Practice Cake

Practice Cake (A Romantic Comedy) by Dalya Moon

Genre/Audience: YA to adult; Main character is 18. Content Warning: Contains some swearing, underage drinking, talk of sex.

Synopsis: Set in Vancouver, Canada, during the summer of 2011. There’s one thing Maddie (18) finds more tempting than red velvet cake: her co-worker, Drew. All it takes is one of his sly winks or a playful hip-check by the sink, and she’s incinerating the cookies. Her boyfriend would not approve. When a reality TV crew descends upon the bakery, Maddie's "simple" summer job gets even more complicated. Who can Maddie turn to for advice? Her sister has terrible taste in boyfriends, so she’s out. Roxanne, the charismatic reality TV show producer, has some interesting opinions, but may be more interested in ratings. Maddie’s best friend keeps pushing her cousin Hudson, a guy who thinks he’s too cool for entry-level jobs, but makes origami. Come on. Origami? Chock full of imperfect people behaving badly, Practice Cake is light-hearted and more comedy than romance.

Book Length: approx 80,000 words (about 230 pages in

print) This version uploaded May 12, 2012

Chapter 1 June 2011, Vancouver, BC, Canada I needed the job, but I also had a really inappropriate impulse to lean over and lick the boy's neck, to find out if he tasted like icing sugar. His name was Drew. He looked like he'd emerged from English Bay that morning, played a game of beach volleyball, and then helped some orphans cross the street, all on his way to work. When he showed me how to use The Mangler, our big commercial mixer, his arm touched mine and he didn't pull back right away. Ever since, I'd been thinking about things a girl who already had a boyfriend shouldn't be thinking. “What's the next step in the hazing?” I asked. “Do I drink that quart of melted butter?” I felt witty and effervescent at the time, as I looked right into a cute boy's eyes and suggested I'd drink melted butter if he asked me to. Spoiler alert: I would have. One time in sixth grade, I ate an earthworm to impress Marshall Loh, and he wasn't even that cute, but I wanted him to see I was fearless. After, he called me Early Bird, until I agreed to let him kiss me in the coat closet. He stuck his tongue in my mouth, and it tasted like watermelon-flavored Jolly Ranchers, in a good way.

That first day I met Drew in the bakery, I couldn't stop thinking about Jolly Ranchers, kissing, and other things. After my remark about the hot butter, Drew picked up the full measuring cup and looked at me sideways, so as better to feature his cheekbones. “I told you, there's no hazing,” he said, though his wry smile suggested otherwise. “The icing powder explosion was purely accidental. And this butter's for brownies, I swear.” “I'm not going to end up wearing it?” I asked as I unabashedly struck a saucy pose. “I do feel a bit clumsy today,” he said, but after a few dangerous wobbles, he poured the butter into a mixing bowl and began stirring with a spatula. His white t-shirt was thin and on the small side, stretched over his arms and chest. I forcibly removed my gaze and reassigned it to the cookie recipe card I was holding. I didn't want my new boss, Angelo, to furrow his thick Greek unibrow and regret hiring me on the spot that morning. If I was to prove myself as a hard worker—a good girl—I had to think only of baking, and not making conversation with my sexy new co-worker with the sun-bronzed, lightly-freckled cheekbones. The thing about the beginning of a crush, or the first day at a new job, is you know your life is about to change. Fate has plucked you from your regularly-scheduled programming and what happens next is up to you. Will you be the plucky sitcom star or will you stay in the background, an extra in someone else's pilot, silently mouthing rhubarb, rhubarb, peas and carrots? Of course, I wasn't consciously thinking about any of those things my first day at Angelo's Bakery. Don't flirt with Drew —you have a boyfriend, I told myself, which worked about as well as telling someone not to picture a little monkey in a top hat, tap-dancing with a cane.

“So, what's the story with your, uh, necklace?” I asked after maybe twenty seconds of restrained silence. “Are those shells?” “Nope. Candy.” He slid his thumb under the white necklace and gave me a devilish look. “Wanna bite?” “Thanks, but I just ate a bracelet for lunch.” “Let me know if you get ... hungry.” He came closer to check on what I was doing, and I could see they were definitely sea shells, not candies at all, but by then I was thinking about taking a little nibble. I would probably have stupidly said something to that effect, but luckily the whirring paddles of The Mangler changed pitch. My batter was all massed up in a ball. Drew leaned over to take a peek. “Good job, Sport.” He handed me a silver ice-cream scoop. “Plop them on the tray in a grid, four by six. Plop-plop.” I scooped a ball of dough and dropped it on the sheet. “Sport? Is that part of the hazing?” He stared into me with his really nice, really charming, goldbrown eyes. “No. Perhaps I already forgot your real name and I feel kinda bad.” “It's Maddie Bird. The Maddie is short for Madeleine, like the little French sponge cakes.” “Maddie. Bird. Cakes. Got it.” I didn't know if it was the heat of the ovens, or him saying my name, but my whole body prickled with a wave of sweat. The cell phone in my back pocket beeped with a missed call, but for the first time in my life, I ignored my phone. I certainly didn't need another distraction when I was trying to bake cookies, alarmingly close to a smokin' guy who was way out of my league. Not that I had a league, obviously,

because I had a boyfriend.

I have a boyfriend was my mantra as I filled the trays with cookies. I counted only forty-seven, one short of the quantity listed on the recipe card. I was alone in the kitchen, or so I thought, so I quickly removed a pinch from each cookie to create a forty-eighth one. “Cheater,” said a tiny voice. I spun around to find a little girl, in pigtails and four shades of purple clothing. “I'm Robin.” Her tone said surely I'd heard of her. “Do you know what's in those jars? I do.” She pointed to the row of canisters lining the wall. Funny, that shelf of orderly supplies was what convinced me to take the job there. That and my bank account balance. “I'm learning,” I said, grinning quickly. “Maybe you can help me.” “How old are you?” Robin asked as she eyeballed every inch of me, from my long dark hair to my gray t-shirt, white jean shorts, little red shoes, then back to my face. It was my big eyes kids responded to. They were my best feature, or my worst, depending on what you like. I was always careful to smile extra-big around children so they didn't find my eyes sad. Babies would wail and fuss at the sight of me. “I'm eighteen,” I said. “How old are you? Twenty-five or so?” Robin giggled as she put her hands on her hips and said, “No! I'm six,” in exactly the way I knew she would. Kids are easy, not like teenage boys. I invited Robin to supervise me as I loaded the cookies into a big oven with a dozen racks and the words “Jet Air” on the front, along with a whole battleship-array of buttons. She perched on a stool and told me about all her best

friends while I cleaned up. By my count, she had at least five. “But which one is your best friend?” I asked. “It's like boyfriends. You can only have one.” My new boss, Angelo, came back to the kitchen. He had the same open face as his daughter. Trusting. Someone you didn't want to let down. “Smoldering,” he said. I opened the oven door to a cloud of acrid air. There went my new summer job, up in smoke. Angelo nudged me out of the way, grabbed the trays using only a thin washcloth, and dropped the wreckage on the stainless steel counter top. “Interesting,” he said, because Angelo called it as he saw it, often in a single word. The washcloth steamed in his big hand. “I'm-so-sorry,” I said, my words racing. “I'll-pay-for-theingredients-and-I-can-make-them-again. I-know-whereeverything-is.” “Thinking,” he said. We both stared at the cookies, which were black, but under the char aroma, they smelled delicious. My stomach betrayed me with a growl. “Tummy beans,” Robin said, pointing at my midsection. Drew returned from the front retail space and headed straight for the blackened cookies. He picked one up and stuffed a third of it in his mouth. “Crunchy,” he said thoughtfully. Robin stared up at him with adulation, and can you blame her? He was pretty great, like one of those Greek statues, but with too many clothes on. It was probably for the best that a girl with a boyfriend didn't continue to work around such temptation. Something in the kitchen went BANG! “Score!” Angelo said. Drew dropped the cookie and slumped against me.

“Very funny,” I said. “I'm sorry my burnt cookie is killing you.” Strangely, he was completely collapsing. I caught him reflexively—perhaps because Melanie and I always played the fainting game—but Drew weighed a lot more than my sister. I struggled to ease him to the tile floor. “Way to commit to the joke,” I said. His eyes stayed closed and he was very still, except for his breathing and the visible pulse on his neck, under the shell necklace. “What's wrong?” I asked Angelo. “Allergies? Epilepsy?” My voice pitched up to a shriek. “I don't see a Medic-Alert bracelet. What do I do?” I thought Angelo would call an ambulance or something, but he just stood there staring. Robin began to wail, mouth wide in that cartoon kid way that looks like a joke but isn't. This was no joke. I sat down on the floor and propped Drew's head up on my knee. I fanned one hand over his face, and even though I've never done it before, I began to pray. Please God, let him be okay, I prayed. I'd only known him for an hour. Drew's eyelids flicked open. “Who am I? Who are you?” he asked me, his beautiful dark eyes rendering me speechless. Good-looking people always get the best eyes. “Hi.” I gulped down the lump in my throat. “I'm Maddie. You're at the bakery. Your name is—” “Wait, it's all coming back to me.” He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his head. “You're an evil wizard and you cast a love spell on me.” “I'm not evil,” I said.

Angelo knelt down next to his daughter, Robin, and shushed her tears. “Was I out long?” Drew asked Angelo. “Seconds,” Angelo said, and he shook his head, as though Drew had been naughty. Robin kept sobbing, and Drew held out a hand and called her to him. “I'm okay, I was just playing. See, I'm fine. Do you want to go for a walk outside? I'll buy you an ice cream. Help me get up.” Robin grabbed both of his hands and helped him to his feet. They went out the back door, and I heard Robin offering one of her Dora the Explorer Band-Aids, if he needed it. “What's going on?” I asked Angelo. “The snap, that was a mouse trap?” “Bigger,” he said. “Uh, how big, exactly?” I looked around, trying to not panic. I knew we didn't have snakes in the city, but honestly, my first thought was snakes. Angelo frowned. “Rat.” “But what was up with Drew? He fainted, right? Does he have a rat phobia?” Angelo grunted as he pulled back a cabinet and leaned over, looking toward the floor behind it. “Wanna take the little guy home?” “Who, Drew?” I asked guiltily. Was I that transparent? Could Angelo tell that even though I'd been scared for Drew's life, I'd enjoyed having his soft, curly, chestnut-brown hair right in my lap? Angelo hoisted up a metal cage containing a giant, very-

much-alive rat. A second after the urge to scream passed, I said, “Aww, he's adorable!” The rat gave me a get-me-out-of-here look. “No blood. Sometimes the traps malfunction. Crush the skulls,” Angelo said. The rat froze with one paw over his mouth, as though he'd suddenly developed the ability to understand human speech. “Shhh. He can hear you,” I said. “He's right there.” Angelo put the rat inside the bakery's tiny back office and closed the door. Twenty minutes later, a guy from the pest control company came by to take the rat, on a vacation, he said, and set out another trap. The exterminator, a ruddycheeked, white-haired man in blue overalls, checked the exterior of the bakery and gave Angelo some more exciting vermin news: Squirrels were nesting in the crawlspace above the ceiling. “Typical,” Angelo said to me. “May as well quit now. Squirrels. Price of flour. BakeCo.” He pretended to spit on the floor instead of finishing the sentence. “But you get to bake, and baking's fun,” I offered. “Figure?” He raised his eyebrows, inviting me to convince him. “It's totally fun,” I gushed. “My last job was after-school as a grocery cashier, and all day, the only words I said were 'paper or plastic?' And would you believe some people haven't decided? I mean, come on, it's a simple choice. You're either paper or you're plastic.” “Hmm,” he said unconvincingly, as though mentally

composing a grocery list while pretending to listen to the runt-sized teenager he'd only met that morning. Please hear me, I thought. See me. Be glad you hired me. “So, I'll come back tomorrow, right?” I asked. “I'll work hard. I won't let you down.” He rubbed his dark-stubbled chin with one hand. “I don't know,” he said. My guts sank and my cheeks ached as my eyes filled with tears. I gazed up at the ceiling and began reciting the alphabet in reverse to get control of my disappointment. “My wife does the shopping,” he said. “Plastic, I think.” The front door jingled with a new customer. I swallowed hard and replayed the last five seconds in my head, while he went out to the front. I took off my apron and hung it next to the calendar by the back door. There it was, in blue ballpoint pen: Maddie Bird, full-time baker's assistant.

