A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy

by A. Gardner

  "CPA?"

  "Calle Pastry Academy," she states.

  "Right, of course." I plop down on the couch to let my feet rest before I walk back to my car and haul in my duffle bag. "You're not from here, are you?"

  "Nope," Bree answers. "I'm from Connecticut."

  That explains the housewifey sundress.

  "I'm not from here either. I drove all the way from Oregon. My first road trip since right before I spent four grueling years at Juilliard." I put my feet up on the coffee table and catch Bree looking at the spot where my boots touch the wood furniture. Oh, no. She's a clean freak. "So what's going on tonight? Where do students hang out around here?"

  "I don't know," she huffs. She pulls a serving utensil from her purse. I try not to bust out laughing. She uses it to cut a piece of her chocolate cake. She lays the small piece on a white, porcelain plate and holds up her fork. "I'm going to bed early tonight. I want to get a good night's sleep before classes start tomorrow."

  "What do you think our first day will be like?" I'm praying that I have a few days to get used to everything before we are thrown into the kitchen. Talking to Cole about past work experience made me nervous. I thought I would fit in here, but maybe I was wrong. It would take me longer than an hour to whip out a layered, chocolate cake as perfect as Bree's.

  "I heard it's tough." She takes a bite of her masterpiece and looks up as she chews as if mentally critiquing her own dessert. "These first few days they usually try to weed out people who aren't cut out for the program."

  "Oh," I mutter. "That must have been what happened to Tom Fox."

  "Who?" Bree asks.

  "Tom Fox," I repeat. "Have you heard of him? There's a missing student poster hanging in the bakery."

  "I heard that one in five freshmen end up having a psychological breakdown after their unit one exam."

  "I'm sure that's an exaggeration," I respond.

  I push aside the doubt that is creeping through my head and think of Grandma Liz. She made it through with flying colors. I can make it through day one. No problem. I will just have to work extra hard. I'm no stranger to hard work. If anyone is going home this week, it won't be me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bree squeezes the handle of her whisk. She brought her own whisk to class, and I'm not surprised. The two of us got here before anyone else. Bree insisted on taking the front row counter. I am more of a back row kind of girl, but I agreed because I don't know anyone else. I watch as more and more students pick their seats for our first official class at Calle Pastry Academy, or CPA as Bree says.

  Our classroom is one of many in this building. It serves as both a small lecture hall and a student kitchen. Our desks are metal counters – work stations. Underneath each counter are shelves with various cooking gear. I am pretty sure that the wide variety of baking utensils includes a whisk, but I think Bree is attached to the pastel pink handle on the one she brought from home.

  I wave when I see Cole. He sits in the back row and casually folds his arms as he leans back on his stool to let another student past him. The noise level in the room goes down a notch when our first teacher of the day walks to the front of the classroom. He is wearing a chef's uniform, and he's carrying a kit of his own baking utensils. I feel butterflies in my stomach. We are going to cook today. My eyes go wide as I watch him set up his station. He looks younger than I expected, with brown hair and a pointy nose, but the stern look on his face reminds me of an old man sitting outside a women's fitting room at the mall.

  "Good morning," he says, beginning class. He doesn't have an accent. He's not from around here. "First off, every teacher that you interact with during the course of this program will prefer to be addressed differently. You can call me Professor Sellers." He pauses to glance around the room and make sure that everyone heard his instructions. "Underneath your counter is a set of baking essentials. Please take them out and get ready to jump right in."

  My hands fumble as I pull a set of pans, spoons, and mixing bowls from under my counter. I set them on the surface in front of me and gulp. I never thought I would be this nervous on my first day. My chest starts to pound, and I accidentally drop a bowl on the cement floor. It makes a loud banging noise that forces the entire class to look in my direction. My cheeks feel warm as I pick up the bowl and smile like it is no big deal.

  I really suck at first impressions.

