The Sweetest Thing Read online

  he says. “But you may be the only person in the world who wouldn’t be excited about your dad getting a TV show.”

  26

  I plop back down on my chair. “Well, I’m not, okay?”

  “Fine,” Lori says. “You are entitled to act like a complete idiot, and for my own selfish reasons, I hope you stay put. If I’m stuck here in the fourth level of hell, you should be, too.”

  That’s more like it. I can’t imagine not seeing these guys on a daily basis. I take a sip of my latte and tell myself to mellow out, relax—be happy, even. We might have found Mom.

  Lori brings up Thursday’s big world history test, and then talk turns to hot guys, much to Jack’s disgust. After a while, I am able to forget about moving and my missing mother. Forget that New York City exists. I smile and laugh and soak in the coziness of this place.

  “You guys want a muffin?” I stand up during a lull in the conversation, my back to the counter. When I turn around, I walk directly into a wide expanse of black wool coat.

  “Excuse me,” I apologize. The back I’ve run into twists to face me, and I find myself looking up at Ethan Murphy in all his blazing hotness. Our eyes fuse for a millisecond.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it,” he says, with a voice that could melt steel. He’s doesn’t turn back around, but lifts a finger and points at me. “Do I know you?”

  I just look at him, struck dumb. His hair is longish, messy blond. The kind that makes you want to run your fingers through it. I’m suddenly afraid that I won’t be able to control myself, so I clasp my hands behind my back, just in case.

  27

  His eyes are so blue, his smile flanked by gorgeous dim-ples, his shoulders broad under his thick pea coat. And then there’s that voice. Hot lava. Rumbling thunder. These are the images that spring to mind.

  I need to speak, to answer him, but my tongue feels like a rock. Maybe I’m having a stroke.

  “Dude, you comin’?” some random jock shouts in his direction. Ethan smiles.

  “Gotta go,” he whispers, just to me.

  “Uhh . . . ,” I say, like a Neanderthal.

  That’s when I hear the high-pitched screech. “Come on, Ethan!” Without looking, I know that it’s Haley Haversham. His current girlfriend. And the closest thing I have to an archenemy.

  “Why don’t you go and decorate something, Cake Girl?”

  She laughs at her clever comment from the door, and a few girls in her mindless entourage laugh along with her.

  Haley is a harpy, a gorgon, and all the other awful female monsters we studied in ninth-grade English rolled into one.

  But Ethan ignores her shrill wailing. “Ahh,” he says, quiet enough so that only I can hear him. The warm air coming out of his mouth makes me blush. “Cake Girl.”

  My heart beats faster, but in a good way. I smile. “Yep.”

  “Eeeeeeeethaaaan!” Haley again, the she-devil.

  He smiles once more, winks, then turns and walks away.

  His arm swings up and around Haley as she glares at me.

  They move toward the door, and I watch as she sinks her 28

  head into his Superman shoulders.

  “So I guess I’m not getting a muffin?” Jack breaks me out of my trance.

  “My God, Sheridan. Why don’t you just get it over with and jump his bones?” Lori laughs.

  I fumble for my chair and sit. “Jump his bones? Could you be more crass?”

  Lori nods. “Oh, yes. Yes, I can.”

  We laugh. But not Jack.

  “That guy is a loser,” he proclaims.

  “Who cares? He’s hot,” Lori counters.

  “Could you be more pathetic?” he says, looking at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Could you be more jealous?” Lori says, scooting her chair back and standing up. “I’ll get the friggin’ muffins.”

  You know I’m not jealous,” Jack says to me after she’s gone. “But that guy has gone out with at least one girl in all the major cliques. Next it’s band geeks, chess club, and cake decorators.”

  I laugh, sincerely amused. “First of all, Jack, thanks for making me feel so super-cool. Second, I am not going out with him. Not a chance. He’s dating her. And I’m me. No one wants to date Cake Girl.”

  He sighs and shakes his head. “Man, you’ve got some serious issues.”

  I nod in agreement. “Don’t I know it.”