Chapter 2 My first week of baking was fun, but also tiring. I had to miss a few hours of my shifts to write my final exams for high school, and I was glad to have the break. As I sat in the gym, filling out papers with twelve years' worth of accumulated knowledge, I wondered how the other students around me were feeling. The ones who were both rich and smart were headed for university in the Fall, but for those of us who weren't, those exams might be the last ones we'd ever have to take in our lives. You'd think people would look a little less anguished. I skipped the graduation ceremony, and most of the parties, because I had shifts at the bakery. The diploma you get at the ceremony isn't the real one anyways—they mail that to you weeks later. I wouldn't say I hated high school. It had been fine, but I didn't feel the need to linger. When I returned to the bakery after my last exam, I couldn't stop smiling. Drew asked me why, and I simply said, “I'm not in high school anymore.” He agreed that it was a good feeling, and thanked me for reminding him that he wasn't either. We were both free. I woke up on the morning of my day off and rubbed my sore

shoulders. Days out of high school and already I felt old. I would have loved a pajama day at home, but my best friend phoned, and she whined until I agreed to meet her. We were outside, and I was shivering, because even though it was June, the weather hadn't gotten the memo about Summer. I didn't mind the unusual lack of sun, because I felt more energetic when the weather was cool, plus it made being in the oven-warmed bakery feel more cozy. If everything's equally warm, you never get that comforting equivalent of being bundled under layers of blankets, with a half-open window letting in a crisp breeze. My friend circled around me on her unicycle, her curly black hair fanning out, and her summery dress flapping in the cool ocean breeze. It kept riding up, offering glimpses of her brown thighs, and she pretended not to notice every guy with a pair of eyes was checking her out. “Lookin' hot there, Dave,” I called out. She gave me the finger with both hands easily, as unicycles have no handlebars. When I first met Davina-Jaslene Shah, shortly after I moved to Vancouver, she made it clear I could call her Jaslene, but not Jas or Jazz. I countered by offering to call her Dave, but she never warmed up to that. Jaslene passed in front of me slowly, grabbed the slushy from my hand, and made another graceful figure eight. A couple with a toddler in a stroller slowed down and scowled at Jaslene. The young mother wore tiny little blue jeans with a heart embroidered between the back pockets, right over her business end. The man had rolled-up sleeves, showing Popeye forearms—tattooed, of course. “Hey. Hey, this area is not for bikes,” the hipster dad said, indicating parenthood had stolen his cool. “I'm not on a bike,” she said, but she still dismounted and walked her unicycle back over to me. “No-Fun Police,” she

said, loud enough for them to hear. “I think it's the dresses and unicycle that give us away as Anarchists, bent on the destruction of Kits Beach.” I took back the slushy and drank some of the sweet, red juice while I checked my phone for messages. I'd been harboring this fantasy that Drew would get my number off the schedule at work and text me something flirty, but I also hoped he wouldn't, because then I'd be obligated to mention I had a boyfriend. In the past, I'd never worried about having to fend off guys by bringing up a boyfriend, so I had no practice with doing that smoothly. I knew I should say something to Drew, but I enjoyed the illusion of having a double life—of being simply Maddie Bird, a girl, and not Maddie, Parker's girlfriend. I scrolled up to the messages from earlier. Parker had invited me to dinner at his house, but I hadn't given him an answer yet. I told myself it was because I'd be spending the day with Jaslene, and those two didn't mix, but the truth was I felt guilty about my extra-curricular boy enjoyment, and had been avoiding Parker since I'd started at the bakery. It was only noon, so I put the phone back in my purse and asked Jaslene if she wanted to rent a video. I rubbed my goose bump-covered arms, made my sad-puppy face, and complained about my sore shoulders. “Okay, but we can not be late for my audition,” Jaslene said, twisting the gold bangles on her wrist. “This commercial is a good one, and I'm as nervous as ...” She slid into her country bumpkin voice. “A baby squirrel in a cat-lady's house.” “You don't seem nervous.” “Acting,” she said with a flourish. “Okay, let's rock. Hey, when you get your Beetle, we'll ride in style and only walk for fun.” “My Beetle.” I sighed. Just a few more pay checks and I'd

have the one thing I'd been talking about for years, the car that appeared on every birthday card Jaslene had given me. Jaslene walked the unicycle next to her and we left the park, taking a detour by the beach volleyball courts. Someone called my name and I looked up to see my hot new coworker, Drew, ankle-deep in sand. I almost didn't recognize him with his shirt off. Repeat: His shirt OFF. “Hey, Maddie-Cookie-Bird, we're one short,” he called over. “You wanna play?” “Who, me? Uh, I've kinda got other plans, but thanks,” I said. Jaslene was stopped and staring, so I grabbed her hand and hauled her and her unicycle away from the shirtless hotties. “Maddie. Who. Was. That?” Jaslene asked as soon as we were out of earshot. “Oh, just some guy from work.” “That's Drew? The guy whose name you keep dropping into casual conversation? 'Drew made us a smoothie at work.' 'Drew asked me to rub butter all over his perfect body.'” “What? So I think he's cool. I'm not after him. I have a boyfriend.” Jaslene stopped to throw the empty drink container in the garbage. “Oh, right. Parker,” she said sweetly, then pretended to throw up into the oval opening in the silver can. “And this is why we can't all hang out together.” “Parker is the worst,” she said. Normally, I would have jumped to his defense and named off his good points: He called me every day, his family was always sweet to me, and … some other things that weren't

coming to mind. We walked up the hill in silence. A blue Beetle drove by and the white, fluffy lap dog hanging out the passenger side window barked at us. The dog wore sunglasses, held on by a strap around the back of its head. “Doggles,” Jaslene said. After a few minutes, I said, “I might have a teensy weensy, very temporary, harmless crush on Drew.” “Ri-i-i-i-ight,” she said in a voice so smug, I wanted to push her into a hedge. My cheeks flushed with embarrassment. If she could read me that easily, surely other people would know I had a crush on Drew, and then it wouldn't be so harmless after all. We walked another block in silence, past grand old Craftsman houses with thick columns and generous porches people rarely used for anything other than bike storage. I'd always thought one day Parker and I would live in one of these houses. “What if it's not just a crush,” I said. “What should I do?” “Break up with Parker,” she said matter-of-factly, as though she'd been planning a speech for a while. “Then drop the trio of hints and see if this new guy wants to take you out. For a proper date. Working together doesn't count.” “Trio of hints?” She listed them off on her fingers. “Ask if he has any plans for the weekend. Tell him you want to go see some hot band, but your friends won't go.” “And?” “That should work, but if not, number three is you eat a Popsicle while staring at him.” She mimed the action in a manner that suggested she'd been practicing in a mirror.

We had reached the door of Little Shop of Horrors and stood out front laughing about the Popsicle. “I should apply for some other jobs,” I said when I caught my breath. “The Bagelhole is always hiring, and I could waitress.” I imagined myself in a 1960s diner uniform with a white half-apron and a name tag, like I always did whenever I said the word waitress. “But I like baking. It's kind of ... blissful, rolling out dough.” “Dough.” She licked her lips and said, rapid-fire, “Backthere-with-no-shirt-on? No dough on those abs.” “Shush, Dave,” I said as I pulled open the glass door.

Why couldn't I have some hot love triangle, like all the girls in popular movies? I browsed through the new movie section, paying special attention to covers featuring one girl and two guys. A number of them had one girl and three or more guys, but of course those girls were always sublimely blond. After a bit, Jaslene waved me over to the counter. “This is my cousin,” she said, indicating the guy behind the counter. “Meet Hudson. He just moved here from Calgary.” I paused for a moment because Hudson was Asian in a way Jaslene was not. He wore a black shirt emblazoned with the words You Are Not Your Blog, and he was folding some papers on the counter top. “Second cousin,” he said, shyly meeting my eyes. “Onceremoved. I can draw you a chart, I'm very good at charts.” I thought of watermelon-flavored Jolly Ranchers and my mouth watered.

“And origami,” Jaslene said, admiring the object Hudson was working on, which seemed to be a teal elephant. “That's some fine folding,” I said, then my attention was drawn to the movie playing on the big TV. On-screen, an outdoorsy man offered someone a bottle of milk, which turned out to be not from a cow, but from a dog named Cow. “This is a travesty,” Jaslene said to Hudson. I pulled myself away from the hypnotic hold of the screen and asked what they were talking about. “We're closing at the end of the month,” Hudson said, nodding up at the Blowout Sale posters hanging from the ceiling. I'd been so love-triangle-lust-addled, I hadn't noticed. Another sign on the till confirmed it: Little Shop of

Horrors Video Rental is Closing Forever. “No way,” I said. “This place is an institution.” “Can't compete with the Internet,” Hudson said. “We're redundant. Superfluous. We may as well be renting out horse-drawn carriages.” “All these movies will be ...” Jaslene trailed off, speechless for once. “Lost, like tears in the rain, yeah.” He glanced down and shuffled his family of four paper elephants into a line on the counter. “Our customers rallied these last few months, but it's too little, too late. The space has already been leased out to that big chain, BakeCo. They're taking the bookstore next door too, knocking out the wall in-between.” “No,” I gasped, feeling something the size of a five-pin bowling ball dropping inside me. Angelo had been worried about BakeCo opening near him, and this place was only six blocks from his bakery.

“Here, they gave us some samples today.” Hudson handed us each a brown paper wrapper with a big cookie. Jaslene thanked him and we went to back to the new releases section, which I then realized was pretty empty. She ducked over to the French-language area and picked up a DVD featuring a mischievously-smiling Audrey Tautou popping out of a green background. “Please?” Jaslene batted her sparkly eyelashes. “No need to beg, you know I love me some Amelie,” I said, and Jaslene gave me an appreciative look, making me feel like the most wonderful friend in the world. We brought the DVD to the counter, where Hudson was watching, on the TV screen, a bobble-headed woman fondling an array of cake-decorating tools. “Have you seen this new network?” he asked. “All baking. Twenty-four hours a day. I can't. Stop. Watching.” “Aspirational lifestyle porn,” Jaslene said. “The home decor channel is the best. I love that designer guy, John-Franko. He says he wants to make people happy, but then he chainsaws their antique heirlooms in half, or paints all their walls black, or whatever it takes to make them cry.” “Every show needs a villain,” Hudson said. “I love hating him,” Jasmine said. “Did you see the one where he did a poster-size enlargement of the couple's secret play-time photo? I didn't know they made saddles and bridles for people. Apparently neither did their in-laws.” Over on the TV, the woman on-screen, in a show captioned as The Gluten-Free Happy-Go-Lucky Vegan, was releasing an avalanche of magnolia icing on an unsuspecting cake. “Oh, no,” I said. “That's far too much icing for such a little cake. Too much of a good thing is still too much.” Hudson sold Jaslene the DVD for the same price as a

rental. He handed her a business card and asked, “Hey, do you ladies know anyone who needs a website designer? I'm cheap but I'm good.” With BakeCo coming to the neighborhood, Angelo needed all the help he could get, so I took Hudson's card and promised to pass his name along. “Thanks, I need the freelance contracts,” Hudson said. “I don't want to stoop to some food services McJob, like some loser.”

