even more wrinkled. “But your mother told me you couldn’t afford that.”

  “I’ve been saving, and my dad is going to help some.”

  He must’ve heard the defensiveness in my voice because he said, “That’s great, but it doesn’t hurt to apply. There’s nothing wrong with a backup plan.”

  My mom liked to use that phrase a lot too—backup plan. She had me failing before I’d even begun.

  I nodded. “I’ll think about it.” I’d think long and hard about how I wasn’t going to do that at all. In a year and a half, all my dreams were going to come true.

  When I brought the boxes of gift bags back into the cafeteria, Mr. Entitled was nowhere to be seen. Thank goodness. But Caroline was there, messing with speakers she had set up by two potted plants.

  “Oh, good!” Caroline said, coming over to me. “I was worried I left them at home.” She peeked into the top box I carried. “Aren’t these adorable?” She picked up a cellophane bag with little red hearts on it. “They match the centerpieces!”

  “Cute,” I said, trying to sound sincere.

  “Now,” Caroline said, “if you’ll fill each of the bags with a large pinch of pink grass and a handful of these wrapped chocolate hearts, they’ll be the perfect little take-home favors for the guests. There’s some ribbon to tie the bags in there too.” She looked around like she was searching for something, then put her hands on her hips. “You can’t put the bags together in here. That’s not very professional. Do you think you can find a room somewhere?”

  “I’ll do it in the back of the kitchen,” I said. “Mr. Williams doesn’t ever mind if I take over a counter.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know if that will work today.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked at her watch. “Oh, it’s nearly time. Just tuck the boxes in that storage closet and you can get to them later. Right now, will you go to the lobby and see if they have all the guests gathered yet? If so, you can lead them inside.”

  “Okay.” I found the supply closet outside the kitchen, pushed the boxes under the bottom shelf, and walked down the hall. The entire lobby and part of the hallway was filled with chatting families.

  “Good evening!” I tried to say above the voices, but nothing changed. I scanned the group, curiosity getting the better of me and wanting to place Mr. Entitled into a family. But I didn’t see him anywhere. I did see Kyle, though, standing next to his grandma. So she had moved into the home sometime in the past year.

  Kyle was wearing a tie, which he’d already loosened, with a collared shirt and jeans. His blond hair was rumpled and falling into his eyes, as always. He smiled at me and I smiled back, my face getting warm. Maybe my brother hadn’t ruined things after all.

  Finally one of the nurses let out a loud whistle and a “Quiet down, y’all!”

  I turned my attention back to the group. “I’m glad you’re already having fun,” I said. “If everyone is here, we’d like to welcome you into the main event. Please follow me.”

  I led the large group back down the hall, acutely aware that Kyle was probably watching me. But I was here to work, not get distracted.

  Inside the cafeteria, soft music poured from the speakers. “Welcome!” Caroline beamed.

  I held the door open while the group filed inside, so I heard their first oohs and aahs. Caroline was right; they loved the over-the-top setup.

  Kyle was one of the last to enter, and he paused right next to me. “I didn’t know you were going to be here,” he said.

  “Every Occasion did the flowers.”

  “Oh, yeah. That makes sense,” he said.

  “You didn’t get asked to play?”

  Kyle and I went to school together, but we’d also been at a couple of the same events since I’d started working at Every Occasion last year (after I’d been turned down by the one place in town I wanted to work at: Minnie’s Alterations).

  “You think my band would’ve gone over well here?” He nodded to the speakers with a grin. Kyle’s band played mostly loud and unintelligible music, but somehow they made it work.

  “Your grandma doesn’t like your music?”

  He laughed, and the sound made me smile.

  “See ya around, Evans.” He joined his grandma at a center table.

  Just as I was about to shut the cafeteria doors, a man wearing a white chef coat and a sour expression swept out of the kitchen. He grumbled something and angrily marched to the end of the hall, where he shoved open the door leading outside and stepped through. He looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place him. Had Mr. Williams hired an assistant chef? I didn’t think he could afford that. He already employed Lance Ling (a guy who went to school with me and Micah) to help out at events.

  Micah was suddenly at my side. “Where did he go?” she asked.

  “Um …” I pointed and she raced after the runaway chef.

  I started to shut the doors again. Then I hesitated, looked behind me once, saw that Caroline was occupied with some guests, and followed after Micah.

  When I made it outside, I pretended to head to the van, my eavesdropping not subtle at all. Micah and the man in the white coat were standing on the sidewalk.

  “He’s more than honored to have you here,” Micah was saying. “Anyone would be. You’re Jett Hart.”

  Jett Hart? I held back a gasp and did a double take. Sure enough, it was him. Jett Hart, the host of a now-discontinued show on Food Network called Cooking with Hart. He looked much older than I remembered him from back in his television chef days, but it had been at least ten years since then. Where had he been for the last ten years? Here? In Alabama? What was he doing at the Valentine’s Dinner? How did Micah know him? So many questions flooded my brain, none of them with ready answers.