  29

  A few hours and too many cups of coffee later, the three of us jitter out the door. Lori waves good-bye, heading off to a babysitting gig, and Jack and I stand in the frigid air. “You wanna go work on the art project?” he asks.

  Ugh. The art project. A series of nature sketches, due in three weeks. I only took the class because Jack said it would be an easy A. He didn’t mention that Mrs. Ely was also a pain in the butt who seems to think we should spend all of our free time drawing pictures for her.

  I hang my head. “No. I don’t want to work on the art project.”

  He tsk-tsks.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get it done.” I glance at my watch. “But I gotta go.” If I get home soon, I’ll have time to sit with my laptop and search for Mom in Mackinac before I head to Nanny’s for dinner.

  Jack looks at me and digs his hands into his pockets.

  Something’s wrong.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Nothin’. Just . . . promise me you won’t do anything yet?”

  “Sure. I promise.” I lift my hand and force my fingers into the Girl Scout salute, or what I remember of it anyway, since I was only in Brownies for one year.

  “Let me keep looking for information. We don’t need a repeat of Boulder,” he warns.

  “Yeah. That woman was crazy.”

  30

  His wide smile spreads. “Right. She was the crazy one.”

  His nose is turning a little pink from the cold. His dark eyes sparkle.

  “Of course she was. I am completely rational.” I smile.

  He turns and walks the other way, toward his house.

  “Keep telling yourself that,” he shouts over his shoulder.

  I zip up my fleece and pull on my headband. It’s totally freezing, and the town square is Sunday-afternoon empty, but I am warm from the cozy coffee shop and an extreme caffeine buzz.

  I look up to the hills that surround the eastern edge of St. Mary, covered with trees that are still bare from winter. I love this place: so safe, always the same.

  If I can just find Mom, things won’t seem nearly so bleak.

  Or if Nanny and I can talk to Dad, convince him that we belong here, that leaving is not an option. . .

  So many ifs. The wind blows, and I hang St. Mary on tight to the printouts Jack gave me. They’re like pages of hope, right here in my hand, and I’m not letting them fly away.

  31

  Chapter 3

  piece of cake

  I slide the folded papers into my coat pocket. By the time I get home, it’s colder and my lungs are sore from breathing the frosty air. I run up the back steps and slip the key in the lock, ready to get warm and boot up the laptop, and then . . .

  “Sheridan!” Nanny shouts from her balcony in that thick Texas drawl. “Get over here, darlin’. I need some help.” Aw, crap.

  Fine. Key in my pocket, I look up at her. She’s smiling, apparently clueless about Dad and the show.

  “Well, don’t just stand there starin’. Get on up here!”

  I walk to the opening in the chain-link fence, cross the alley, and climb the stairs. At the top, she catches me in a big hug.

  32

  “Hey.” I hug back.

  “Well, hey yourself.” She grabs my shoulders, holds me away from her, and looks me in the eye. “You look sadder than a flounder at a fish fry.”

  I shake my head. “I have news.” I move past her and step into her warm kitchen. “Bad news,” I add.

  “Oh. Dear. That’s the worst kind, ain’t it?” Nanny follows me i
nside and closes the door. “Well, you can tell me all about it while we get busy. We got us a cake to decorate.”

  “Who for?” I ask, pointing to the plain white nine-inch round cake in the center of the kitchen island.

  “Who do you think?”

  My eyebrows crinkle together. “I have no idea.”

  “Well, your father, of course.”

  “Dad? You mean you know?” I ask, shocked.

  “Of course I know. You think I don’t know things? This is a big day. For all of us.” She’s bustling around the kitchen like it’s Christmas.

  I am officially paralyzed. “Are you serious? Did he tell you?”

  “Yes, indeed.” She pulls a pot out of a cabinet, the corners of her eyes all crinkled up like it’s the happiest day of her entire life. “And that phone hasn’t stopped ringin’.” She laughs. “Good old St. Mary telegraph. News round here hops from one person to the next like a frog on fire.”

  This cannot be happening. She hasn’t thought this through. She doesn’t know all the facts.