Like some what? I put my hands on my hips. “Some loser?” “Hudson, you dork, Maddie's got a bakery gig,” Jaslene said. “Ah, my condolences,” Hudson said. “I'm sure something better will come along. Keep your chin up and all that.” “Right. Well, at least my bakery isn't closing down forever,” I said, trying my best to hang icicles off my words. “Not yet,” he said, and then he did it. He gave a slight sneer, looking almost as disdainful as my boyfriend Parker had when I'd accepted the job at Angelo's. Parker had said I could do better, if only I'd tried a little harder. He always acted like everything about my situation, from my living arrangements to my mediocre grades, was entirely my fault. When I'd told him I was excited about baking, he'd given me that same look Hudson gave me in the video store—pity. I smacked my palm down on the counter, crushing one of Hudson's paper elephants. “Oops,” I lied. Jaslene grabbed my arm and hauled me away. “Ha ha, very funny.” To Hudson, she said, “Maddie has a bizarre sense of humor, she doesn't mean anything by it.” She yanked me out the door and called in to an open-mouthed Hudson, “See you at the family picnic! Okay? Bye!”

Outside the store, Jaslene said, crossly, “Bad girl! Behave yourself!” We walked down the sidewalk and a few steps later, she said in a low voice, “His dad's kind of a snob, but Hudson's a great guy, I swear.” “That elephant was so smug. He was totally asking for it.” Jaslene groaned. “Please don't squash Hudson's origami again, it's probably emasculating. Guys take any sort of aggressive crushing as emasculating.” I danced ahead of her, karate-kicking and punching the air. “Take that, smug elephant!” I did a cartwheel and narrowly missed landing in dog crap. Normally, that would have made her laugh, but instead, she gazed up at the cloudless sky. “What do you think about my boobs?” “Uh, I don't think about them,” I said, which wasn't entirely true. I'd had a few daydreams where a fairy godmother or aliens with superior technology had declared me worthy and granted me the physical attributes I wanted, and I'd always admired Jaslene's rack, nose, and pixie-like ears. I fell in line with Jaslene and skipped to match my step with hers. We walked past the tall skinny tree that looked, in the breeze, like a man waving one arm impatiently. “I'll be in a different market soon, legally-speaking,” she said. “And I'll have to make some hard decisions.” “Not your boobies,” I said. “You swore you'd never do nudity.” “I say a lot of things. With all the praise I got from my acting teachers, I guess I thought I'd be a regular on a hit show by now. I didn't think I'd still be doing student films and ... gick ... web series.” We had reached the pink house, the prettiest one on the

street: Jaslene's house. We passed under the Japanese maple and when we got to the old wooden front door, Jaslene dramatically bonked her head against it three times. “Work,” she said. “Work versus exploitation. How are they different? Remind me.” I opened the bag of one of the BakeCo cookies I'd been carrying, and waved it under her nose. “Listen, you're sugar-crashing from the slushy. You are an amazing and talented actress. You're young, I'm young, we'll figure stuff out, with or without our McJobs. Now eat the cookie and cheer up.” By the time we were inside and sprawled out on the comfy carpet in Jaslene's TV/yoga room, she was smiling again. I scanned the room to make sure nothing had changed. When people said “think of a happy place, like a tropical beach,” I thought of that room, in the attic of the pink house. Tall shelves stacked with just the right amount of books lined the walls, the air always smelled like lemon zest, and the dozen giant pillows were better than any couch. On the big screen, sweet Amelie, with her quirky bobbed haircut, ran around Montmarte, France, grinning impishly and setting things right in the lives of the people she knew, even though she had a lowly cafe job and no career to mention. “I taste no love in this cookie,” Jaslene said of the BakeCo sample. “The edges are good but the inside is half-raw.” “Cookies were never meant to be as big as tractor tires.” “Why don't they make them normal-sized?” Jaslene asked. “I guess because people don't want to order five smaller cookies, because then they'd look like pigs?” She rolled the lump into a smooth ball. “Revolting. You know

what someone should do? Invent a better cookie. Nice and big, but not undercooked in the middle.” On-screen, lovely French Amelie looked up and winked at me. I sat up straight. The idea swirled around in my brain like a ghost, or like a dream that tries to get away when you wake up. Jaslene turned to look quizzically at me as she twisted the bangles on her wrist. That was it! If I could make a cookie more like a bangle, it would have double the edges. What would Angelo think about me suggesting new product ideas? Who was I to be coming up with such crazy ideas? I'd never be a sublime blonde, despite the promises made by boxes of hair dye. They only turned my hair orange and sent me racing around town in a head scarf, looking for a 24-hour drug store with the brown-dye antidote. I could, however, embrace my inner quirky brunette. I could be brainy and entrepreneurial, and not just work at the bakery, but help the business. I had some French DNA, like Amelie. If I could just stop grinning like a nervous idiot all the time, and make my smile inscrutable, I could be a loveable, impish helper, couldn't I?

Chapter 3 After we finished watching the movie and I helped iron out Jaslene's naturally curly black hair, her mother drove us to the commercial audition. Her mom always went with her to auditions, but it was only my second or third time. The casting agency was in a boxy, concrete office building on West Broadway. I'd expected something more glamorous than accounting offices and bike couriers. Inside the elevator, which groaned ominously, I looked down at Jaslene's feet and blurted out, “What the fugly?” All seven or eight people in the elevator slyly looked down at Jaslene's feet, which she promptly turned to a flattering angle. “I know we hated these,” she said, “But I keep seeing them around and they grew on me.” “Open-toed boots are an abomination,” I said, which made a middle-aged lady in a Vancouver Canucks hockey jersey giggle into her hand. Actually, everyone in the elevator, except the three of us, wore Canucks jerseys or shirts. As our hockey team got closer to the Stanley Cup, the city's people were turning blue, like some viral contagion of hope. It reminded me of the previous winter, when everyone and their dog wore red and white official hoodies all during the

2010 Olympics. Jaslene and I had wanted to see an event, but the tickets were expensive, and by the time we tried, the only events left sounded really lame. We ended up watching everything on TV, like the rest of the world. It was fun to be outside and see everyone in matching red zip-ups, though, like we were all united, and the audience at home didn't get that. Strangers smiled at each other the way they do on Christmas day, only it went on for weeks and weeks. I made a mental note to jump on the bandwagon with my own Canucks shirt, as the ladies' ones with the V-necks were kinda hot, but for the moment, I couldn't take my eyes off Jaslene's outrageous footwear. “It's like a pair of sandals mated with a snake,” I said, eliciting a few chuckles from our captive elevator audience. “And these are their shameful offspring.” “They're comfortable,” she said. “Comfortable, huh? Well, they would go nicely with my floral skirt. You wear the same size as me, right?” She grinned and squeezed my hand as the elevator doors opened. The waiting room had the ambiance of modest expectations: Mismatched chairs, some brochures for teeth-whitening, and fake plants covered in cobwebs. A broken fluorescent light zapped overhead. I told Jaslene to “break a leg” and said I was going to look for the washroom —not because I needed to go, but for something to do. Jaslene and her mom were used to auditions, but as soon as I got to the waiting room, I remembered why I didn't normally go. There were always dozens of breathtakingly gorgeous girls my age, staring jealously at Jaslene, and contentedly at me. “Relax, I'm not here for the audition,” I had joked to a roomful of such girls once, and a redhead with the prettiest buckteeth I'd ever seen said, “Of course not.” I'd never hit anyone or anything in my life, but that day,

my right hand had curled into a fist of its own volition, and for the first time, I understood why the girls on America's Next Top Model go so ballistic. Out in the hall, I realized I hadn't been breathing, due to sucking in my stomach so hard. It didn't make any sense that I cared what those pretty girls thought of me, but I did. Back in high school, I wasn't even on anyone's radar until I started dating Parker, and then, simply by being associated with him, I went up a point or two. I leveled up just enough for girls to start dissing me behind my back, and it made me so happy. That's the thing about jealousy. It's an awful, shameful human emotion, but when it's aimed at you, it's almost a sign you're on the right track. When I started wearing more skirts and shorts instead of jeans, the hateful looks increased, so I shortened my hems even more. Now that I was a high school graduate, how was I supposed to know when I looked hot? I meandered through the building's hallway, on carpet that felt surprisingly soft—like the plush stuff they put in shoe stores to trick you into buying shoes with no soles. I pulled out my phone, and was checking for messages when the door I'd gone through slammed shut behind me. I was not in a washroom at all, but a stairwell. And the door was locked.

Great. Now I actually do have to pee, I thought. I starting walking down the stairs to check if the door on the next floor down was unlocked. I heard a door slam above me, and I got a jolt of terror at the prospect of being locked in a stairwell with a scary murderer. A female voice cursed, “Shapoopie!” “Hello?” I called out. “Dave? I mean, Jaslene?” The someone, definitely a woman by the sound of the heels, made her way down the steps. Like Jaslene, she

had dark skin and her hair was wavy at the roots and straight on the ends. Naturally, I assumed she'd been at the same audition. “Sorry for swearing,” she said. Her voice was high-pitched, as though she'd just sucked on a helium balloon. “I'm having the shapoopiest day.” I struggled to not smirk at her squeaky little voice. That cartoon voice had to be a liability for an actress. “Your audition might have gone better than you think,” I offered. “Or maybe you're fated to get the next one.” “You're an actress?” she asked. “I wish! No, but my friend Davina-Jaslene is. Have you been acting long?” She tried the handle of the door behind me, but it didn't open. She sneezed, just like a six-week old kitten. I covered my mouth with one hand. “Dammit!” she bubbled. “I just wanted to enjoy my last cigarette in peace, without everyone's helpful scorn.” “Ah,” I said. “I'm quitting as of tomorrow,” she said.

Sure you are, I thought, and I changed the subject. “My apartment building is like this,” I said. “All the floors are locked from the inside. I'm quite familiar with stairways, thanks to our cranky elevator. We probably need to go down to the bottom level to get out.” “Oh, good thinking. Here I was, planning to kick the door down.” She poked the gray metal door with one pointy-toed red boot. If I had to guess her weight, I'd say a hundred pounds tops, even if she were holding a Grande Starbucks Frappuccino with whip.

I smiled. “In those boots? What, are you Wonder Woman?” We started walking down together, past a stenciled number twelve. “You have a good face,” she said. “Hard to place. Unique.” “Oh, thanks.” She looked me up and down. “So, stairwell friend, what do you do if you're not an actress?” “I work at a bakery. Nothing glamorous, I know, but I'm interested in new product development, and I'm going to prototype a cookie with double the edges, somehow.” “You are a peach,” she said sweetly, though with that voice, even her insults would sound sweet. I tried the door-handle on floor number nine, just to be sure. “No dice,” I said. “Eight more floors. I'm Maddie, by the way. Short for Madeleine, like the sponge cakes.” “Shut up! You're named after a cake?” I shrugged. “It's French, like my father.” She grinned and shook her head. “Do you think you could stay calm and be that natural in front of a camera?” I peered around at the corners of the ceiling. “What do you mean? Are there cameras in here?” She pulled a black business card from her jacket pocket and handed it to me. In white letters, it read Romy Roberts,

Casting Director. “We're actually scouting for people right now,” Romy Roberts, Casting Director, said. “Scouting,” I said. I tried to stay cool, but nearly stumbled down the concrete steps, ruining my nice dress with a bloody compound fracture.

