My hands kept moving, dipping in and out of the caramel bowl, but no lightning struck, no ideas came.
“Sheyda!” Mrs. Seng appeared at my elbow, smiling in approval at the now-finished tray of Caramel Dream donuts. “Perfect!”
I smiled back, reluctantly giving up on my quest for inspiration. “Thanks.”
She winked. “You’re my best icer. I tell Kiri all the time, ‘Why can’t you ice like Sheyda?’ But she says actresses don’t do donuts.” I stifled a giggle as Mrs. Seng frowned. “My own daughter … hating the family business. What am I going to do with that girl?”
“Don’t say that, Mrs. Seng. You know Kiri loves you.” I patted her shoulder. This was our routine. She groused about Kiri’s loathing of all things Doughlicious, and I made her feel better. Mrs. Seng was like my second mom, and the shop was like my second home. My parents, who both worked long hours as lawyers, let me hang out in the shop almost every day after school.
It was an arrangement we’d fallen into back when Kiri and I were barely four. Mom had baked a batch of latifeh, my favorite Persian cookie, for our preschool class. Mrs. Seng tasted one of the creamy pistachio cookies and asked Mom for the recipe so she could create a latifeh-inspired donut. That got them to talking about family—Mom and Dad’s Iranian ancestry and Mrs. Seng’s Cambodian background. Soon they were practically in tears reminiscing over the trips they’d made as children to their parents’ homelands. They bonded, swapped more recipes, and smiled at how inseparable Kiri and I were on the playground. When Mom mentioned needing to find an afternoon sitter for me, Mrs. Seng wouldn’t hear of it. “Sheyda can stay with us,” she told Mom. It would be fun for Kiri to have a playmate in the shop, she explained, and keep us both entertained. It had been this way ever since.
“Kiri loves me, yes,” mumbled Mrs. Seng now, turning toward the kitchen door with the tray of Caramel Dreams. “But where is the love for the donuts?”
Kiri swung through the kitchen door, rolling her eyes at her mom. Seeing them side by side made me realize how much taller Kiri had grown in the last couple of months. With her long legs and slender frame, Kiri loomed more than a head above her mother, making their face-off almost comical.
“I don’t have to love donuts, Mom,” Kiri said. “They’re nothing but greasy globs of cholesterol. Isn’t it enough that I’m here every day making them?”
Mrs. Seng tsked and breezed through the door with her tray. Kiri collapsed against the wall, flicking her short, glossy black hair in annoyance. Over the break she’d cut her hair into a sleek, angled bob, and the new look highlighted her delicate nose and heart-shaped mouth, so that even when she was grimacing, she looked blockbuster-worthy.
“I never thought I’d say this,” she groaned, “but winter break cannot be over soon enough. If I have to work another full day here, I’ll die.”
“Please don’t.” I smiled at Kiri’s dramatics. “Who would I eat lunch with at school tomorrow?”
“It could be good for you,” Kiri argued, fingering her favorite necklace absently. It had two gold pendants, the comedy and tragedy masks. I’d given it to her for her twelfth birthday, and she’d worn it every day since. “Force you to get up the courage to talk to someone new. Aside from me and Phoebe and Val.”
I turned my attention to sifting some powdered sugar onto the next rack of donuts. “I don’t need any friends besides you guys.” Phoebe and Val finished up our social foursome, but they’d been Kiri’s friends before they’d been mine.
“We are pretty awesome.” Kiri grinned. “I suppose we’re lucky to have you, too.” I tossed an oven mitt at her head, but she deftly ducked. “Okay, okay. I’m just glad our lunches got mixed up in the cubbies in preschool. Otherwise you never would’ve spoken to me.”
I laughed. It was true. Even at age four I’d been a classic wallflower. “Your lunch surprised me, that’s all. I’d never seen squid on a stick before.” I’d learned to love Mrs. Seng’s Cambodian cooking, though, just the way Kiri loved my family’s Persian meals.
Kiri sighed. “Speaking of squid, Mrs. Tentacle is at the front counter, waiting for her usual.” She clasped her hands together and dropped to her knees. “Would you wait on her today? Spare me her halitosis! Please!”
Mrs. Tentifleur did have the world’s worst fish breath (thus the nickname), and I didn’t like waiting on her any more than Kiri did. Still, Kiri’s ridiculous begging got me laughing until I couldn’t help agreeing.