  33

  “But you don’t know. He says they want him to move to New York!” My voice reaches up an octave. “And he thinks I’m going with him!”

  “Oh, calm down.” She opens the fridge and hands me a plastic container full of pastry bags. They’re stuffed with different colors of buttercream. She waves me over and stares down at the cake.

  “Whaddya think? The ExtremeCuisine logo? We can pop it up on the computer. Or you think we should go simpler?”

  “Nan? Are you kidding? How about a one-way, no-return ticket to New York City?”

  She turns to me, purses her lips. “How about a nice senti-ment? Nothing too smart-alecky.” She nudges the container of buttercream wedged under my arm. “Do your thing, girl.”

  I shake my head. Fine. I tear open the lid and search for black. Perfect.

  I look down at the circle in front of me. The white field of icing makes me think of Mom. When I was little, she’d level her cakes and give me the leftover crumbling humps for practice. There’s nothing like staring at a blank cake. She also let me sit in on her cake decorating classes. I was young, but I listened to every word she said. “The cake is a blank canvas, and you are the artist.” That was one of her lines.

  “Follow your artist’s heart.” That was another.

  Of course, right now my heart is telling me to write, in my best curly script, You suck, Dad!

  34

  In black, of course.

  I pick up the sleeve and squeeze the icing to the top.

  Nanny’s still bopping around the kitchen like a spaz.

  “Why are you so excited?” I say, frustrated. “There’s no way I’m leaving my customers. Who am I gonna make cakes for in New York City? I’m not going.” I bend over as a delicate trail of black sweetness emerges from the bag.

  “Oh now, stop it.” She’s at the fridge again. “All that business will work itself out. I’m just goin’ to enjoy the moment. It’s a dream come true for your daddy.”

  “Dream?” I put the bag down. “What? To leave St. Mary and get all rich and famous? Great for him. What about the rest of us?”

  “Oh Sheridan, good lord, don’t get your drawers in a wad. I don’t know about the rich and famous stuff. But I understand. He wants something bigger for himself. And for you. He’s had a truckload of hurt here. Maybe he’s finally ready to let go and move on.”

  That’s it. She’s talking crazy now. “Are you kidding? He let go of Mom a long time ago. Just ask al his girlfriends.”

  Nanny laughs again. I am offended.

  “Please don’t laugh at me.”

  Suddenly, she’s at my side, her arm around my shoulder.

  “I ain’t laughin’ at you. And just because someone goes and gets himself a girlfriend don’t mean he’s moved on. That whole mess with your mother near killed him.”

  “Whatever.”

  35

  She walks to the sink with a colander full of green beans, starts snapping off the ends. “You know, most kids would be over-the-moon thrilled about their parent gettin’ a TV

  show.”

  “Well, I am not. Just because everyone thinks I should be all excited doesn’t mean that I am.”

  I put down the black and pick up the red. The colors of blood and death. Perfect. I squeeze the red now, follow the line that the icing is making beneath me, but my mind is somewhere far away.

  “Well, we’re going to talk him out of it,” I say. “People here depend on him. He has a restaurant, you, me. He has responsibilities here.”

  Nanny watches me, snaps a few beans. “Oh, we’re going to talk him out of it, are we? You think that’s the right thing to do?”

  My stomach flips. “Why not? What about me? What about my cakes? If he really cares about what I want, he’ll stay. What about you? You need us here.”

  She keeps on snapping. “Oh please, listen to that giant pity party you’re throwin’ yourself. Maybe he just wants you to see that the world is a little bigger than St. Mary.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it.” I stand back to survey my work. Very boring. “If I move to New York, I won’t see the world at all; I’ll be locked away in some tiny apartment, alone, making cakes for nobody. No trees. Gangs.

  Rats. Drug dealers right outside the door. You think that’s 36

  what I need?”

  Nanny sighs deeply. “Do me a favor and turn down the drama just a tad. And don’t make up your mind about this just yet.”

  My face is only inches from the cake as I add shadow details to the letters I’ve piped. Not my best work, that’s for certain.