Jaslene was always saying casting directors barely made eye contact with mere mortals, yet here was one being downright girlfriend-y with me. “We need a location and talent for a bakery show,” she said. “I know what you're thinking. The market's saturated with them, but this is for the new Baking Network, featuring all baking all the time, and we need content. Trust me, the demand's never been greater.” I clutched her business card in one sweaty hand. “I'm sorry, but I totally thought you were auditioning for the teenagerswho-love-yogurt commercial. That's why I said those dumb things to cheer you up.” “You did cheer me up,” she said. “Wait, what bakery are you at? You're sure they're not already filming a TV show there? The Cookie Network didn't get to you first, did they?” “There's a Cookie Network?” She laughed, which sounded like bells on a wind chime. “No! Don't be silly, I'm joking. Pssh. Cookie Network. That's a bit specialized. We're still five years away from a Cupcake Network, let alone a Cookie Network.” “Oh.” My feet were still moving steadily down the steps. I didn't understand what was happening, what a huge opportunity this was, but I did feel light, like I might float up out of my shoes. “So this bakery show, is there somewhere I audition?” “You actually thought I could play a teenager? How adorable,” she said, though it sounded like a-dow-abwe. “You're welcome, I guess.” “Us women in television gotta stick together. Remember that and you'll go far.”

We resumed our descent and she rattled off a bunch of names of people I should talk to, then pulled out her phone and punched in my information and the address of Angelo's bakery. “Oh, the little bakery that sounds Greek but isn't,” she said. “We do have baklava, of course, but my boss, Angelo, didn't want to be stuck doing just Greek baking. He's only half Greek and half Dutch or Swedish or something.” “I definitely know the place,” she said. “I was in, what, last week, for those all-natural strawberry cupcakes, and a cutie-pie helped me. Hot guy, your age, wearing sort of a seashell necklace. Kind of a yummy granola-by-the-beach type.” “That would be Drew, my co-worker.” “Lucky you. Me likey. But in a professional way, because that's my job. Spotting ... talent.” “He'd be a natural on TV. He's not shy or anything,” I said. “With the proper motivation, nobody's shy on TV.” She frowned. “Wait, the bakery itself is a bit on the small side, right? Just a weenie little thing?” “It's bigger than it looks.” “That's what they all say!” She slapped me on the back, as though we were a couple of business ladies out on the golf course, then promised me the show's executives would contact me soon. I wanted to believe her, but I didn't. People hear what they want to hear, and I'd made a decision a few years back, to never believe anything good until it actually happened. My mother used to make huge promises on a Monday, about having everything cleared away by Friday, and I'd believe her, straight through to Saturday. Like an idiot.

Romy Roberts and I reached the lobby floor, and true to my theory, the door was unlocked. We stepped out into the hustle and bustle of people going about their daily business. “So, this thing is a reality TV show, right?” I asked. Her eyebrows shot up and her shoulders stiffened. “No, no, no. Serial documentary.” “What's the difference?” She put a long, skinny cigarette in her mouth and backed away from me, toward the door to West Broadway. “You'll see.”

The casting agent went outside to smoke her cigarette and I took the elevator back up, practically jumping up and down with excitement. After a misstep on the wrong floor, I eventually made my way back to the waiting room and took a spot next to Jaslene's white mom, Rebecca. Jaslene called Rebecca Mom and her Indian mom by her first name, Chunni, even though Chunni gave birth to her. I adored them both—had for years, though Chunni had a temper you didn't want to test. “Can I rub your head?” I asked Rebecca, which I felt I could do, since she was basically the auntie I'd never had. Sometimes she'd grab me and Jaslene together for a hug, and call us her girls, which made my throat close up with pride. “Fill your boots,” she said, and tilted her recently-shorn head toward me. I ran my fingers over her new ultra-short, silver hair, which

had been waist-length and dyed a coppery brown the week before. “How go the hostage negotiations?” I asked. She gave me a little laugh. “Nobody's been shot this week.” Rebecca was a couples counselor with her own practice, but previously, she'd worked for the police as a negotiator. She'd joked that the two jobs were quite similar, except marriage counseling was dangerous. I filled her in on my meeting with the casting director in the stairwell. “This all happened in the last ten minutes?” she asked. “Madeleine. Really? You'd better not tell Jaslene. Things haven't been going well for her, and this could crush her.” I sat back in the squeaky chair next to her and tucked my hands between my legs, the way I used to whenever I got in trouble. It hadn't occurred to me that the Shahs would be anything but happy for me. “I'm not going to not tell her,” I said with a mild pout. “I'm no good at lying.” Rebecca picked up a magazine and flipped through the pages silently. I did not know what that meant. Jaslene came out of the audition room, all smiles and double rainbows. She leaned forward and whispered, in the air between my head and Rebecca's, “I'm worried, because I think they actually liked me.” I waited until we got in the elevator to tell her about my own good news. She didn't say anything, just exchanged a look with her mom. I held up the white-on-black business card as evidence. “I hope you know what you're getting into,” Jaslene said. The elevator doors opened and she let out a sound like a horse's snort. We walked through the cool, underground

parkade to their car, a boring but classy BMW. The cars on either side had Canucks banners all over them. Ignoring Jaslene's downer mood, I got in the back seat and quickly fastened my seat belt to keep from floating out the window on my exciting news. The bakery. Me. On television. Rebecca pulled the car out into the bright summer sunshine as she consoled her daughter. “Maddie didn't mean to steal the spotlight, and besides, the woman she met didn't have anything to do with your commercial. You should be happy for your friend. The world is not a zero-sum equation. Opportunity for Maddie is not opportunity taken away from you.” “I'd be happy for you,” I said. “All you need to get is one commercial and you're going to make more money than I'll get sweating my butt off all summer in the bakery. You do one day's work filming, and you're set.” “Ah, the myth of the one day's work,” Jaslene said. “Sure, not counting the auditions and meetings. Never mind I'm on a diet constantly, only to get rejected by everybody, over and over again. Too young. Too old. Too ethnic. Not ethnic enough. Not lead material.” She let out a long, loud sigh. I tensed my legs and pushed back into the seat. Traffic was slow and clogged, now that rush hour had started. We crept past restaurants and little boutiques full of things I couldn't afford, like the $300 jeans that Jaslene and our friend Chloe Poker-Face had insisted I try on, just for fun. Of course the jeans made my butt look fantastic, like an airbrushed magazine model's. They must have been made with black magic. What if this baking show was my big break? All around me, every day in the city, I saw people with fancy cars, designer sunglasses, and purebred purse-dogs. What did they have that I didn't, besides money?

“Turn down Burrard,” Jaslene said. “You're dropping me off?” I asked. The car's clicker went on. “I thought we were making our own veggie sushi tonight,” I said. “Sweetie, I wanna be happy for you, I really do, but that audition took a lot out of me and I'm super beat,” Jaslene said. “Rain check?” “Sure,” I said as I squeezed her shoulder. She reached back and patted me on the knee. Her mother gave us both a sweet smile. After a few minutes, I pulled the business card out of my pocket and ran my fingers over the promising letters. What good was it, having something wonderful happen to you, if your success made others feel bad about their own accomplishments? I wondered what my father was doing at that very moment, down in San Francisco. I closed my eyes and imagined driving down the coast in the Beetle I was going to buy, and showing up unannounced at his front door. His new wife, who would be even more stunning than the photos, would welcome me with open arms. “You can stay as long as you'd like,” she'd say. “Come and go as you please, in return for babysitting the little ones. Look, we have a room all set up for you. We were hoping you'd come.” The room would be modest—spare and simple, with gingham curtains and a four-poster bed. I'd thank her, and unpack all my worldly belongings, from my one suitcase. I'd start fresh. At my father's house, every window would catch the sun and the refrigerator would always be full.

Chapter 4 As the Shahs drove away in their BMW, I saw Jaslene lean her head on her mom's shoulder, and it filled me with both anger and sadness. Who did I have to celebrate or commiserate with? Parker's family, I thought. At least I would always be welcome there. I didn't go inside the apartment building, even though I could have used a sweater. Going up there would only make me feel worse, so I texted Parker to make sure the dinner invitation was still open, and I started walking to the bus stop. I hadn't seen Parker in a million years—not since the morning I got the job at the bakery. He'd been waiting in his car when I ran in with a resume, and when I came out to tell him I had the position and was starting right away, he'd said, “You should set your sights higher,” as he'd given me the look of pity. He'd wanted me to get a receptionist position at a law firm. “We're a team,” he used to say as we mapped out our future. What he didn't understand was the girls applying for receptionist jobs at law offices put Jaslene's fellow actresses to shame. Even in a borrowed designer-brand interview suit, how could I compete?

Thinking about his pity made me want to cancel and go home, but I'd said I was going to his house for dinner, and I hated being a flake. I took the bus to Parker's house in Kerrisdale, and when I got there, Chloe Poker-Face was already standing on the front porch, waiting to be let in. Her lovely features were smooth and expressionless, as usual. A little flare of jealousy shot through me, but I reminded myself that Chloe and Parker had grown up a block from each other and were the oldest of platonic pals. Besides, now she was my friend, too. Parker's dad opened the door. “Sorry, gave at the office,” he joked, and shut the door again. A second later, he opened it, saying, “Wow, two lovely ladies! This is my lucky night.” He ruffled up Chloe's hair, then mine, and we both pretended to be annoyed. Inside, Parker gave me a hug and a kiss. “Mom's got low blood sugar so we're getting started right away,” he said. You did not argue with that woman's blood sugar, so I took my usual spot at the table. Even though there was an empty chair next to me, Chloe took the chair between Parker and his mom. The three of them in a row like that were practically a Wikipedia page on attractive, blond people. “Thanks for popping in,” Parker's dad said to Chloe. “What an unusual outfit.” Chloe adjusted the straps of a low-cut dress made of patches of blue velvet, tan corduroy, and something shiny— possibly pleather. “Thanks,” she said. “I just whipped this up for an epic social media session. I'm trying to go viral, but it's hard, you know? Everybody's always spamming about them, them, them, and nobody's listening. Not even when you have something meme-tastic.” “Meme-tastic?” Parker's dad asked.

