A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy (3 page)

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 the 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.

I take out my cell phone to light the rest of my way. The time says it's nearly midnight, but last time I looked at the time it was seven o'clock. That was before Bree pulled out her bottle of
false courage
. I drank too much of it. I shake my head and try to get rid of the image of my terrible peach pie. That dessert is going to haunt me until I get it right.

I reach our classroom, and my heart starts pounding.

I take a deep breath and pull at the door handle even though I know it won't open. I need a second chance at making that pie. Just one more chance. I know I can nail it like the rest of the class. I shake my head as I think about the way Professor Sellers looked at my pathetic pastry.

"It's too sweet." I mimic him out loud, curling my lips the way he did when he saw something distasteful. "Your crust is all
wrong.
Your filling is
wrong
. The way you combed your hair this morning is
wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong
times a million."

I giggle to myself, but a sudden bang makes me jump. My heart starts racing, and my palms start sweating. I walk towards the noise with a lump in my throat. The noise is coming from one of the kitchens. When I hear another loud bang, I know I'm not crazy. It sounds like spoons hitting pots and pans. Maybe it's some sort of joke?

I take another step, but I stop myself from investigating any further. The school is dark, and the kitchens are locked. I don't know where the sound is coming from, but everyone has gone to bed.
Great, now I'm hearing things like my great grandpa Ed.

BANG!

I hear the sound a third time, and my jaw clenches. My teeth grind together, and my hands squeeze themselves into tight fists. My calves are flexing, and my head starts spinning so fast that I think I might vomit. I see no light around me. No opens doors. No open windows.

"Hello?" I make a lame attempt at seeking a logical explanation for the noise. "Is someone there?"

Silence.

The hall is so quiet that I hear myself swallow.

I take a step backwards.

"Hello?" I say again.

I hear another noise, but this time it isn't banging, and it sounds closer. A gentle tap on the floor fills my ears, and I squint to make sure I'm seeing clearly. I see a shadow in front of me. It is close enough that my heart is racing out of control and far enough away that I can't tell if it's a person or a figment of my imagination.

I instinctively walk backwards until I'm far away from the mysterious blob at the end of the hall. I forget to breathe as I jog all the way back to my apartment and fumble with the key until I can open the front door. I let out a gasp and practically gulp down air.

It smells like Bree baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies after I left. I pop a chewy cookie into my mouth and resist the urge I have to wake Bree up and tell her what I saw. She might hate me if I do that. I rub my head, feeling a headache coming on. I need some sleep.

I go to my room and rest my head on my pillow. As soon as I close my eyes, the strange sound echoes through my memory. I cover my ears. I can't fall asleep. I sit up and contemplate eating another chocolate chip cookie. Bree might wake up to find that all her nervous baking sent me into a sugar coma.

I try to relax again.

I have to force myself to rest up for tomorrow. The same way that snooty girl, Georgina, forced herself to smile at me when Professor Sellers was watching.
That's it
. I have to pretend that today didn't faze me at all and that I
do
have what it takes to cut it at Calle Pastry Academy. I have to focus on being fake tomorrow just like Georgina.

*   *  *

A hand shakes my shoulder. I gasp as I wake up. My heart pounds when I open my eyes. I see Bree jump back looking startled. She gulps as she hands me a mug of coffee. I take a swig of it before I do anything else. I cringe.

"Ahhh," I blurt out. "Why is it cold?"

"It was hot the first time I tried to wake you up," she comments, shaking her head. She places a hand on her hip and eyes a pair of jeans I left on the floor.

"Why do I feel like I've moved back in with my parents?" I mutter quietly.

"Come on." Bree hands me an aspirin. "We can't be late for our orientation of the student bakery at 6 a.m. It's a very important part of the program, remember?"

"That's today?" I almost trip as I race to my suitcase and pull out a pair of shorts.

"I'll wait for five more minutes, but then I have to get going," she responds.