  “That’s correct. Anyone would be,” Jett said with an air of self-importance.

  “Please just come back,” Micah said. “He’ll listen. He’s just old and set in his ways.”

  “Old and set in his ways does not sound like someone willing to listen.”

  “He will,” she promised.

  I realized I had stopped on the path and was gawking so I resumed my walk toward the van.

  As I passed her, Micah reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me to her side. “Mr. Hart, this is Sophie Evans. She’s a big fan.”

  That wasn’t true. I was in second grade when his show went off the air. I’d seen a few reruns over the years. He was bossy, mean, and arrogant, albeit talented. But I knew Micah needed me to agree with her statement, and I always backed her up.

  “A huge fan,” I blurted. “The things you do with fish, sir, are inspiring.”

  Micah elbowed me in the side and cleared her throat. “I think the timer on the appetizers is about to go off. Let’s go back in before my dad burns them.”

  Her dad would never burn appetizers. He was a great chef as well. Sure, he wasn’t famous (and he wasn’t famous ten years ago either), but everyone loved his food.

  Jett let out a huff and headed back for the building.

  I held on to Micah’s arm to keep her from following him. “What is going on? Why would your dad burn his appetizers? He’s been cooking them for years.”

  “Because they’re not my dad’s appetizers. They’re Jett’s.”

  “Jett made the appetizers? You changed up the menu for the retire
ment home Valentine’s Dinner? Tell me he’s not doing something extra fancy for them. They literally just got excited over heart balloons.”

  “It’ll be fine,” she said. I knew when Micah felt out of her comfort zone, like her carefully organized life had thrown her for a loop. And she was feeling that now. “It’ll all work out.”

  “Yes, it will.” Since I had no idea what was going on, I wasn’t actually sure this was true, but I knew she needed to hear it. “Is this part of the big news you were going to tell me?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll fill you in later. I need to go play referee.”

  “Okay. Good luck.” I gave her my best smile and she ran back inside.

  I was so confused. Jett Hart was in Rockside, Alabama, a town where nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. I wanted to think this was a good thing—a sign of exciting things to come—but my gut was telling me it might be the exact opposite.

  You had to stay in case of a flower emergency?” Mr. Entitled asked me when I reentered the cafeteria. He stood next to the punch bowl, holding his phone and studying the mingling crowd.

  I replenished a stack of napkins. “I was informed there was a flower thief on the loose so …”

  He smirked.

  “Are you bored?” I asked.

  “How could I be? This must be the most excitement this town sees all year.”

  Before I could voice my indignation yet again, Micah came by with a trayful of food. Apparently the appetizers hadn’t burned after all.

  “Quick,” Micah whispered. “Eat one of these.”

  “Why?” I asked, studying the tray. A square made of an unknown substance (bread?) was topped with a red-and-white cream and finished off with a sprig of green.

  “Because nobody is eating them. They taste good to me, but maybe I’m wrong.”

  Mr. Entitled picked one up and ate it in one bite.

  I continued to study Jett’s appetizers. A surge of irritation sparked in my chest at the person causing my friend this much stress.

  “I knew this would be the wrong crowd to try a new menu on,” I said to Micah. “They just want pigs in blankets, or those amazing mac-and-cheese balls your dad does. They don’t want fancy crap from some washed-up chef.”

  “Um …” Micah started.

  “What?” I said, trying to reassure her. “Your dad is awesome. He doesn’t need help from some has-been. What is Jett Hart even doing here? He obviously disappeared for a reason. And if it wasn’t because of his absolute arrogance and lack of common decency on his show, I’m guessing it had a lot to do with whatever this … thing masquerading as an appetizer is.” I picked up the offending square of food and sniffed it. It actually didn’t smell half-bad. Then I stuck it in my mouth. It seemed to melt on my tongue, awakening all my taste buds.

  Mr. Entitled cleared his throat. “He actually disappeared because he wanted to live a quieter life with his family and help struggling small-business owners find their footing. But some might describe that as washed-up.” He gave a small nod, took the tray from Micah, said, “Let me try for a minute,” and left.

  I stood there trying not to choke on the food in my mouth.

  “I thought you knew who he was,” Micah hissed.

  “How would I know who he is? I still don’t, but I’m guessing he’s somehow related to Jett?”

  “That’s his son,” she said. “Andrew Hart.”

  Oh.

  “I’m a jerk.”

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  I hit her arm. “This is all your fault. Why didn’t you tell me about this … whatever this is, I still don’t know—before today?”

  “Because I didn’t know until last night!” Micah exclaimed. “And I didn’t want to text you and bother you on your date.”

  I glanced around to see if Kyle was nearby, but thankfully he was still sitting with his grandma at the table across the room.

  “My dad applied for this program Jett Hart does,” Micah continued. “Jett mentors small-business owners and then they get to use his name on their business.”

  “Sophie!” Caroline called, waving me over to where some balloons had come untied. “I need you!”