I got up to help bring the food to the table while Parker explained to his parents, in English, that Chloe had decided to become a full-time fashion blogger, since she was already self-taught clothing designer. “But of course,” Parker's dad said. “You always did have a good eye, even when you were seven, out riding your bicycle in your mother's wedding gown.” He chuckled into his glass of wine. I put my hand in my pocket and touched the business card I'd gotten from the casting director. It was too soon to tell them—I'd only look pathetic when it didn't pan out. Still, I desperately wanted to impress them. I had opened my mouth to say something about how much I loved working at the bakery, when Parker's dad asked Chloe how her parents were enjoying the cruise. We spent the rest of dinner talking about Chloe's family and old times. Well, I spent the rest of dinner stuffing my face while they talked about old times. It wasn't all bad. At least I was getting a decent meal, with the roast beef. After much talk of who was renovating what house and who cut down whose tree, the conversation got interesting. “Ladies,” Parker's dad said to both of us. “Perhaps you can help us with today's problem. It all started when my lovely wife stole this antique pedestal table, this very one we're sitting at, from a moribund old man.” “Objection,” Parker's mom said. “Allegedly stole.” We'd finished our dinner, so I cleared the dishes off to the kitchen while Parker's mom, she of the ice-blond ultrastraight bob, explained her side of the story. I always cleared when I came over, even though she told me not to, because I wanted to stay in their good books. I could still hear the conversation through the pass-through. As I stacked the plates in the fancy multi-drawer dishwasher, I remembered something funny from the day

before, when Drew had blown soap bubbles at me. Bad Maddie! I needed to stop thinking about Drew when I wasn't even at work. Especially when my boyfriend was in the next room. When I came back out, Chloe's face was blank and relaxed —an expressionless expression she'd perfected. We had both been fourteen when she decided she would prevent face wrinkles before they started, by never frowning, smiling, or otherwise scrunching her face. Jaslene and I secretly called her Poker-Face. I didn't think it was working, because she'd get tiny brackets beside her mouth whenever she stifled an expression. Parker's dad asked her, “So what would you do? If you were in our shoes, so to speak?” Parker gave me a wink and said to Chloe, “The table's fate is in your hands. No pressure.” Chloe Poker-Face ran her hand along the walnut table's surface. It was smooth and shiny, but unlike a cheap laminate, you could feel the wood grain. The thing was at least fifty years old, maybe more. Chloe asked, “And the old guy sold you the table at his yard sale? Fair and square?” “In cash,” Parker's mom said. “I think he was happy to be rid of the enormous thing—” Parker's dad interrupted, “It's not about the money, or the space.” “Let Chloe think,” Parker said, sending a quick smirk in my direction. Chloe was sweet and fun, but the girl had microwaved a can of soup. While it was still in the can. “The real problem is the old guy's son,” Chloe said. Her eyebrows knitted together for a micro-second before she forced them down to wrinkle-free smoothness.

“He's being a sentimental old fool,” Parker's mom said, refilling her wine glass with the rest of the bottle. “Oh good, more wine. That always helps,” Parker's dad said. Under the table, Parker pushed his knee against mine and gave me his wide-eyed, they're-doing-it-again look. His parents weren't that bad. They were sitcom parents with sitcom problems. Some people's families weren't nearly as amusing. “Keep the table,” Chloe announced. “Finders, keepers.” “And losers, weepers,” Parker said triumphantly. Parker's mom gave Chloe her sweetest smile, like a snake opening wide to swallow a mouse. “Thank you dear, very astute. Finder's keepers.” She raised the glass in a solitary toast. “Take what you can before someone else does.” Parker coughed into his hand. “We should get rolling anyways,” he said. I helped clear the last few things off the table while Parker got his car out of the garage. Parker's dad gave me a hug goodbye at the front door. “Don't worry about the table,” he said in my ear. “Better for us to lose a few to the boss now and then. Pick your battles. That sort of thing.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek and ran out the door, my stomach pleasantly full of dinner. Despite the usual debate drama, or perhaps because of it, I always enjoyed dinner at Parker's house. Chloe sat in the front passenger seat of Parker's car, but instead of getting out, she tipped her seat forward and made me crawl in the back, where I had to push aside Parker's fast food garbage and Ayn Rand paperbacks. “Jeez Chloe, you live, like, three blocks away,” I said.

“Hashtag shoe alert,” she said, actually using the word hashtag in regular speech. Chloe had been spending way too much time on twitter. “I'm wearing taxi shoes,” she said, raising her strappy-platform-clad foot to demonstrate. “Let's do something ironic, like bowling,” Parker said. “Or go to some cheesy sports grill and watch the hockey game. We could say we're Bruins fans and try to pick a fight.” “No, I gotta work early. Home, Jeeves,” I said. “I'm your butler now?” he asked. “Aw, Parker, I see you more as a chauffeur,” I said jokingly. Chloe turned around and gave me the most admonishing expression she could manage without creasing her face. “Kidding!” I said. “Besides, I'll be getting my car soon enough. Just four more pay checks. Maybe five.” “Yes, your beloved Beetle,” he said. “You know, there's a saying about setting your life's targets too low.” “You don't say. I've never heard you mention that before.” It came out sounding even more sarcastic and angry than I'd intended. He shot me a quick glance in the rear-view mirror, but didn't say anything. After we dropped off Chloe, and I moved up front, Parker wordlessly drove to one of our favorite spots—a quiet residential street overlooking the lights of the city—and turned off the car engine. With the windows rolled down, we could hear the sounds of people celebrating. “Are they really that excited about the Canucks winning a game, or is it an excuse to party?” he asked. “I should develop an interest in sports. For my career.”

I opened my purse and pulled out a piece of cinnamon gum, even though I knew Parker preferred spearmint. “Have you heard of this new Baking Network channel?” I asked him while we sat in the dark. “Baking is lame and archaic. In the future all baking will be done by robots, at least until carbs are finally outlawed.” “No, I think people will always need bakeries. Angelo says —” “Enough about your pokey little bakery.” “Angelo's isn't pokey, and you like the cupcakes.” “Come here,” he said as he tilted his seat back. “Come over and give me some cupcake, you hot little pastry chef.” I shifted over, banging my shin on the e-brake. “Watch out, we're on a hill, dummy,” he said. I spat my gum out his window in an unladylike fashion. “You're the dummy.” “I didn't mean it. Come on.” He pulled my head toward his face just as I yawned. “Sorry, nothing personal,” I said. “Big day. I went to an audition with Jaslene, and the most surreal thing happened where I met this casting director woman and—” He kissed me, jamming his tongue in my mouth. I tried to get into the spirit, but our teeth ground together. “Never mind,” he said. “Get! Get back over to your side.” “I didn't do anything wrong,” I said, somewhat guiltily. It was Drew, in my head, or at least my guilt over enjoying his attention.

“I'm tired too,” he said. “With my parents' bullshit, ya know? And I haven't seen you in a while and I miss how things used to be. Why does anything have to change?” “We don't have to change.” His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “I'd be lost without you. You're the best thing that ever happened to me.” He gave me the intense eye contact that always made me melt. “Aw, you're sweet.” I settled into the passenger side and leaned back over to give him a kiss on the cheek. Outside, cars honked and people cheered in the distance. The Canucks were getting even closer to the Stanley Cup, and the whole city's mood index was shooting up. “I am the sweetest.” He started the car engine. “And the cutest.” He grinned at me, dimples and everything, and for a moment, he was the cute boy I fell instantly in love with when we met in debate club. I wasn't thinking at all about whatshisname, or cookies, or work, when I reached over and turned the car back off again.

Chapter 5 Parker dropped me off at ten, and my plan was to take a scalding hot shower so I would fall straight asleep, maximizing my rest before waking up at the ungodly hour of six in the morning for my shift at seven. Inside the apartment, I found my sister Melanie transfixed, in front of the computer, showing me the auburn-colored french braid that was slightly more familiar to me than her actual face. I cracked open the take-out container Parker's dad had sent me home with. “Here, I stole you something nutritious. If you don't want any, I'll eat it for lunch tomorrow.” “Don't you dare. I'm starving.” She grabbed the container from me and put it on her lap without turning around. “Didn't you have dinner?” I asked, but I knew the answer. Melanie kept her trim figure with a strict diet of cheddar cheese popcorn and colored mini marshmallows—a bag of each if I wasn't around to tear them away from her hands. Being seven and a half years older than me technically made my big sister Melanie the adult of our little household, though she didn't act like it. “I changed the computer password,” she said, skillfully

changing the topic. “I was inspired by the best part of my favorite movie as a kid: davidbowiescrotch, no apostrophe.” “You're a dirty old lady,” I said. “I wouldn't talk,” she said. “I've seen the autocomplete from some of your Google searches.” “Oh. So, anyways, I met a casting director today,” I said. “I might get an audition for one of those baking shows.” “Mm hmm.” She scrolled down a page. “You're not listening,” I said. “Gimme five minutes, 'kay?” I took the container off her lap and told her I'd warm it up for her. “Oh, Laurie Blacklock, tu me fais chier,” she said to the screen. “Why are you always on there if they annoy you so much?” I asked. “I thought I'd never see these girls again,” she said, still facing the glowing screen. “I'd skip the reunions and that would be it—forever, gone from my life. But now they all want to be my friend. You never get rid of people, do you?” “My friends aren't perfect, but neither am I, and I hope I do have them forever,” I said. “People grow apart. You'll see.” I stood behind Melanie so I could massage her neck. She made happy noises while I worked on the knots, then I undid her auburn hair from its french braid and scratched her scalp gently with my fingernails.

“I wuv you,” she said gratefully. Melanie had been working as a dental hygienist for only two years, but it was hard on her body to hold her arms in the same position all day. The other hygienists saw chiropractors and massage therapists regularly, but that kind of care wasn't cheap. “Who are these people?” I asked, confused by what was on the computer screen. “They're all dogs and babies.” “I know. Women my age are sick,” she said. “Look at this one. It's her goldfish that died last week. So now every time I log on, I have to look at her dead goldfish.” “In all fairness, it appears the fish was alive at the time of the photo.” My fingers were already getting tired from scalp massage and working the knots on her neck and shoulder. “Try to relax,” I said, which seemed to make her tension worse. “I'm thinking about hiring a personal trainer,” she said. “Oh, get one with a ripply body.” Like Drew. Oh, damn, I was thinking about him again. She yelped and pulled forward. “Ow, you're going to leave me black and blue.” “Hallmarks of a good massage,” I said. “Now that you're gainfully employed, you can get up and braid my hair in the morning. Tomorrow would you do that full-circle, princess-crown braid I love?” “As you wish.” I kissed her on the top of her head. She could have grown a gorgon face that day, for all I knew, since she hadn't turned around once. The microwave beeped, so I got the food and put the hot plate on her desk with some utensils before I headed off to the bathroom for my shower.

The tub was in its usual state, with green around the drain and a salmon-pink streak along the caulk line. Grownups didn't live like this. Parker's three tubs were always spotless. With the hot water running, I considered that perhaps Parker was right, and I should have more goals—loftier ambitions. My long term plan was still to marry Parker and have kids eventually, but I wanted a life before all that— more than a bakery job. Maybe something would happen with the Baking Network show, provided there was still a bakery around, and we hadn't been run off by the BakeCo chain. Compared to my new adult problems, twelfth grade History classes didn't seem so hard anymore. At least there were text books in high school, and you could study. There were answers. I wished I had someone I could count on for advice that didn't make me feel worse. I desperately wanted to video chat with the Madeleine Bird in the future, and find out what had worked. Did the movie Amelie provide the right inspiration for success in life? She did terrorize her own father, with the garden gnome postcards, but he did have it coming. After the shower, I pulled my bed out of the couch, swept off the bits of white cheddar popcorn from Melanie's dinner, and climbed in. I wondered what time Drew would be in to work the next day. I changed the time on my alarm clock to give myself an extra ten minutes to try on different outfits.

