The Sweetest Thing (15 page)

“With who?”

For the record, my dad’s plans usually don’t interest me, but I’m curious who it is that could distract him from the show.

“Oh. I’m just taking Jacqueline to a jazz club in Grand Rapids.”

My eyes open wide. That Amazon freak better not screw this up for me. If they start something, she’ll sink her claws in him and drag him back to New York for sure.

“Is that all right with you?” Dad asks. He looks serious.

“Well, honestly, I don’t really like her. She’s kind of . . .”

I search my vocabulary bank. “Don’t you think she’s kind of brash?”

Dad’s gaze shifts. He’s looking beyond me, thinking of something, someone. Maybe my mother?

He shakes himself out of his own thoughts. “Well, brash 152

is okay, within reason. You’ve kind of got to take her with a grain of salt. She’s not so bad.”

I have never met any of his dates. Not one. But I’ve met Amazon. What does that mean? “What, you like her or something?” A panicky feeling is crouching in the back of my brain, ready to pounce.

“Sheridan, I don’t know. We’re just going to listen to some jazz. It’s not like I’m gonna run off with her . . .” He glances up at me. Oops. That’s right, Dad. Wrong thing to say.

“Right, why would you run off with her? You’re the perfect father.” My heart rate increases and I stand, ready to leave.

“Sit down, Sheridan. I’m too tired to fight tonight.”

I plop down into the chair, twist another forkful of linguini into submission, consider flinging it at him.

“How’s your grandmother feeling?” he asks.

“Fine. I guess. Why?”

“She was sick the other day. I asked Roz to make her take a day off.”

“Well, she didn’t.”

“No, of course not.”

I take another bite of pasta, a sip of Coke. This is the most I’ve talked to my father in months.

My eyes wander to the painting on the wall above him.

It’s of the beach, where I was sobbing earlier.

I glance at Dad as I swallow the last bite. “Why don’t we sail anymore?”

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Dad keeps his head down; signing papers, acting busy.

Danny sticks his head in the door.

“Hey, boss, you want anything to eat?”

“We slowing down out there?”

“Yep. Everything’s under control.”

“Yeah, I’ll have some linguini if you didn’t give it all to my kid.”

Danny laughs and walks away, calling out behind him,

“Not all of it, boss. Not all of it.”

His kid? I feel so separate from him right now, like we barely even belong to each other anymore. In his mind, he’s already a big ExtremeCuisine TV star, a resident of New York City.

But I’m here to remind him that he’s a lifelong citizen of St. Mary, Michigan. He can’t just leave it. He can’t leave me.

“Well, why don’t we?”

He flips a page, stares at it intently. “What?”

“Why don’t you ever want to go sailing? We used to do it all the time, before. . . .”

“I don’t know.” He sounds annoyed, and scribbles his pen on some scratch paper. Apparently, it’s out of ink. “Look”—he rubs his temple—“I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

I nod again and watch as he grabs another pen out of the pencil cup I made in second grade. Just after Mom left. It’s wrapped with pink, red, and white yarn. Each kid in class had to make one for a Mother’s Day gift. Dad said he’d keep it for her, until she got back. He is not going to answer me.

“Fine.” I stand up, empty plate in hand, and grab my 154

glass. “Well, then, have fun with Amazon.”

“Who?”

I turn toward the door. “Never mind.”

On my way back to the house, I can see Nanny’s apartment light above the trees. I didn’t know she wasn’t feeling well.

It’s time we had a chat, anyway, about what I saw on her computer screen.

I go to the house, let myself in, and plop down on the leather sofa in the front room with a massive
whoompf
.

My eyes travel across the dark expanse of the room, its always quiet now, always empty. Not like when we were a family. Back then, we played Chinese checkers at the table in the corner, or watched movies on the little TV. God, I’d just love to have a little bit of that again.

I lift myself off of the sofa. I’m tired, but I go into the kitchen, nuke a cup of water for tea, and dial Nanny.

“Hello?” she says, groggy.

“Hey. You want a cup of tea?”

“Oh, Sheridan, sugar . . . that sounds mighty nice, but let me have a rain check. I’m whupped. Tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure.” I hang up.