“All right,” I said. “But next time, I’m not giving in.”
Kiri grinned, triumphant. This was how our friendship worked. We had an unspoken queen bee–sidekick pact. Kiri could talk her way out of or into anything using her performer’s charm. Most people, including me, found it a quality more loveable than bossy. Besides, Kiri’s boldness made me feel braver. If it wasn’t for Kiri, I doubt my social circle would ever have grown beyond my parents and older sister, Mina. Neither one of us was über popular, but Kiri’s infectious energy gave her the ability to float around every group at school without ever settling on one. And because I was her tagalong, her friends always became mine. I didn’t mind. I was grateful to stay behind the scenes. That was what I did best.
I pushed through the door into the shop, with its buttercream walls and lemon-yellow café tables and chairs. I glanced in dread at the counter. To my relief, I discovered that Mrs. Tentifleur was already seated at a table with her cappuccino and Blackberry Bliss donut.
“Can you help whoever comes in next, Sheyda?” Mrs. Seng asked me, hurrying toward the kitchen. “I’ve got to finish the Nutty Professors.”
I nodded, my mouth watering at the mention of Mrs. Seng’s latest creation—a chocolate donut filled with peanut butter, glazed with honey icing, and sprinkled with candied almond slivers. I’d have to grab one to snack on later.
I snapped out of my donut daydream when the bell on the shop door jingled. I’d been prepared to help a customer, but the person that walked into the store was more Abominable Snowman than human. A bulky, fur-lined parka stood before me, the hood pulled so low around aviator sunglasses that I could only make out the slightest hint of a boy’s face.
The boy didn’t approach the counter but hung back, looking at the glass display cases through his mirrored shades. I was just about to greet him when three adults blew into the shop, bringing a swirl of snowflakes in with them. These three were almost as heavily bundled, and one of the men burst out with, “People! Tell me. Is my nose still attached to my face, or has it frozen off?”
“This is our last stop, Simeon,” a woman in treacherously high-heeled boots said impatiently. “Quit whining.”
“Good,” Simeon mumbled. “There’s a sunlamp with my name on it back at the hotel.”
The boy in sunglasses turned to the three of them. “Can we get this over with?” he snapped. “We’ve seen a dozen of these dumps already. Just … pick one!”
Dumps? I stiffened. How dare he! At his outburst, the other three huddled around him protectively, whispering things like “give it a try” and “we’ll make do.” After a minute, the boy abruptly nodded to the others, then headed straight for me.
“We’ll take a dozen to go.” His voice was clipped and tense, and I squirmed. How awkward to be staring at my own reflection in his glasses and not be able to see the expression in his eyes! My heart sped nervously.
“Um, sure. What kind would you like?” I asked.
He shrugged and tossed two twenties onto the counter. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”
I scowled, annoyed at his attitude. Didn’t he realize these donuts were works of art? Eager to get this exchange over with, I hurriedly selected a random dozen and put them in a box.
“Here you go.” I held out the box, but as he took it, the bottom opened up, pouring donuts all down his parka.
He stared at the mess of icing and powdered sugar covering his front.
“Look what you did!” he cried.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” I r
ushed around the counter with a pile of napkins. “I must’ve accidentally had the box upside down. Here, let me help—”
“Accidentally?” he grumbled. “Right. I’ve heard that one before.” I wiped some of the icing off his parka, but he stepped back, grabbing the napkins out of my hand. “Stop. That’s only making it worse.”
He was right. The icing was smearing a bigger swath across his coat. “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll get you a wet rag from the back …”
“Forget it.” He crushed the napkins into a ball and stomped toward the door. “I’m out of here,” he called to his companions, then shoved the door open with such force that it slammed against the front window with a clang.
I cringed. Three pairs of eyes turned toward me, as if awaiting explanation.
“I didn’t mean to—” I began.
The woman stepped forward, her sleek red ponytail curling around one side of her earmuffs. “Don’t pay him any mind,” she said. “He’s tense today, that’s all.” She stuck out a confident gloved hand, which I shook tentatively. “I’m Jillian Yens, film director at Everest Movie Studio.”
I blinked. Movie studio? Huh?