A one-day weekend would have felt too short, had I not been excited about getting back to work at the bakery. As I rode the bus to work, I went over the new plan for dealing with my crush: I would simply focus on Drew's less sexy qualities. First, there was that time he fainted like a girl,

about the idea of a rat in a trap, or something. I wasn't sure what that had been about, and whenever I brought it up at work, he'd look all cute and awkward, and change the subject. Much to my disappointment, when I got to work, I discovered Drew wouldn't be in to work until the afternoon. He'd only been working the early shift the previous week because Angelo's wife had been out of town visiting relatives. According to the new schedule Angelo gave me, I'd be waking up with the early worms (they get up before the early birds) and learning to love coffee—not the taste, of course, but the effect. My other boss, Angelo's wife, was attractive, like one of those blond actresses who aren't quirky enough to become stars unless they gain a lot of weight to play a serial killer or a nun. “Those shoes are too cute,” she said, pointing to my leather ballet flats. As I thanked her, my cheeks flushed a bit, the way they always did whenever someone so pretty noticed I was alive. I didn't have a lot of clothes, or shoes, but that was by my choice. I didn't want to accumulate more than could fit in a suitcase at a moment's notice. Ballet flats and thin shirts took up very little space. “Shame you'll get flour and butter all over them,” she said. The coffee maker made kerpoof noises and spat out the last bit of water to fill the pot. “I'm Echo,” she said, apparently forgetting she had told me a few minutes earlier, in addition to asking my name but not waiting for an answer. “I'm Maddie,” I said, again. “This one can be yours,” Echo said. The mug she gave me bore the image of Smurfette, on a stripper pole. Something told me it was not a licensed product.

Echo put her necklace pendant in her mouth briefly, in almost the same gesture I'd seen her daughter, Robin, do the previous week. Echo had good skin, even without makeup. The woman looked good for a parent. She must use sunscreen, even in the winter, I thought. I added cream to my coffee and took a big gulp to complement the day-old danish I was hoovering down. Free pastries, mmm. My thighs were anticipating rapid expansion plans. Echo disappeared to the office to do paperwork and I helped Angelo make everything from croissants to tiny quiches. He told me I could take a break whenever I got tired, but I wanted to show him I was a good worker, so I didn't stop once. He showed me how to adjust a recipe when the eggs are larger than usual: You crack them open and measure by volume, not quantity. “I never knew baking was such an art,” I said. Angelo raised his unibrow, and said gruffly, “An artist's work is about stretching the limitation of his materials.” “I love making stuff,” I said. “I tried painting for a while, but I never made anything special.” “Try limiting your colors,” he said. We worked together in happy silence, him humming along with the radio, and me blissfully unaware of anything in the world that wasn't dough or pastry. I'd always wondered how bakers made the sweet raspberry filling in bird's nest cookies. Turned out it was just plain ol' raspberry jam. “We'll take a break soon,” Angelo said, about once an hour,

but he didn't stop. Everything was coming out beautifully and the bakery smelled like heaven. Can you get calories from the air? I glanced up at the clock and realized Drew would be there in less than an hour, which perked me up more than a big Smurfette mug full of coffee. I excused myself to the bathroom to wash my face and fix my hair. Drew and I could be friends, as long as he wore a jacket, so I couldn't gawk at his body. I'd definitely stop thinking about him that way starting immediately, as soon I spotted some more flaws. About half an hour before Drew was scheduled to arrive, Angelo looked over our completed baking and said, “You're off.” “What? But I'm scheduled until two.” “Work's done,” he said, which I couldn't argue with. I started to take off my apron, but then I remembered my inspiration, Amelie. What would she do? “Hey, I was wondering,” I said. “If I came up with an idea for a new product, could I try to make it? I could stay and experiment on my own time.” He tucked his chin down. “New product. Wish we could sell the old product.” He frowned in the direction of the front door and the empty storefront. It had been quiet, but I'd assumed it was because all the local businesses had been closing early due to everyone rushing home for the hockey games. Surely it would pick up again in a few weeks, after the whole hockey thing was played out—assuming the Canucks won, or the city was still standing if we lost to Boston. I wanted the bakery to be busy, and I hoped that even if Angelo didn't use my ideas, he'd get some of his own before the competition shut us down. I considered telling Angelo about BakeCo moving in down the street, but I

didn't want to be the bearer of bad news. Then he'd hate me, for sure. “I'll go get cleaned up now,” I said. “Silly idea anyways.” And it was a silly idea. Imagine: Me, a baker's assistant with a week's experience, trying to invent a new cookie. Under the cold light of the bakery's old fluorescent tubes, my skin looked sallow and my ideas felt weak. Even the bakery itself seemed less impressive now that I'd gotten a better look at the grime on the sink wall. The ceiling had stampedtin tiles, like the kind you'd see at an antiques flea market, but they were marred by ugly electrical juncture boxes. Upon closer examination, things fall apart, like sandcastles in the tide. I was still putting dishes away when Drew arrived for his shift. “Watch yourself,” he said. “Those pots are heavy. Let me get them.” He stood next to me and gave me a hip check, which sent me flying. My heart fluttered a bit, and all my dreary thoughts blew away. The bakery was cute, flaws and all. I grabbed an enormous metal mixing bowl. “I'm tougher than I appear,” I said. “What are you, some sort of feminist?” Echo glanced up from the wedding cake she was decorating. “Of course she is,” Echo said. “We all are, don't you know? In a few years, men will be obsolete.” “But who will ...” He trailed off. “Easy,” she said, twirling one of her blond pigtails. “We'll keep a few of you around as pets. And for recreation.” Drew's ears turned red, and he quickly disappeared up to the front. Echo finished decorating the cake, which was covered in dark chocolate frosting and, at minimum, a hundred piped-

on white flowers. “You like?” she asked me. “You dreaming about your own wedding someday?” The cake hurt my eyes with its beauty. The word wedding rang in my head, giving me a wave of longing that made my heart ache. I wanted a resplendent cake, covered in ethereal white flowers. My cake, all mine. Echo repeated the question while giggling—probably at the desperate Bridezilla face I was making. “I'm sure my wedding is a long ways off,” I said. “Besides, my sister would kill me if I got married before she did. But if I did, is that a popular design?” Echo picked up a slice of cake she'd trimmed off earlier while leveling, smeared a dollop of chocolate icing on the side, and handed it to me. “Taste. Your guests will take plenty of photos of the outside, but they'll talk about the inside.” “Mmm,” I said, and I wasn't lying. It was the best cake I'd ever eaten, and the interior was neither chocolate nor vanilla, but something else. “Yellow butter cake,” she said without my having asked. “Do you want to try making one?” “The whole thing, with the icing and everything? I don't want to wreck someone's wedding!” “No, not for real,” she said. “Just a little one, one tier, and we could slice it up after and give away samples up front. For practice. A practice cake. No big.” “A practice cake. Yeah, I'd do that.” Echo gingerly slid the cake off the edge of the counter so she could get her hands under the white cardboard support. “Can you get the cooler door for me?”

I raced ahead, steadied the door with my hip, and held my breath as she carried over the three-tier cake. I started breathing again, once the cake was safely resting on a shelf inside the walk-in refrigerator. Most bakeries our size would have stand-up coolers, not walk-ins, but Angelo had told me the space had once been a pizza shop. Echo shivered and pointed to my chest as we emerged. “Your headlights are on.” “Mature,” I said with a laugh as I crossed my arms over my chest, which was insignificant next to Echo's. “Want to help me with something really important?” she asked. I agreed, and thirty minutes later, I found out the important stuff involved me holding Echo's purse while she tried on clothes, as well as agreeing with her that each item in the boutique was “even more darling” than the last. I couldn't figure out what kind of store we were in. They had dresses, sweaters, and purses, but also picture frames, lamps, and chairs. Everything was either black or white. I was startled when the pale, dark-haired mannequin asked if we needed any help. “No thanks,” I said, and I did a quick check to make sure I hadn't tinkled in my pants. I didn't have a bladder problem, but one time in Delta, there had been an incident in a Halloween corn maze. Echo held up a pillow with a painful-looking, rhinestonestudded Eiffel Tower. “Isn't this the cutest thing? Ever? I swear I'm a Parisian in another life.” She said it with no irony at all, so she obviously didn't know any French people. A Parisian buying an Eiffel Tower anything would be like a Vancouverite choosing a shower curtain with a drawing of the Pattullo Bridge.

“Cute, but I'm in love with him.” I pointed to the shelf behind the counter, at the taxidermied squirrel with little black cowboy boots and a tiny pistol. I wondered if that was the fate awaiting the squirrels in the bakery's ceiling crawlspace. The exterminator had said there were four or more. Perhaps they'd be made into little Village People squirrels. The pale-faced, black-haired woman seemed to read my mind. “Vintage,” she said, and she pressed her pale pink lips together in a flat line. “But the squirrel is, you know, a dead thing, right?” She sneered down at my feet. “So are your shoes, right?” “Touché,” I said, and moved on to the tea towels festooned with lace. Who wants lace on their tea towels? Eventually, Echo grew tired of black and white faux-French things and turned her attention to me. “When was the last time you got made over?” she asked. As she squinted at my hair, I remembered being little, and my big sister Melanie and her friends putting me in their high heels, and smearing makeup on my face. They loved fawning over me, the accident my mother had at forty. I'd loved every bit of the attention. “Don't you have to get back to the bakery?” I asked Echo. She waved a hand dismissively. “I'm married to the baker, not the bakery.” After Echo said goodbye to the shop owner, we walked up the street to the drug store. When we got to the makeup counter, she chose a tube of lipstick for me. “Sure, why not.” I closed my eyes and held still. The lipstick smelled expensive, like one of my mother's many treasured tubes of Chanel.

“Hotty McHotterpants,” Echo said. I checked my reflection. Who was that sultry girl with the dark, sensuous lips? My skin was oily and gross as usual, but thanks to the heat of the bakery, my cheeks were flushed with natural blush. The lipstick tube read Saucy Plum. The wall behind us was emerald green, and with the lipstick on, I saw a flash of Amelie as my reflection, even though my hair wasn't right. “I need a haircut,” I said. “I'll give you the name of my girl. But no more than a trim, and definitely not short.” “No? I don't want to look like a high school girl anymore.” Echo fluffed my hair a bit. “Men like long hair. You wanna turn invisible overnight? Get one of those pixie haircuts your jealous little girlfriends always suggest because they want less competition.” “Some guys like short hair, though, right?” She shook her head. “Oh sweetie, so naive. A few might say they like short hair, but trust me, they like it long. They're cavemen, right, and they want something to grab onto.” She gave me a double eyebrow raise. “I don't know. Seems to me, they like to grab onto the front stuff a lot.” “If you're lucky, yeah. Angelo's all about the ass.” I made a yuck face. “Aww, come on, he's my boss.” “Here, let's try this one.” She applied a tube of very red lipstick to her own lips, and for a second, I swore she was going to kiss me right on the cheek, but she handed the tube to me to try. The red was even better than the plum, and I gave myself an appreciative wink in the mirror.

“Now wipe it off.” Echo shoved a tissue at me. “Can't have you looking prettier than me.” Then, as a joke, she cackled at her reflection, just like the cartoon villainess in Snow White. At least I thought it was a joke.

Chapter 6 It was a Wednesday and somewhere between my eighth to eleventh shift at the bakery. Funny how for a while you know today's my first day, then today's my second day, and so on, until one day you lose count. That's when the shifts start to go by more quickly, your life settles back down to your new normal, and the soreness in your shoulders turns into muscle. Two things were different about that Wednesday. The final game between the Vancouver Canucks and the Boston Bruins was happening that night, and every person in the city was in full blue face paint, wearing a hockey jersey, and waving two flags. That may be a slight exaggeration, but still, the expectations hanging in the air were pretty intense. On the bus in to work, I heard some guys my age laughing and talking about smashing things on Robson Street if we lost the game. Stupid punks, I thought. A middle-aged lady in a Canucks jersey and pearls glared at them and then at me. Guys like that gave all teenagers a bad name. At the bakery, Angelo was in a weird mood, and I wasn't sure it was entirely about the hockey, since he wasn't that big a fan. If anything, he kept saying he'd be happy when the games were over and businesses in the area would stop “rolling up the sidewalks” at four in the afternoon.