  "Be careful now," the Professor adds. It sounds almost like a scolding. "Ah, there you are." He looks towards the door as another man walks in. The man has white hair, and he's tall and lanky. He is wearing a light khaki colored suit and a baby blue tie that matches the pen on his clipboard. "Everyone, this is the president of our school, Mr. Dixon."

  The classroom is overtaken by complete silence as Mr. Dixon slowly walks to the front. A few students even gaze at him admirably as if they were in the presence of an A-List celebrity. I pretend to be just as amazed, but the truth is I don't know anything about Mr. Dixon other than he signed my acceptance letter.

  "Thank you, Professor Sellers." Mr. Dixon places his hands on the cold countertop and studies our faces. "Welcome to your first day of pastry school." His voice is deep, and it has a southern twang to it. "Some of you have traveled far to be here, and some of you are in your own neck of the woods. But all of you have come for the same reasons: a love of food and an entrepreneurial appetite. So good luck y'all." He nods and looks down at his clipboard. "Francois Calle, the school's founder, emigrated all the way from France almost a hundred years ago and opened a hotel and restaurant here in town. It wasn't long before his hotel shut down due to the economy, but Francois was determined to keep his business afloat, so he started opening his kitchen to culinary students. Pretty soon he had so many interested pupils that he started using his hotel rooms for student housing, and the rest is history." He takes a deep breath and looks up. "Francois passed a lot of his success onto his students, and every president since has strived to continue that legacy. I hope y'all will take full advantage of everything our program has to offer. We have the finest instructors, and we are privileged to participate in various events and learning opportunities around the world." He grins and clears his throat. "Best of luck, everyone."

  Mr. Dixon nods, and a few students start clapping as he slowly leaves the room. Professor Sellers helps him out the door before quickly taking his spot up front. He lifts his chin as he looks at us.

  "Well, one of the first things Mr. Calle made was his famous peach pie," Professor Sellers continues.

  "Famous?" a student comments. Professor Sellers nods and eyes the student in the back like he's about to pull out a detention slip. He seems to be the type of man who takes himself way more seriously than he should.

  "Yes, you heard me correctly." He folds his arms and raises his eyebrows. "After the school became a success, Mr. Calle traveled back to France and prepared this exact dessert for the Queen's banquet."

  Talk about intimidating.

  "The queen?" I whisper. "Is he serious?"

  Bree nods, but she doesn't whisper anything back.

  "In a minute I will pass out a few recipe cards," Professor Sellers announces. "You'll have the rest of class today to make the school's traditional peach pie as best as you can. This will help me assess your current skill levels. And remember, mastering the goods we sell at the student bakery is essential to passing the program."

  He begins passing out cards, starting with the front row. I take a good look at the ingredients and am surprised to see that almost all the ingredients are very basic. I scan the instructions and take a deep breath when I read how to make the pie dough. This will be my first attempt at making dough. Cookie dough doesn't count.

  "What do you think?" I ask Bree. She looks over the recipe without any hint of fear in her eyes.

  "Wow," she comments. "I would never have thought to use vanilla sugar." She promptly stands up and follows half the class to the storage room to gather ingredients. I read over the recipe a few times and cl
ose my eyes.

  You can do this. It's only a pie. You can do this.

  Professor Sellers returns from the pantry with his dry ingredients and immediately begins a demo on how to form pie dough. I watch as he mixes everything together so effortlessly and begins kneading the ball of dough in his bowl. He whips out his crust in minutes, and I have just barely found my measuring cups. I squint as I read them, making sure I'm using the right ones. I'd made the mistake once of using a tablespoon instead of a teaspoon or a teaspoon instead of a tablespoon. Those were a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies I will never forget.

  "Here," Bree says. She lays ingredients in between us. "I got extra for you."

  "Thanks." I grab a handful of fresh peaches that are said to have just arrived from a peach farm in Alabama.

  "You might want to start your dough first," Bree mutters. "The dough needs time to rest."

  "Of course," I reply. Because like the rest of us, pie dough also needs a nap now and again. I begin by cutting my butter into cubes.

  "Smaller," Bree mutters.

