The Sweetest Thing (26 page)

I spy Jack and Lori standing against the far wall, their arms crossed, looking horrified. I walk over to them and try to avoid Amazon’s laser glare.

“Don’t look so excited, guys,” I say. Lori laughs nervous-ly. Jack doesn’t say a word; just stares at me, dumbfounded.

“What is it?”

“Um. Sheridan? Who exactly did you invite to this little shindig?” Jack asks.

“Well.” I shift from one foot to another. “Just you guys, basically. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

“Oh.” Lori squints at me, twists her mouth funny. “Well, it looks like someone went ahead and added to your guest list.”

“What?” I say. “What are you talking about?”

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Jack points a finger up to the ceiling. “Ethan’s here. In wardrobe.”

“Yeah, well, I invited him.”

“And Haley.” Jack’s mouth seems to be moving in slow motion.

“Haley? No. That’s impossible.”

They shake their heads in unison. I turn away from them and dash across the room to find Amazon. She’ll fix this; she has to. There she is, yelling at one of the crew. “No! The lights go here, not there!”

“Excuse me?” I say, trying to keep my cool.

She doesn’t seem to hear me.

“Excuse me?” I say again, louder this time.

“Yes?” She turns to me. “Oh good, you’re here. Listen, I need you to do a final fitting upstairs.”

“Um. First, there are some people here who I didn’t invite?”

“Well, yes, Sheridan.” She chuckles. “You didn’t exactly give me much of a guest list.”

“But . . . those aren’t my friends. Not even a little.”

“Really? Sheridan, come on.” She puts her hands on her hips and looks disgusted. “Can’t you make nice for one day?

You seem like the kind of girl who can be friends with anyone. I had to ask the drama teacher at the high school if she had any students who might make attractive extras.” She picks up a potted plant, and I follow her as she carries it to a long table. “That’s it! Don’t think of them as friends; think 274

of them as extras. That’ll help.”

She sees someone doing something wrong across the room. “You! There! That doesn’t go there!” And she hurries away.

That’s when I see Haley walk down the staircase, surrounded by her entourage. Lori and Jack stare at me and shrug. They’re no help at all.

Dad walks into the room, a tray of hors d’oeuvres in his hand. He’s passing them out to the crew, smiling and laughing. But something’s wrong. He’s nervous? Tired?

Haley waits at the bottom of the stairs, and I look up to see Ethan making his way down. He looks marvelous, and maybe a little bit sad when he sees me. A part of me wants to run to him, grab him, kiss him, and give this another try.

But Haley gets to him first. He stands back, avoids her, gives me a see-I-told-you-we-were-through look. And then …

“Okay, people!” Amazon yells in a strong, loud voice.

“We need to get the basics down here. Cast, remember this is reality TV; this is not staged. But certain things have to happen, and that’s what we’re here for now.”

This not-staged rehearsal has us serving fake food, cutting fake cake, opening fake gifts. There’s even a deejay coming tomorrow, so we have to practice fake dancing on a fake dance floor. Surfer bounds over to my side, pulling Ethan along behind him. He lowers his voice and whispers, just to us, “I want you two to dance with each other. Give me snuggles, kisses, the whole nine yards—got me? I’m 275

counting on you two to bring the sexy to this party.”

Um. Okay.

Ethan is smiling like he just won the lottery.

By seven o’clock, we’ve got the drill down. During a break in the action, Lori and I sit down at a round table in the middle of the room.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Trouble’s brewing, methinks.”

“You’re telling me.” I look around for Haley and see her sitting in a circle of chairs with her coven of witches.

“By the way, Jack’s freaking out. He thinks he’s blown it with you, big-time.”

“What? No.” I lean forward and lay my head in my hands. “I just haven’t figured out what I’m going to do yet.

With him. And Ethan.”

“Really, Sheridan?” She stretches her arms. “You and Ethan? Come on, you guys are like Coke and Pepsi. Both tasty, but they don’t go together. You and Jack, you’re like peas in a pod. Both totally OCD, both cranky as hell. And it’s slightly disturbing to say this out loud, but you have got some chemistry with that boy. Seems like a no-brainer.”

“Coke and Pepsi?”

“You know what I mean. If you asked for my advice, which you did not, but I’m giving it to you anyway, it’s you and Jack. I’ve seen it coming for years.” She sits back, crosses her legs, and sighs.