Jillian continued. “This is Simeon Dashan, our casting agent, and Gerard Perdue, our location scout.” Simeon offered a small bow and Gerard a salute. “We called earlier and spoke with Mrs. Seng? We’re in New York for the filming of Cabe Sadler’s newest romantic comedy, Donut Go Breaking My Heart.”
No sooner had the words “Cabe Sadler” escaped Jillian’s lips than Kiri burst through the kitchen door.
“Did I just hear the name Cabe Sadler?” Kiri asked, her voice three octaves higher than usual.
Jillian nodded. “You did.”
Oh boy, I thought, mentally prepping myself. And three, two, one …
“Cabe Sadler!” Kiri shrieked, grabbing my hands and jumping up and down. “He’s incredible. I mean, I don’t really worship him or anything, but …” She sighed, visibly quivering with joy. “He’s the most perfect human being ever born.”
“Well. How … nice.” Jillian glanced back at Simeon and Gerard with an expression that clearly said, Another fanatic.
To say that Cabe was Kiri’s celebrity obsession was an understatement. There wasn’t an inch of wall space in her bedroom that wasn’t plastered with his movie posters or magazine cutouts. Kiri followed him on every social media platform known to mankind. Sure, Cabe was cute, but I’d seen his face so many hundreds of times that I didn’t even think twice about it anymore. I’d grown a Cabe-immunity.
Kiri stared at Jillian with awe. “Do you actually know him?”
“Y-yes,” came Jillian’s hesitant reply, followed by another shriek from Kiri. Jillian peered around Kiri, giving me a pleading glance. “Might we speak with Mrs. Seng?” the director asked. “We’re interested in using Doughlicious as the central location for the film shoot, and I’d like to discuss details and compensation.”
This time, Kiri’s shriek was deafening.
“I’ll get her,” I said, and Jillian gave me a grateful nod. As I slipped into the kitchen, I could hear Kiri drilling Jillian, Simeon, and Gerard with questions about the script and casting calls. When I returned with Mrs. Seng, Kiri was still going.
“You know, I played Dorothy in our middle school’s production of The Wizard of Oz last spring,” Kiri was rambling, “and Sandy in Grease in October. My drama teacher says I have real talent, and I already have so much experience—”
“Mrs. Seng?” Jillian said with obvious relief, then sidestepped Kiri to fill Mrs. Seng in on everything.
Kiri turned to me, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Omigod. Can you believe this is happening? It’s unreal. They’re holding a casting call for a small role tomorrow afternoon, and Simeon says it’s an open audition for girls ages eleven to fourteen.” Her smile spread. “This could be a real shot for me, don’t you think? My chance at Hollywood!”
“It’s amazing,” I said, squeezing her arm affectionately. Kiri had always wanted to be an actress. I’d watched every one of her performances, and she was a natural, stepping into roles so thoroughly that, sometimes, her characters’ mannerisms and personalities became hers temporarily offstage, too. She’d wanted her Sandy to have a Southern accent, so for weeks before the curtain went up on Grease, Kiri perfected her “y’alls.” It was so convincing that one Doughlicious customer had asked what town in Georgia she was from.
Kiri had been trying to persuade her parents to move to Los Angeles for years in hopes that living there might up her chances of being “discovered.” Mr. and Mrs. Seng wouldn’t consider it, but that didn’t stop Kiri from pleading with them regularly.
“Will you come to my audition with me?” she asked me now.
“Um …” I waffled, my stomach tightening. Tomorrow after school I was supposed to have a meeting with our drama club teacher, Ms. Feld, to talk about my Romeo and Juliet set model. Winter was a downtime in the club; we were in between our fall and spring productions, which meant Ms. Feld’s schedule was more open right now. When she was younger, Ms. Feld had been in a few Broadway plays, and I thought she might be able to give me some pointers on stage logistics. “The thing is, I have my meeting with Ms. Feld and—”
“Ooooh, what will I wear?” Kiri interrupted. “I’ve got to make some tea with honey right now. Doesn’t my voice still sound a little raspy from that cold I had last week? It has to be silky smooth tomorrow …” She glanced at me, and I could see what I’d said finally registering with her. “Ms. Feld? Oh, she’ll understand if you reschedule. Sheyda, please come with me. I’d totally freak without you there. You know I’d do the same for you.”