  "Like this?"

  Bree nods but stops when she sees Professor Sellers glaring at us. I resume forming my dough on my own, hoping that I at least manage a tasty crust. I mix in the rest of my ingredients and begin working my dough. It's too sticky.

  I add more flour and try again.

  Now it's too stiff.

  I do my best to form a ball with the dough before I put it aside.

  "Don't worry too much about the lattice pattern on top," Professor Sellers comments. He is already rolling out his ball of dough and cutting it into long, thin strips.

  "Lattice pattern?" I repeat. He raises an eyebrow as he looks at me. "Of course, the lattice pattern."

  I immediately look down at my pie filling. I have no idea how big or how small to cut my peaches. I look over my shoulder and see Cole rolling his pie dough and measuring the thickness. I bite the inside of my cheek and do my best to finish.

  This is going to take a lot more work than I thought.

  * * *

  The smell in the classroom is overwhelming. I am desperate to bite into a piece of Bree's pie because it looks absolutely perfect. She even managed to make the lattice pattern on top by weaving together strips of pie dough. She looked so comfortable when she did it. Maybe she knits? I wonder how many pies she has made. I am going to guess hundreds.

  I look down at my pie and gulp when Professor Sellers pulls out a knife and a serving utensil. The sides of my pie are lumpy and some of the filling exploded out of the top while it was in the oven. It doesn't look as professional as all the others. I hope it at least tastes peachy.

  "Okay," Professor Sellers says. "I am going to start with the front row. I will examine your pies, and as I do, I would like you to introduce yourself to the class." He walks over to a girl who arrived right after Bree and me and also took a spot up front. "Let's start with you, please."

  "Hi, I'm Georgina." The woman has dirty blonde hair and a slender figure. She's wearing khaki pants and a light blue, button-down shirt under her apron. I look at her neck and wrist, surprised she's not also wearing pearls. "My family is from upstate New York, and they own a chain of specialty food stores. I plan on having my own brand of gourmet cake mixes. Well…to start."

  She sports a fake smile as she looks around the room. Her smile turns a little sour when she spots me and looks down at the high-heeled boots I decided to wear to class, despite the fact that they stand out.

  Professor Sellers studies a piece of her pie. He holds it up to check the thinness of her crust and thickness of her filling. He puts it down on a plate and takes a large bite. He nods before wiping his mouth.

  "Nice filling to crust ratio," he comments. "Your pastry dough is light and fluffy. It could use a few more minutes in the oven, but other than that it's spot on, Georgina."

  "Thank you, sir." Her eyes carefully examine Bree's pie like it is standing in her way of taking home a gold medal.

  The professor moves onto Bree next. Bree clasps her hands below the counter and twiddles her thumbs. She is wearing tan colored dress pants and a floral blouse. Just like yesterday, I am the only one who decided to wear black this morning.

  "Hi, I'm Bree. I'm from Connecticut, and I am the assistant head baker at a little cupcake shop by the coast. I made my first layered cake when I was five years old, and I have been hooked on sweets ever since." The professor looks at Bree and then studies her pie. He glances at Bree's face a second time as if he is memorizing our names according to his assessment of our pies. He definitely won't forget my name.

  "Again, nice filling to crust ratio," Professor Sellers says. "And you did a great job with the lattice top. Bravo, Bree from Connecticut."

  Bree's cheeks go rosy as she nods.

  He looks at me next. His eyes go wide when they dart down to my pie. He looks up at me and briefly wrinkles his nose.

  "Name?" he asks.

  "Hi, I'm Poppy Peters. I'm from Portland, and I'm a former ballerina." I see Cole nod out of the corner of my eye. I gulp, feeling like I am center stage in a frivolous production of Swan Lake.

  "Well, Poppy." Professor Sellers frowns when he looks at my pie. He slices a piece and holds it up so the whole class can see it. A bit of filling drips onto the counter. He reluctantly takes a small bite and looks at me. "Of course the filling isn't thick enough, and it's also too sweet. Much too sweet. The crust is too thick and way too dry. Traditionally one is sometimes offered a cup of coffee or a glass of milk with their pie. Not a whole gallon." I hear sniggers from classmates behind me.