One of our regulars, Rudy, came in the way he always did— slowly, because he'd had polio as a child and one of his legs didn't work so well. Even though he and Angelo would usually share a little chat over a coffee, that day Angelo saw him coming and disappeared into the back. Business seemed brisk enough to me, and the display cases were emptying out, but what did I know? Someone still had to tell Angelo about the competition, BakeCo, moving in down the street, and I wished that someone were not me, but there I was, knocking on the doorway of the little interior office. “Now what,” he said, more as a statement than a question. My polite smile broke wide into a nervous smile, which I imagined might look giddy to him. I couldn't tell him about BakeCo looking like that; he'd think I was pleased about it, like one of those awful people who enjoys watching others suffer. I had to think of a new door-knock-worthy thing to talk about. “Hey, so, I'm still thinking about this new type of cookie.” “Really.” His unibrow bounced up with amusement and he folded his big hands on the desk. I told him about how my best friend Jaslene had gotten a disappointing cookie—I didn't say from where—and we'd had a brainstorming session about creating a perfect, crisp cookie. Angelo nodded while my hands flew about like hummingbirds. I talked through the idea, which was based on Jaslene's bangles. Angelo didn't know what a bangle was, except as the name of a band, so I had to explain that too, using a pen and some paper from his desk to illustrate. “Entrepreneurial,” he said. “I'm not suggesting you get a neck tattoo.”

“No,” he said. “Your predecessor, Lawrence. He made kiwi-banana jam.” A few seconds of silence passed while I contemplated kiwibanana jam. “How did that—” “Looked like baby poo. Even the homeless shelter refused it.” “Oh.” I took two steps back, away from the office, but then something pushed me one step forward. “I swear these new cookies are a good idea. I'll stay late today, on my own time, prototyping.” “Prototyping!” He shook his head, but he was smiling at least. “You win. Gah. Women. Right, Drew?” I turned to find Drew standing right behind me. “Yes sir,” he said. “Women are trouble with a capital T.” Drew winked at me and I nearly dropped the pen and paper I was holding. “What do we call them?” Angelo mused. “Not madeleines, since those are little and spongy,” he said. His face looked serious, though I was pretty sure he was making a joke about my name. “Hey! I may be little, but I'm not spongy,” I said. “Circle cookie,” Drew said, examining my drawing. “But all cookies are circles,” I said. “Smartass,” Drew said with a grin. “Okay, a round cookie with a hole in the middle and twice the crispy edges of a regular cookie. I'd buy that. We call them doughnut cookies.” “Absolutely not,” Angelo said. “This isn't a Tim Hortons. No.” He waved us away.

Drew walked with me over to the flour bins, which had just been filled from that day's delivery. “Let's play Master Chef Challenge,” he said. “This girl Darla and I used to play it all the time. I'll pick three ingredients and you make some thing clever with them. Jalapenos and honey and ...” “Come on, I'm serious. If you don't want to help, I can do it myself.” “Okay, okay, Madison.” He said as we gathered the supplies. “Madeleine,” I said. “Same difference.” He winked, making me feel strangely infuriated, yet also flattered. I wondered if Darla was a girlfriend or a former co-worker. There was so much I didn't know about Drew. I knew he brought his own chicken salad sandwiches for lunch every day, with two dill pickles, because he felt the vinegar aided digestion. He lived with a roommate, not his parents, and there wasn't a single sport, from rock climbing to mountain biking, that he hadn't tried. I was pretty sure he didn't have a girlfriend—because most of his anecdotes involved someone named Scotty—but beyond that, I had no idea. “You going downtown for the big game tonight?” I asked. The City of Vancouver had been blocking off sections of streets around the library and the CBC, and had an enormous screen set up outside. I didn't like drunken crowds, or the idea of peeing in a port-a-pottie, but if Drew had suggested we go together after work, I'd have quickly canceled my other plans with the girls. “Maybe,” he said. “Everyone's going to be so bummed if we lose,” I said. “So, why the new product ideas?” he asked as he wiped down the prep table. “Why do you care? It's not your bakery.

Who are you trying to impress?” I had to think about his question. I still hadn't told anyone at the bakery about my encounter with the casting director, because I was afraid they'd hate it, or they'd love it, and it wouldn't happen. It was better not to get people's hopes up. Drew snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Hey, cutie, we gonna bake or what?” Without thinking it through, I said, with bravado, “I'll bake you under the table!” He opened his mouth in mock horror and yanked the tie on my apron open. “If you could stop undressing me, we can make some Timmies-inspired doughnut cookies,” I said. “I'll try to resist, but my hands have a mind of their own.” I pulled out the recipe cards and tried to pick one, despite my mind racing with saucy things to say to Drew. The whole crush thing was his fault for being so flirty, but I shouldn't have been so easily flattered. He poured on the charm with every female he encountered, like the hot housewives who hung on his every word as he boxed up their cakes. Once, he'd gotten a five-dollar tip. People didn't usually tip at the bakery, but the woman liked what she saw behind the glass showcase. Drew kept flirting as we made our first prototypes. We tried rolling dough into skinny snakes and looping them back on themselves. Drew pointed out how big his were, compared to mine. The snake-method cookies would have worked, but it was too labor-intensive for a commercial-sized batch. We didn't want to roll dough flat and use cookie cutters for the same reason, though it would have been a good choice for home bakers.

Finally, he rummaged around in a drawer of utensils and found a metal, funnel-shaped contraption. “This is for pancakes or doughnuts, but might work if we get the dough the right consistency.” I used the funnel device to drop thinned-out cookie dough on a sheet, while Drew said, “Ooh baby, I like it like that,” every time I squeezed the trigger. It made no sense, but I kept giggling, and the cookies overlapped messily. Still, they were somewhat doughnut-shaped, so we put them in the oven. “Join me in the walk-in for a penguin party?” he asked. Despite not understanding what he meant by penguin party, I knew things were getting a little too flirty. I regretfully declined, and asked him to bring me a Coke on his way back. Angelo came by and peeked in the oven. “Disaster,” he said, and he walked away. I got the silicon oven mitts and pulled out the cookie tray. Instead of happy little doughnut cookies, I'd made one solid sheet of cookie. I scraped the misfit baked thing into the garbage and started to clean up. So much for that. “Giving up already?” Drew asked. He started to hand me the drink I'd requested, but took it back at the last moment, opened it, and took a drink. “The first sip is the best,” he explained as he handed it over. I took a sip from the can that Drew's lips had touched. The cellphone in my pocket chirped with its reminder, causing me to nearly die via choking on Coke. For a second, I'd guiltily imagined the chirping was some sort of illicit-thought alarm, and not a reminder for that night's date with my girlfriends.

Jaslene had been investigating a career change, into live theater, so she'd picked out a play for us to see that night, instead of our usual movie and cupcakes. Actually, making hundreds and hundreds of them had somewhat taken the glow off cupcakes for me, not to mention seeing how much shortening goes into the icing. Spoiler alert: It's almost entirely shortening! Jaslene and I hadn't seen each other since the day of the audition—the day she blew me off. I made a mental note to let her know the casting director hadn't called me after all, so my star wouldn't be outshining Jaslene's any time soon. The girls would be meeting me there at the bakery, so I got changed in the bathroom. Parker's missing out, I thought as I admired myself. My little black dress and my pink bra were working together to give me actual cleavage. Well, cleavage was too strong a word, but there was definitely a crease-like valley. As I stepped out the bathroom door, Drew whistled, so I curtsied. “You look like a girl,” he said. “So do you,” I said. “Nice pink shirt.” He frowned at his sleeve. “I could have sworn this was white.” Echo sashayed into the kitchen on her wedge platform heels, showing off a mile of tanned leg. “Look who I found,” she said, nodding to Jaslene and Chloe, trailing behind her. All my confidence evaporated as I looked at the three of them: Jaslene with her exotic black tresses and wide-set, sea-green eyes, Chloe in a pale blue dress that matched

her pretty blue eyes, and curvy Echo, who would look good in a pillowcase. No wonder I was so reluctant to stop Drew's flirtations. He made me feel like a girl. “Another new dress?” I asked Chloe. She twirled to show me the back, with strips of lace and ruffles along the bodice. “The back was the front, but I turned it around, for the win,” she said. For the win, I noted in my head, along with a small gag. She seemed to be compensating for a lack of facial expressions by incorporating more and more internet-speak every day. Jaslene and Echo were chirping happily about Chloe's idea to swap the front for the back. I had to admit, it was pretty genius. “I would never think of that in a million years,” I said. “Aww, thanks, second-bestie,” Chloe said. Echo gave us a double-take at second-bestie, so I explained that Zoe, our other blond-haired friend, was Chloe's official best friend already when the four of us girls had started hanging out. In deference to Zoe, and my best friend Jaslene, Chloe and I had started referring to each other as second-besties. “Where is Zoe?" I asked. “She had to work late,” Jaslene said without meeting my gaze. “The gaming store got a big order of twenty-sided dice or something. She told me, but I kinda spaced out. It may have involved a dungeon, a dragon, or several orcs.” “Yeah,” Chloe said to Echo. “Hashtag nerd alert, our friend Zoe is a big geek.” “Uh, Chloe, that hashtag twitter thing is not working for me,”

Jaslene said, sounding crabby. She wouldn't normally be so critical, so I guessed she hadn't gotten the role she'd tried out for, and was in no mood to talk about whose star was shining, period. Chloe frowned for half a second before reverting back to wrinkle-free Poker-Face. Chloe's internet-talk might be dialed down for a few minutes, but as sure as spam mail, it would be back. I hoped Echo wouldn't notice the oddness of my friends. “We have an extra ticket,” Jaslene said. “Maybe someone who works here wants to come along? The ticket's already paid for.” She looked pointedly at Drew, who was pressing fork-marks into our home-style peanut butter cookies. Drew looked up from the half-forked cookies. “Go out with three hot chicks at once? Forget the Stanley Cup! Count me in.” “Jaslene, Chloe, this is Drew.” I stood by as they all shook hands. Drew held Chloe's hand for what seemed like forever, and I couldn't blame him. Her C-cups were cleaving in a way my boobs could only imagine. “You're going to love this play,” Jaslene said, beaming at Drew. “One man plays all the roles. By himself.” “A play?” Drew hastily returned to forking cookies. “I just remembered. I have something to do, something that would be a perfectly valid excuse.” Chloe directed her cleavage at Drew. “Aww, are you sure?” The brackets along the sides of her mouth twitched. “Maybe Echo wants to go,” I said quickly. I didn't like the idea of sharing Drew—my Drew—with them. “Robin's at her grandma's tonight, isn't she? Whaddaya say, Echo, girls' night out?” “Like Sex and the City?” Echo asked, her penciled-in light

brown eyebrows raised. In unison, the three of us said, “Yes, but without the redhead.” “I'm the Carrie,” Chloe said to Echo. “Because I'm the writer. I have a fashion blog and I buy dresses from thrift stores and re-design them and photograph myself in them. I have a lot of fans.” Echo smiled and said she could imagine. We all thought the same thing: The hits on Chloe's blog came not from fashionistas or recessionistas, or whatever we were calling them, but from dudes who liked photos of Chloe. “I'm the Miranda because I'm the sensible one,” Jaslene said. Echo laughed. “You girls are a bit young for Sex and the City. Shouldn't you be Kardashians? Gossip Girls? Or whatever Lindsay Lohan is doing?” Jaslene let out a long moan. “Don't get me started on today's lack of quality female TV characters.” Everyone chatted as Echo grabbed her purse and ushered us out to the front, where she said goodbye to Angelo. “I'll just be a sec,” I said, and I ran back to check the schedule, and since I was right there, to say good-bye to Drew. I leaned against the prep table, aware I was displaying my boob-valley. “Have fun with your hockey,” I said. “You have a blast tonight,” he said, taking the bait and getting a good look down my dress. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.” “I'll try to behave.” “That's not what I said.” He gave me a sly smile and stuck a

finger-full of cookie dough in his mouth. I so wanted to bite him.