I took a deep breath, my no all ready, but then it got stuck in my throat. I knew she wouldn’t really freak, but I also liked that she wanted me there with her. I liked feeling needed. And, Kiri would’ve done the same for me. Of course, I’d never audition for anything involving a stage, camera, or any kind of audience, so it was sort of a moot point. “Okay, okay, I’ll go.” I smiled as she threw her arms around me.
“Yes! Thank you, thank you!”
“But”—I held up a finger—“that means I have to go home now so I can make some headway on my application. That way, when I do meet with Ms. Feld, I’ll actually have something to show her.”
“Sure, okay, that’s fine,” Kiri said. “I’ll tell Mom you had to go. How is the set coming anyway?”
“It’s not,” I said as I grabbed my coat, hat, and messenger bag from underneath the counter. “I just hope I don’t have designer’s block.”
“You? Never!” Kiri’s eyes softened in sympathy. “You’ll figure it out. Don’t panic.”
Mrs. Seng was still talking with Jillian, Simeon, and Gerard about filming logistics, so I waved to them as Kiri walked me to the front door. I pushed it open and stopped.
A limo was parked in front of the store. Through its open window, I caught a glimpse of the boy who’d been in the shop before. His sunglasses mirrored the drifting snowflakes, and the hood of his parka was pushed back, revealing a shock of messy blond hair. His mouth was drawn tight.
“Still copping the attitude, huh?” I mumbled, then turned to Kiri. “That guy came in with the rest of the movie people. I know I dumped donuts on him, but he doesn’t have to give me a death glare.” Kiri was staring, her mouth gaping. “Kiri? Earth to Kiri?”
Kiri’s eyes didn’t move from the limo. “I’d recognize that glorious mane of hair anywhere. Don’t you know who he is?” she squealed. “That’s Cabe Sadler!”
I looked back to the limo. There was a brief flash of aquamarine eyes, shadeless now, meeting mine. His eyes surprised me. They seemed hard and soft all at once, like they were robins’ eggs sheltering something sweet and vulnerable inside. My heart gave a funny leap, and then the limo’s dark window rolled up.
“Wait.” Kiri frowned. “Did you say you dumped donuts on him?” I gave an innocent shrug, and before she had time to become properly horrified by the idea,
I scooted away.
“Call you later!” I said with a wave. Then I pulled on my hat, forcing myself to focus on the sidewalk as I hurried past the limo. I wasn’t about to give Cabe Sadler the satisfaction of thinking I was gawking at him. Not for a second.
* * *
I recognized the familiar fragrance of dinner as soon as I entered my building. Khoresh Fesenjan—chicken and pomegranate stew. Yum. It was a dish whose aroma wafted from our third-floor walk-up apartment all the way to the downstairs foyer. Our neighbors didn’t mind. In fact, they loved taking leftovers whenever we had them. Our building was small, and it was home to our family, a family from Soweto, South Africa, one from Moscow, and a couple from Caracas, Venezuela. We all happily embraced one another’s cooking; in a building as compact as ours, it would’ve been tough to avoid it. I smiled now, thinking about the delicious meal ahead. Maybe before dinner I could steal some alone time to work on my application.
I heard the tense voices echoing into the stairwell as I reached our landing. I sighed and stuck the key in our door. So much for peace and quiet. They were at it again.
“You are the strictest parents on the planet!” my older sister, Mina, cried as I stepped into the narrow hallway off the kitchen.
When it wasn’t loud with fighting, I loved our apartment. It was the apartment that Mâdarbozorg, my grandma, had moved into when she’d emigrated from Iran as a young woman. The apartment where she and my grandpa had married and raised my mother. It was still decorated with their things: a crimson couch, hand-woven Persian rugs, ornate lanterns, and cinnamon-colored walls. Dad’s parents lived in Florida, first generation Persian Americans, and we visited them a few times a year (I loved seeing them, even if Grandpa still pinched my cheek and declared, “Moosh bokhoratet,” which means, “A mouse could eat you!” It was Grandpa’s way of saying “cute” in Farsi, and I was so glad no one outside my family knew the literal translation.) Yes, I loved my dad’s family, but Mom’s parents’ had died before I was born. Living here made me feel like I knew a part of them, their tastes, the family photos that they’d loved, the books they’d read. I wondered what they would make of the yelling echoing off the walls of their home right now.
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