  "Oh," I sigh. "Okay." My shoulders slump on their own, but I immediately regain my straight posture.

  "Better luck next time," Georgina comments. She looks at me sympathetically, but I know it's an act. As soon as Professor Sellers turns his head, her smile turns to a smirk. Her eyes dart from my pie to hers as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

  I am going to need some practice if I'm going to cut it here.

  A lot of practice.

  And maybe a pair of flats.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I'm a lightweight.

  Bree introduced me to bourbon when we got back to our apartment. I needed to take my mind off my horrible first day of classes and having a second glass, and third, seemed like a good idea at the time. Not only did I fail at making the school's famous peach pie in Professor Sellers' class, but I also over-filled my pastry bag when Miss Chester asked us to practice our piping skills. Filling a doughnut shouldn't be that hard for a professional pastry student, but I splattered Bavarian cream all over her top.

  "You're making it a bigger deal than it is," Bree says, sitting next to me at the kitchen table with her frozen, dinner-for-one meal of spicy chicken and rice. "No one even noticed what happened in Miss Chester's class."

  I glare at her and gulp down the rest of my drink, hardly letting myself taste it. I cough and clear my throat before taking a few calming breaths. I already feel a bit queasy. Maybe that wasn't the smartest way to deal with my problems. I've made that mistake before. Once during my college years studying dance at Juilliard I overdid it when I found out that Jennifer Stevens had been given the lead role in the university's production of Swan Lake. I woke up the next morning near my gym locker with an empty box of my roommate's Fiendish Fancies that her mom had sent her from England, and a hangover from hell. I had rehearsed my butt off trying to snag that part.

  "I seriously doubt that."

  "Sit down and let me make you something with lots of chocolate." Bree raises her eyebrows as she looks at me. I realize that I am standing, and I feel a bit light-headed as my mind replays my disastrous first day over and over again.

  "I should have sat in the back row," I mutter. "None of this would have happened if I'd sat in the back row."

  "You just need a little practice, that's all." Bree takes another bite of her microwave dinner and chews it slowly. I take a step towards the front door, gazing out the window at th
e darkening sky. So far night is my favorite time of day. That's when it's cool enough to take a leisurely stroll without feeling like you're being baked in a giant oven.

  "Practice," I repeat. "Yes, you're right. I need a do-over."

  My feet take me to the front door. I step into the night air and breathe it in like my life depends on it. I can hear Bree yelling something from inside, but my brain can't translate it. I can only think of one thing. My do-over.

  I walk along the sidewalk, passing all the apartments in our building. The moonlight illuminates my path. It shines through the billowing trees and makes them look like pieces of black licorice. I cross the quiet street and walk through campus. A soft breeze blows across my face, and my thoughts start to spin.

  My first day was not how I expected it to be. I didn't think it would be easy, but I thought I would catch on eventually like Grandma Liz did. I remember her telling me how she was one of two women in her class. Watching her in the kitchen was like watching cupcakes rise in the oven. Every movement was natural, and every recipe came easily to her.

  I run my fingers along a bench sitting beneath a tree and look at the building facing me. It's the building I spent all day in today. The one where I failed miserably at everything but introducing myself. Though I'm sure Professor Sellers had some sort of criticism about that too. He just didn't say it out loud.

  I walk towards the building and quickly see that the door is propped open with a rock from the neighboring flowerbeds. My high-heeled boots echo slightly as I walk up a few steps and into the hallway where it all began. I feel the sudden urge to sit at my station and pretend that today went well. Maybe if I try really, really hard I can rewind time and try again.

  I chuckle as I softly walk down the hallway and towards my classroom. The halls are dark except for moonlight that floods inside from between half-open blinds. I can't see where I'm going very well, but I know my way. My class meets in the same student kitchens for the same classes every day of the week.