I sit in the darkness of the kitchen. Dad’s out, having fun with a giantess. Lori’s at home with her mom and stepfather.

Jack’s at home, despising me, surrounded by his gaseous brothers. Ethan is not calling. So I head up to my bedroom, turn on the television, and pull out Mom’s cards. I choose thirteen.

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This is it—you’re a teenager now! Happy Birthday! Hey,
we’re in Canada, but still kind of far from you, in Ottawa.

It’s beautiful here. I wish you could come and visit. I’ll try to
call your father and set something up—maybe for the summer,
if we’re still here. I miss you, Sheridan. Don’t ever doubt that.

And I’ll love you forever, Cupcake. Love, Mom.

Needless to say, I never went to see her. Things happen, I get that. But I have to believe that she loves me, forever.

I’ve got to hold on to that. I put the card back and flop back onto my bed.

I flip through a few channels and just happen to land on ExtremeCuisine TV. This network is ridiculous; it shows everything from gazillion-dollar celebrity weddings to this crazy survivalist show that’s on now, Extreme Campout with Jeff “Flamethrower” Reynolds. At the moment, he’s roasting a squirrel that, yup, he killed himself. Yuck.

And now my family is supposed to be part of this mad-ness? No thanks.

I pull out my cell phone and start texting.

Top secret road trip? Chicago this weekend. U in? Also can
u drive?

I have no idea if Lori will be able to escape with her mom’s car for the weekend, but this is a matter of survival.

I could maybe learn a lesson from Flamethrower Reynolds, but I turn the channel quickly as he takes a juicy bite of roasted squirrel.

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It’s Thursday afternoon, and Amazon hasn’t texted me back ordering me to redo my sad guest list, which is a relief.

Jack ignored me in school, and I returned the favor. Ethan and I got caught making out in the band hall. He wanted to see me tonight. But I’ve got a cake to make. As soon as I get home, I pound out the next chem lab (on my own) and then make a beeline for the bakery to forget my troubles.

When I enter the kitchen, Roz is waiting with Father Crowley’s cake. He knows I’m busy this week so he mixed up the green fondant that will cover the cake for me. It’s a little too Day-Glo for my taste, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I’ve finished all of my flowers, and a flagstone path made of fondant. There’s even a spun sugar trellis for the roses to climb on.

In an hour, the cake is assembled. It’s colorful, bright (thankfully the green isn’t bad as I first thought), and absolutely perfect. But now it’s almost five and I need to get to the restaurant.

My weekend plans are working out nicely. Lori’s sister is a sophomore at Notre Dame, which is on the way to Chicago. So Lori told her mom that we were going to spend the weekend in the dorms. And we will drive through, just to say hello, so we’re not complete liars. But then we’ll head to the big convention center on the other side of Lake Michigan, to find Mom.

When I get to Sheridan & Irving’s, the dining room is full, but Dad is upstairs filming interview segments for the show. This show seems to have taken over everything. All he thinks about is May 7 and maybe Amazon, too, since he didn’t come home until four last night. “Just jazz” my butt.

I spend the night bussing tables and working prep and don’t say a word to my father. When I finally creep up to our front porch at ten o’clock, Ethan is waiting on the top step.

I’m so tired that for a second I imagine he’s a ghost.

But as I come closer he stands up, and I know he’s the real thing. I can smell his strong boy smell—like soap and sweat mixed together, in a good way. The butterflies that do cartwheels in my stomach whenever he’s around are flutter-ing like gangbusters now.

“Hi,” he says. He’s slightly hunched over, with his hands 158

in his pockets. He doesn’t look like the most popular guy in the junior class right now. He looks like a mortal, and this helps me relax.

“Hey,” I say. He comes down one step, then another, and I can see his face in the glow of the parking lot lights. The way he looks at me makes me feel beautiful.

“Whatcha doin’?” I ask, meeting him on the middle step.

“Looking at the stars,” he says. We are definitely within kissing distance. I’m ready and wouldn’t mind the practice.

But instead, he points to the sky. “Look at ’em tonight.”

There they are. Millions of them, twinkling brilliantly.

I suddenly feel positively microscopic. He sits down on the step, pats the spot next to him.

“Tired?”

“Yes.”