  I started toward Caroline but glanced back at Micah. “You are going to tell me all the details later,” I said.

  “Absolutely. For now, I better go learn how Andrew is selling the appetizers. His tray is half-empty.”

  “Andrew Hart,” I mumbled, annoyed at just the thought of him. At least I wouldn’t have to see him again after tonight.

  “A year? What do you mean a year?” I cried.

  “Shh.” Micah was scraping the remains off dinner plates into the garbage can and then sticking them in the trays that would later be transported to their industrial dishwasher. I was standing at a side counter, finally assembling the gift bags.

  I looked over my shoulder, but we were the only ones in the kitchen. Mr. Williams and Jett were circulating the cafeteria, listening to feedback. I assumed it was mostly complaints that her dad hadn’t made his famous mashed potatoes and instead had tried to force balsamic-dressed arugula down their throats.

  “That’s the program,” Micah explained calmly. “A year of mentoring, which then allows us to use Jett’s name on our business.”

  “Does his name hold any power anymore?” I kept my voice low.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  I grabbed a bunch of pink grass to scatter in a bag. “But what’s in it for Jett?”

  “I think he really does want to better communities and help small businesses thrive,” Micah said with a shrug. “Well, that and he’ll own a percentage of our business after a year.”

  “What?”

  “Shh.”

  “Sorry. It’s just, I thought you said you were already struggling. How is giving Jett a percentage of your business going to help?”

  “He promises he’ll grow our business by at least thirty percent, and in return we’ll give him ten percent.”

  “Has he ever worked with someone from a town this small?” I asked, still not convinced. “There is no way you are going to grow your business by thirty percent living here.” I added a handful of chocolate hearts to another bag.

  “That’s the beauty of his name,” Micah said, reaching for another plate. “It’s going to give us the recognition we need to expand into the surrounding areas. We’ll travel a little more, but we’ll make more money. Plus, Jett Hart is a famous white chef. His name could get us past the barrier of people who otherwise wouldn’t hire a black caterer.”

  “Oh,” I said, humbled. There were a couple of families in particular that I knew she was referring to. But I was sure I didn’t know everything Micah had to deal with, even though we’d been friends since kindergarten. “You’re right.”

  “Andrew is going to help my dad put together a website too.”

  I curled my lip. “He is? Doesn’t Andrew have to go to school? How old is he anyway?”

  “He’s seventeen. And no, he works with his dad. He does independent study.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  A piece of lettuce clung to the plate she was holding, and she shook it until it fell into the trash. “I read through the entire contract last night when my dad told me he’d actually won. And then I spent hours on the internet compiling every bit of information I could find from past participants.”

  Of course she had. Micah would want to know every detail of everything to help her process this news. Which was probably why her dad hadn’t said anything until he actually knew if it was happening or not.

  “And what did you conclude?” I asked, still not able to tell if she was fully on board with the whole plan.

  “I think it might actually work. Jett has turned other businesses around.”

  “And you’re okay?” I asked, studying her. “You seemed upset earlier.”

  “I’m good. I was just stressed because Jett and my dad were arguing.”

  “I don’t get it. If
your dad applied for this, how come he is fighting the changes?”

  “I think he thought Jett would show up and be like, ‘Wow, you’re already amazing, here’s my name and a million dollars.’ ”

  “Really?”

  “Well, no, not exactly, but something like that.” She turned to face me. “I thought you’d be more excited about this.”

  “Sorry, you’re right, I am. I wasn’t sure if you were, so I was hesitant. But this is cool. I hope it works out for your family.”

  She waved a dish at me. “No, not excited for us, but thank you. I mean, excited for you.”

  I frowned. “Why would I be excited for me?”

  “Do you know how many connections Jett Hart must have?” she said, her brown eyes sparkling. “He’s worked in Hollywood; he’s lived in London and New York. New York, Sophie! This guy could be an in for you.”

  My mind spun. Jett Hart would definitely have connections to the food industry, but to the fashion industry? Hmm. Maybe he’d cooked for some big-name designers or fashion-magazine editors. Maybe he could score me an internship or, at the very least, a contact. “I hadn’t thought of that. You might be right.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  I grabbed the spool of ribbon and scissors as my mind replayed the events of the evening. “Do you think Andrew is going to tell his dad what I said about him?”

  Micah shook her head. “I doubt it. He might be a spoiled pretty boy, but he doesn’t seem like the type to go running to daddy.”

  “Spill,” I said. Micah had been researching for hours the night before, so she’d obviously discovered some things about Andrew too. If I had to put up with this guy for a year, I wanted to know exactly who I was dealing with.

  Micah put another plate in the tray and straightened up. “Not much to tell. He and his dad have lived in seven different places in the last seven years.”

  “Is that the excuse he uses for his personality?”

  The door pushed open and Jett Hart and Mr. Williams stepped through, cutting our gossip session short.

  “Sophie!” Mr. Williams said, pulling some mixing bowls out of a box on the island. “It’s good to see you.”