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“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“But what if it doesn’t work?”

She shakes her head. “Can’t think like that. You know who thinks like that? Chickens. Are you a chicken, Sheridan?”

I shrug and drop my head to the table. “Bawk, bawk,” I cluck.

“Okay, dinner break, people! But we’re doing another run-through after!” Amazon shouts. “Be back at eight!”

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I look up and Ethan is behind me, glowing. Seriously, his glowing blond hair frames his glowing face, which is connected to his glowing neck.

I try not to want to kiss those lips. Try to not want Ethan Murphy.

“Hey. Sheridan.” It’s Jack, from my other side. “Let’s go eat.”

I look from Ethan to Jack. They glare at each other, and I find myself wishing that Sheridan & Irving’s was equipped with a trapdoor. Wouldn’t it be nice if I happened to be sitting directly over it?

I push a stray hair from my eyes. Smile at them both. No idea what to say.

“Sheridan!” Dad approaches. “Let’s eat up at Nan’s. I’m cooking.”

“I should probably go work on the cake,” I say, thinking of the butterfly that will hopefully make it perfect.

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“No, come on. You’ve got to eat something.”

I peer at him, suspicious. Why in the world does he want to eat dinner with me when Amazon is here, or the Suits, or anyone else, for that matter? Being with me stresses him out.

Stresses me out, too.

“Come on, I’ll make you anything you want.”

Jack and Ethan fidget.

“Anything.” Dad is really trying. “Salade Niçoise? I can grab some fresh tuna, or filet. You want filet? You love filet.”

Dad pays no attention to the boys who flank me. He just waits for my answer.

“Fine,” I say. “Pancakes. I want pancakes.”

“Pancakes?”

“You said anything.”

“Just plain pancakes?”

“No.” I cross my arms. “With chocolate chips.”

Dad stares at me, and I wait for him to argue. He’ll want to make me an omelet, or at least crepes. But instead he says, “You know, that sounds really good.” He puts his arm around my shoulder. “Excuse us, gentlemen.” He nods in the general direction of Ethan and Jack as he leads me away from the entire mess.

We head out together into the cold night. I am speechless. I think my dad just saved my butt.

He walks ahead of me and doesn’t say a word as we make our way up Nanny’s back stairs and into her kitchen. The apartment is quiet, and smel s empty. It makes me sad.

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He goes straight for the mixing bowls, grabs a griddle from Nanny’s arsenal. I sit down on the nearest stool and watch him.

I decide to get right down to business. “Okay, so I can see you’re trying to be nice, but if you think that I’ll change my mind about the show, you’re wrong.”

“Sheridan.” He turns around, places the griddle on a burner. “Can we just not talk about the show? For like forty-five minutes? Can we just eat dinner together?”

“Fine with me,” I say coolly.

“Why don’t you switch on the radio?” he says. Chef Donovan Wells does not cook to music, but okay, whatever.

He pours some cream into the mixing bowl while I switch on Nanny’s stereo. There’s an oldies station on. I’m not a big fan, but I don’t feel like hunting for something good. And I’m not turning on that ABBA CD. So we listen to Johnny Cash instead.

“Ah. A classic,” Dad says as Johnny sings about a ring of fire. “You know where she keeps her chocolate chips?”

I walk to the cabinet next to the fridge, throw him the bag.

“You know,” he says, “I remember making these for you when you were little. Really little.” He cracks two eggs into the mixture. “I have no idea when all this time went by. I swear you were just four years old, sneaking chocolate chips out of the bag.”

I remember that.

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He adds flour, baking soda, and vanilla; mixes it all up; then dips a ladle into the pancake batter and drops the liquid onto the griddle. Maybe it’s the way he looks so worn out tonight, or maybe I just want to pretend that there’s some hope for us, but something inside me cracks, like the eggshells he just threw away. I feel like the Grinch at the end of the story, when his heart grows. It’s not like mine’s gonna burst out of my chest or anything, but something is different—for now, anyway.

I walk up to the stove, stand next to him. “You’re doing it wrong. Don’t you remember the bears?” I grab the spatula and pick up the four lame, round pancakes that he’s made, then pile them onto a plate.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, and watches as I scoop up a good bit of the mix, let it fall into a big circle, then drop two smaller dollops on top of the large one. I grab the bag of chocolate chips and strategically place two eyes, a nose, and a crooked smile on the teddy bear face.