  I think of the cake that I made for Libby Carman’s fifth birthday a few weeks ago. An entire barnyard complete with cows, pigs, horses, dogs, ducks—all sculpted from modeling chocolate. Now that was a masterpiece. Where in the world would St. Mary go for cakes if I lived in New York City?

  I straighten up, put down the red buttercream. This cake is so dull. As an afterthought, I add black and red polka dots to it, because, let’s face it, I don’t do boring.

  “Voilà,” I say, with little enthusiasm. I lift the cake at an angle for Nanny to see.

  “Good luck.” She reads it in her flattest drawl, and frowns. “Yes, well, that’s certainly heartfelt, isn’t it?”

  “Totally.” I push the thing to the center of the island and start cleaning up.

  Once everything is put away, I walk to the sink, where Nanny is filling the pot with water. She looks at my puppy dog eyes and stuck-out lower lip, turns off the faucet, and lifts my chin. “You know, dear, you could look at this like it’s a good thing. Like maybe the man upstairs has bigger plans for you than you might have for yourself.” She tilts 37

  her head upward.

  Great. Now she’s going to get all Baptist on me.

  I turn my face away from her. “Right. You might want to ask Father Crowley about that. The way he looked at me this morning, I’m pretty sure he thinks God’s written me off completely.”

  “What?” She flips on the stove, hoists the pot onto the fire. “That old coot has nothin’ to do with it. Neither does your father. And neither, I might add, does your mama.

  Your life is yours to make the most of, or completely screw up. Your choice.”

  She whips open the oven, where a huge roast is starting to brown. “Although I’d recommend letting the big guy take the lead.” She jerks her head upward again. “Way better than the alternative. Trust me.”

  “You know, it is true. . . .” I lean on my elbow, chin in my hand, and watch her as she bastes the meat. “This plan is awesome so far. Dad barely notices me. Mom is who-knows-where. I can’t wait to see what happens next!”

  Nanny stops and grabs hold of my wrist. Her eyes are so fierce I can’t return her stare. “Now you just stop that kind of talk, girl. You have so many gifts. A tender heart. More talent than you know what to do with. And”—she loosens her grip—“you’re a true blessing of a
granddaughter.”

  I look at her. She’s as sweet as can be. I can’t imagine not seeing her every day.

  “I just don’t want things to change, Nanny. Not again” A 38

  tear pools in the corner of my eye. “Everyone thinks something’s wrong with me because I’m not excited. Isn’t it okay that I just want things to stay the way they are?”

  “Well, of course it is. This is your home, and it is part of you.” She wipes away the tear that’s falling down my cheek.

  “But darlin’ that will always be true. No matter where you’re at. All’s I’m sayin’ is, just hold tight and see what’s waiting for you, baby. Don’t sell yourself short.” She pats my back.

  “We’ll talk to your daddy, tell him what worries you. But right now, we got us a supper to cook. Why don’t you flip on the record player?”

  “It’s a CD player, Nan,” I sigh. We’ve covered this before.

  She shrugs as I reach for the power button and press Play.

  “Mamma Mia,” by Nanny’s favorite band of all time, abba, blasts across the kitchen. She starts disco dancing, chopping board in one hand and a chunk of salt pork in the other.

  I laugh, but as I peel potatoes for dinner, my worries pile up like the skins that fall into the sink.

  It’s six o’clock and Dad isn’t here. I cal his cel when we sit down to dinner. Leave a message. Text him twice. No answer.

  Where is he? Maybe sitting around telling ExtremeCuisine stories to his adoring staff; maybe off with that giggly new waitress. Who knows?

  Nanny and I sit down to eat. Only I’m not hungry at all.

  We’re in the small dining room, and the light from above catches the edges of the crystal glasses that Nanny has set 39

  out for this celebration. We’re even using the fine china that belonged to my great-grandmother.

  Nanny is concerned. I can tell. She puts her hand on mine, talks to me like I’m four. “Remember what I said, baby doll. Maybe you can’t see it now, but there’s so much in store for you.” She puts a hand on her heart, like she’s saying the Pledge.