I sit and lay my head against his shoulder. He lifts an arm and wraps it around me. This is nice.

The cold front lingers. I am freezing. Ethan moves a little closer so that our thick winter coats mush up against each other. I worry about my breath. Danny fixed me shrimp scampi for dinner. Lots of garlic.

Ethan turns his face toward mine. If I taste like scampi, it’s way too late to do anything about it now. His lips lean in and touch mine, and this time I don’t worry about whether I’m doing it right or am a total hack. I just let it happen. A definite improvement.

He smiles when he kisses me. I can feel his lips curl 159

I pull away slowly. “Why do you like me? You do know I’m not popular?” I whisper into his ear while he kisses my neck.

He laughs quietly.

“I’m serious. I really have no life outside of this triangle.”

I spread my arms to include the bakery, my house, and the restaurant.

“That’s totally not true,” he says between pecks on my cheek. “I have seen you at school once or twice.”

“Well, yeah, that doesn’t count.”

“And we met at Geronimo’s.”

“That’s true.”

He’s slowly inching back toward my mouth. “I don’t care about popular. I want different. You’re different. Not like any of the other girls here.”

Now my lips curve. “Is it my superhuman ability to make anything out of cake?”

He pulls back. I am amazed how his bright blue eyes shine, even in the dark. “That is pretty cool, you know.

You’ve got a passion for something. I think that’s . . . I don’t know . . . uncommon. Plus”—he leans in again—“you’re hot.”

I almost laugh in his face, because no one has ever used the word
hot
to describe me, unless I had a fever. But right at this moment Ethan seems so sincere and sweet that I don’t even try to argue with him.

His hand wraps around my waist, and he pulls me even 160

closer. “Can we go inside?”

Uh-oh. I was afraid of that. Part of me would very much like to go inside the house with him. But I also know it could be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. EVER.

That’s when I hear a voice floating down through the ice-cold air. “Sheridan!” I jolt upright, pulling away from him.

It’s Nanny, screeching from her balcony like a barn owl.

“Who is that?” He looks behind us.

“My grandmother.”

“Where is she?”

“She lives above the bakery.”

“How can she see us? We’re on the front porch.”

“She’s psychic. And a little psychotic. Both, really.” I swing my head around the porch railing. I can’t make out the details of her face, but I glare in her general direction. I see the silhouette of her rounded body, her hands perched on her hips. I’m hoping she can see the daggers that I am shooting at her on this starry night.

“That’s enough of that now!” she calls, loud and clear.

“Man, it’s like living next to the warden,” Ethan says, and stands up. I’m so embarrassed. “I guess that’s my cue,”

he says. I watch as his long legs stretch themselves out. I have this crazy desire to hop on his shoulders and ask him to pig-gyback me away from here. He walks down the stairs, grabs my hand, pulls me to him. “Maybe it’s time you had a life outside of the triangle?”

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Our fingers weave together. I am wrapped up in his scent and the richness of his voice and those impossibly blue eyes.

Every time I see him I am more at ease, and I think,
This
could real y work.

As much as I love my cakes, and as much as I want Mom back to fix things, at this moment I’d give it all up to spend one more minute in this cocoon with Ethan.

And then I have a terrible thought. This is what happened to my mother. She got wrapped up in her feelings for that man and she walked away from Dad, and from me. She couldn’t say no.

I really don’t want to think about this now.

“So, we on for tomorrow night?” Ethan snaps me back from the past.

“Oh. I have to help at Father Crowley’s birthday party,” I say. “You can come, though. The whole town is invited. And I made the cake.”

“Course you did.” He grins. “Nah.” He lets go of my hand, takes a few steps away. “I’m not really the church type.”

“Well, it’s not church; it’s a birthday party.” But I can see in his eyes that he’s not going for it. “But I can get away after that.” I hear the desperation in my voice.

“You ever go down to the lighthouse?”

“Yeah.” Which is a lie. I run by sometimes, but I don’t go there for the same reason other kids do, which is to party.

“There’s a bonfire tomorrow night.”

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“Oh. Okay.” I bob my head.

“Meet me there? At nine?” he says, so confident, like there’s no chance I’ll turn him down. He’s right. I won’t.