“You remember?” I ask him again.

“Remember? I
invented
these suckers.” He gently nudges me out of the way, taking the spatula back.

The song changes on the radio from something I don’t recognize to a tune that is vaguely familiar.

“Hee-hee!” Dad laughs. “It’s ‘Henery’!”

Before I know what is happening, he is humming, then singing along with this totally ridiculous song—“I’m ’Enery the Eighth, I am; ’Enery the Eighth, I am”—in this 280

goofy English accent.

I sit back down on the stool. I’d forgotten how this used to be; how we used to have fun together, cooking and listening to crazy music. I remember doing this even after Mom left. But then the restaurant, his travel, his social calendar—

it all butted in, and the time we spent together just fizzled out.

And maybe my cakes had something to do with it, too. I think of the times he asked me to go for a bike ride, watch a movie, or just sit and talk, and instead I went to the bakery and made someone a cake.

When he starts dancing around, waving the spatula, I burst out laughing.

“I’m her eighth old man, I’m ’Enery; ’Enery the Eighth, I am!” he sings. At the same time, he serves me up a bear on a plate, slaps the syrup and then the butter dish down, and finally takes a bow.

I try to stop myself from smiling too big, but the memories are oozing out of me. They flood my brain and sub-merge my heart. I feel like a crazy mile-wide dam has broken open and I can’t do a thing to stop it.

The song ends. “These are good,” I say as I swallow an ear.

“Good. I’m glad you like them.”

He stares at me. His eyes narrow like he’s trying to remember something.

“What?” I ask.

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He turns back around and flips the next bear. “Nothing.”

I take another bite. “Dad? Are you dating Amaz—I mean, Jacqueline?”

He shakes his head. “No, not really.”

He flips the conversation around. “Are you dating that blond jock?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Good. I don’t like him.” He raises an eyebrow. “What about Jack?”

“Don’t know.”

“Jack I like. He’s a good guy.”

I shrug. He shakes his head. “Of course, any guy’d be lucky to date you. You’ve got so much going for you.”

I am surprised, hearing him talk like this. And I wish he’d tell me what exactly I have going for me.

When I am halfway through the bear’s face, I look at Dad and think of him living in New York City without me.

He drives me crazy, but the idea of him not being around fills me with a dark, empty feeling. Like if that happened, our family would officially be over.

“Do you still love Mom?” I’m not sure why this particular question pops out of my mouth, but now that I’ve asked it, I really need to know the answer.

He looks surprised and turns to check on a pancake. He puts it on a plate and grabs the butter, taking a moment to spread a pat and dump some syrup on top of his bear. When his fork is poised, ready to slice into it, he stops.

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“In the beginning, it was great. But a few years after you were born, something changed. And then I was miserable. And worried. A lot. But at the start, she was a lot of fun; she made me laugh.” He slices off a bite, puts it in his mouth, chews. I can tell it’s hard for him to swallow. “But that wasn’t enough.”

His eyes are shiny. With tears? And I feel a lump rising in my throat.

“So is that a no?”

He smirks. “I love that I got you out of the deal.”

He takes another bite, puts his plate down, lays the fork on top. He walks over to me. “You done?” I nod and he takes my plate. I wipe my mouth with a napkin, take a swig of the ice-cold milk he’s poured for me.

Dad looks at his watch. “We’d better get back, so the wrath of Jacqueline won’t fall upon us.” He rinses the dishes, and I put away the butter, the chocolate chips, and the syrup, then turn off the radio.

Dad gets the lights behind us and locks Nanny’s door.

“We should do this more often,” he says. “That was the best dinner I’ve had in a long time.”

I laugh. There’s no way that chocolate chip bear pancakes beat his gourmet cuisine. But still, I know what he means.

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bitter with the sweet

I wake up, look out the window. Snow. On May 7.

It’s only six thirty in the morning, but the house is alive with noise. I shower and get dressed. Amazon warned me to wear a button-down shirt so that my hair and makeup won’t get ruined when I change into my Hawaiian vomit dress. I find an old blue oxford in the back of my closet, button up, and take a deep breath.