I quickly get dressed and meet Bree outside. We begin the quick walk to the student bakery on the other side of campus. By the time we arrive the sun is peeking over the clouds, and I'm sweaty enough to say I've been for a morning jog.

We join a group of students, and I catch my breath. I haven't gotten up this early since I was cast as Clara in
The Nutcracker Ballet
. I remember secretly wanting to eat the costume that was made for the scene with Mother Ginger. It was made of real gingerbread and vanilla icing. I didn't care that it was rock hard.

"You survived," a voice says behind me. I turn and see Cole. He is wide awake.

"Gosh, what's your secret?" I ask.

"To looking good?" He straightens the collar on his shirt. It is baby blue with tiny, white stripes. His sleeves are rolled up and he's wearing light khaki slacks. "It comes naturally."

"For getting up this early," I correct him. I glance at the other students in my class and see that they are all dressed like they are giving business presentations.

"This is nothing," he replies. "The students who are running the bakery have to show up at 3."

My eyes go wide.

"As in
3 a.m.
?"

"Uh-huh. That will be us next semester."

I twiddle my fingers as I look down at my casual choice of shorts and a T-shirt. I assumed that my apron would cover everything anyway, but I still feel silly. I rub my forehead, hoping that the aspirin I took will kick in soon.

An old man walks slowly to meet us in front of the student bakery with a cup of coffee in his hand. The man is short and plump with silvery hair. He walks with a slight limp as he meets our group with a tired stare on his face. He nods and takes a sip of his coffee.

"Where can
we
get a shot of caffeine?" I mutter.

"How much coffee do you actually drink in one day?" Cole asks. He chuckles when I shrug.

Always having coffee on hand, whether or not I drink it, is habit. I blame it on years of late night rehearsals and random spurts of insomnia brought about by overtraining.

"Shush," I reply. "Mr. Teacher is speaking."

"Morning," the man says in a scratchy voice. He clears his throat. "I am your kitchen management teacher, Professor Harris. Just call me Mr. Harris. I've been here at this school as long as I can remember." He pauses to scratch a spot on his head where his hair is thinning. "Well, let's get on with it." He opens the doors to the bakery. It doesn't open for a couple of hours, but I can hear commotion in the kitchen. The first thing that hits me when I walk through the doors is the smell of pie. It makes my stomach rumble, but it also reminds me of yesterday.

Forget yesterday and move on, Poppy.

The front of the bakery is still dark, and the café chairs are still turned upside down on the tables. I watch Bree move towards the front of our group. I linger near the back with Cole. Today I'm lying low.

"He's quite the cheerful one," I quietly comment.

"Oh, yeah," Cole murmurs.

He folds his arms and takes a deep breath as we follow our classmates into the kitchen. It's bigger than the kitchen in our classroom on campus. Underneath and above the counters are stacks of pans in every shape and size. I wipe a bead of sweat from my brow. With all the ovens on I feel like I'm still outside. A student in a white bakery uniform brushes past me to grab a mixer on the shelf behind me.

"Does anyone else feel like they're in the way?" I comment.

A few students look back at me, annoyed.

I decide to keep my mouth shut for a while.

"Dang, Lil' Mama," Cole whispers. "Looks like you've already made a few enemies."

Starting with her Highness of NYC, the all-around perfect Georgina.

Another student working at the bakery brushes past us for another bundle of tools. Cole and I take a few steps back until we're leaning up against a counter. Someone bumps the side of my leg. I reach down and rub the spot that might potentially be bruised in the morning.

"Sorry," someone whispers. I look up and see a man with blond hair and ice blue eyes towering over me. "I didn't mean to bump you." He folds his arms and reveals a set of bulky biceps. The fabric of his sleeve slightly touches me, and it sends my heart racing.

"Oh, it's okay," I lie. I smile and feel myself blushing. Luckily, I can blame it on the heat in the kitchen.