The first half of the play lasted at least an hour and fifteen minutes, and when the lights came up for intermission, we discovered Chloe wasn't just pretending to be asleep. She woke up, groggy and confused, mumbling, “I wanna go home.” “Shhh,” Jaslene whispered. “Nobody say anything. We'll pretend we're looking for the bathroom and we'll make our getaway.” “Getaway from what?” Echo asked. “I'm out of the house, I don't have a kid stuck to me, and I hear there's wine being served.” Chloe flopped her head on Jaslene's shoulder and made a whimpering sound. “This play is the worst.” “You guys can go now if you want,” I said. “Yeah, maybe you should go,” Echo said. “Chloe's cute, but she sounds like my six-year-old, and it's bumming me out.” We discussed it for a bit, until finally Jaslene admitted she'd rather have no career in acting than do live theater. “Fine, I'll take Miss Fashion home,” Jaslene said bitterly. “You two are clearly having fun, so why don't you stay.” I didn't know what to say, or if I should apologize for seeming to have fun, so I kept my trap shut. Was she also jealous of my friendship with Echo? Jaslene put Chloe's arm around her neck and walked our

sleepy friend up the ramp, out of the theater. Echo and I followed, then turned right to go to the lounge. I called a goodbye to Jaslene, but she didn't turn around. “I know how to make the second part better,” Echo said as we entered the lounge. “Mommy will take care of you.” She stepped up to the bar and purchased two big glasses of red wine, apparently having forgotten I was only eighteen— a year under the legal drinking age. I took a sip of the wine and pretended I'd had wine before, which I had, if you count the big glasses of wine-based punch I'd guzzled at my Aunt Adrienne's wedding when I was nine. I said, “Mmm red.” I didn't know what things you were supposed to say about wine, but gross and oily were probably not two of those things. “How about you?” Echo asked. “How are you liking the play?” “The nude-bodystocking musical numbers are fun, but the last part was confusing,” I said. “When the guy is talking to his hand, does that represent another person we can't see, or is he supposed to be crazy?” The lounge was getting noisier by then, and I had to repeat myself for Echo to hear. We looked for seats, but wildlygesticulating older people in bright colors had taken all the chairs, so we walked over and stood at a bar-type counter along the window. I took another gulp of wine, which wasn't so bad once the taste got all over my mouth. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. “When he puts the sock on his hand, then it's God,” she said. “Or maybe his mother.” “I thought his mother was the box of tampons. No? Too obvious?” Echo looked over my head, scouring the room. The woman had come straight from work, and yet she still looked more

fabulous than anyone else there. She was dazzling, in a turquoise, scoop-necked shirt that nearly matched her eyes. I hated that blue-eyed people like her and Chloe could do that. When your eyes are boring, dark brown, nobody comments on how your boring, dark brown sweater matches them. “Not a single straight man in here,” Echo said. “Not that I notice these things, but it's nice to be seen, you know?” She admired her sparkly wedding ring and adjusted her posture to stick her boobs out even further. “You're gorgeous and blond,” I said, “And right now, at least two dudes are checking you out. Your hotness is enticing them to change teams.” “Keep talking. There may be a raise in your near future.” “I'm not sucking up,” I said. “It's the truth. You're a hot mamma.” I didn't call her a MILF, because I thought it was the most disgusting term ever invented. I swirled my glass of red like a wine-drinking champion and took a bigger sip. “So, your pal Chloe told me you date a friend of hers, right? Is he any good with his hands? I need details.” I nearly choked on my mouthful of wine. It didn't help that hours earlier I'd half-choked on the Coke, and since then, my throat had felt gummy and extra-sensitive. “A lady doesn't kiss and tell,” I said with an old-fashioned lilt. “If you give me something, I promise I won't tell you anything about Angelo,” she said, loud enough for a few people around us to glance over our way. I looked around for something to change the subject. Echo seemed to think we were literally in an episode of Sex and the City. I felt warm, inside and out, from red wine and embarrassment.

She stared into her glass. “What I wouldn't give to be young and free again, like you. You don't know how fast time goes, and you never change, not your inside. The way you feel, that's how you feel when you're thirty, and forty too, not that I would know, but so I hear.” I finished the drink while the din of voices around us blended into a pleasant background music. I nodded and acted interested in what Echo was saying, since she was my boss. The lights flicked off and on, the room quieted, and people started filing back into the theater. I blurted out, “Oh crap, the play!” Echo laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes. “Oh, good, it's not just me. I'm afraid I'm not very cultured. Nor do I want to be.” “Me neither,” I said with conviction. “My kid's already taken care of for the evening though, so come on, let's go to this other place nearby, it'll be fun.” I thought about the money I'd paid for the ticket. “Maybe the second part is better,” I said. “Culture is overrated,” she said. “I wanna have some fun before I die. Don't you?” I stared down at my shoes. There was something I hadn't told either of my bosses, and it had been bothering me for days, like a pebble in your shoe that you can't ever shake out. “BakeCo is opening up down the street,” I said. “No shit,” she said. “Is that bad? It's bad, I know it. I'm sure your customers will be loyal, they always say they love local businesses and that you guys, the owners, are always there working hard.

But it's bad, right?” “Good. We can finally close and Angelo can put his engineering degree to use with a real job, and I can stay home and get fat and happy like a housecat.” “What? You'd give up?” She sighed. “I guess not, but seriously, I swear the universe has something against me. First the Fatkins No-Carb craze. Now we've got the allergy people and the gluten-free wackos and their sympathizers, and chain bakeries, and squirrels in the ceiling and good lord, what's next?” “But ... you get to be your own boss. A business always does better eventually, over time, right?” “Do I look scared?” she asked. She looked a little more drunk than scared, but maybe I was projecting. “No.” “Stop making those big eyes,” she said. “You look like a traumatized bunny. I'm just letting off steam. BakeCo can kiss my ass. They're not driving me out of the neighborhood I grew up in. We'll just have to stay one step ahead of them.” The lobby had emptied out, as everyone else had made their way back to the play. “We should go in,” I said. “I'd like to find out what's inside the giant blue egg. And aren't you a little curious about how it ends?” Instead of following me to the theater, Echo linked my elbow with hers and steered us toward the exit. “It ends with a stunned audience pretending they understood the dramatic themes,” she said. “You know what I'm curious about? Your dance moves.”

Chapter 7 Echo, my boss, took me to a bar. Nobody checked for ID at the place Echo pulled me into. Some whiskery old men turned and gave us a cursory glance, but then returned to their drinks, elbows on their tables. To my right, a woman with a face like a fallen cake was pulling down the waistband of her jeans to show some men a fading rose tattoo, and they all cackled together, as though she'd just told the world's dirtiest joke. If my sister Melanie had been there, she'd have said there was a lot of gingivitis in the place. Echo tugged my hand and I followed her to the bar, which had rows of bottles lining the walls and brass spigots with beer logos on their handles. The counter was clean, but the glasses were filmy. A group of people cheered in unison, and I turned to see a crowd of half-a-dozen clean-cut, college-age guys, whooping while one of them chugged from a pitcher, beer running down his cheeks and darkening his pastel yellow shirt. “I remember those days,” Echo said, pointing her chin at the polo-shirt guys. She gestured for me to take a seat at a

nearby table, and a moment later she wove her way back with shot glasses in her hands. “Here. I bought the first round, and with any luck, we won't have to buy another.” She handed me a shot, and before I could even think about my actions, my hand was up and I drank it down. “Thanks.” The fiery liquid managed to somehow make its way down my throat. Thus far in life, my sole experience with drinking had been a few beers and wine coolers at Jaslene's house, not counting the punch at my aunt's wedding, most of which had ended up on my flower girl dress. I didn't like the taste of any of it, and Jaslene's Indian mom, Chunni, had said that was very good news. She said something else too, something important: Have a glass of water between every drink. “What do you want next?” Echo asked. “Pepto Bismol.” She laughed at my joke, which made me feel witty and attractive. I wondered if that was how I made Drew feel when I laughed at his goofy comments. Of course, I hadn't been entirely joking about the Pepto, but the shock was fading. The fire in my esophagus spread warmly to my stomach in a not-unpleasant fashion. “I dunno, I'll have whatever you're having,” I said nonchalantly. Echo didn't want to wait for table service, so she went to the bar to order more drinks. I offered to pay, and reached for my purse, but she said she owed me for the ticket, and besides, with any luck we'd soon be having fun for free. I assumed she meant we'd switch to water. I watched the big TV screen in the corner for a few seconds before I realized what I was seeing. The Canucks had lost the hockey game. They'd lost the Stanley Cup, and the people on TV wouldn't just let the players be alone with their humiliation. The media kept sticking microphones in their faces, asking for someone to blame. The players looked

wet. Their hair was wet; their faces were wet; they looked like they'd been dunked in tears.

I forgot all about sad hockey players, thanks to my new friend, tequila. Some of the polo-shirt guys joined us at our table. We tried to do first-name introductions, but the music volume kept going up. A tray of drinks arrived, paid for by the guys, and I understood what Echo had meant about having fun for free. One more can't hurt, I thought. Echo was off dancing with a collar-popper when his friend handed me a shot from the tray the waitress held. It was blue, and the waitress assured me it wasn't strong, so I gulped it back. Sweet, like a cupcake, I thought, and that reminded me of work, but the bakery seemed so far away, like a friend who's moved to another city. I excused myself. When I stood, my head felt light, and I seemed to swim my way to the washroom. Inside, I gave my teeth a quick scrub with my finger, and drank some water from the tap using my hands. The woman I'd seen when we'd come in—the one with the rose tattoo—entered and lit a cigarette, directly under the No Smoking sign. Her fingernails were painted a deep, chocolate red, and unlike the rest of her, they looked fresh and new. “I like your manicure,” I said. Her face brightened and she offered me a smoke, which I politely declined. I finger-combed my hair and used some paper towel to blot the oily parts of my face.

“I can't remember the metabolism rate for alcohol,” I said to my reflection and the woman. “It's something like one drink per hour, right?” “Depends.” She blew three perfect rings of smoke, followed by a big cloud. “Exactly how ugly is he?” “Oh, no, it's not about guys, and I have a boyfriend anyways. No, we're on a girls' night out.” “Not about guys? My fat ass it's not about guys. Girls' night out. Hah!” She took another long drag, the tip of the cigarette sizzling audibly. “Girls' night, okay, first you get your wine.” She counted off on her fingers. “You get a DVD, maybe a porno if it's a Friday night, hey that's your business, and you order in some pizza and you steam your pores, okay? But you don't need to go to no bar. Unless you're shopping for you-know.” She made a crude gesture that removed all doubt. “Uh, okay. Seeya back out there.” I pushed through the door, back to the throbbing music, feeling like I'd just surfaced from under the ocean. Echo was still on the tiny dance floor, so I joined her, turned my face up to the glittering disco ball, and let the music move me. I felt someone's hands on my waist—the guy in the yellow polo t-shirt. “Dying,” he shouted in my ear as he pointed to his chest. “Yeah, too bad about the game,” I yelled back as I pointed to the TV. “No, Brian. Like brain.” He pointed to my head and then to his. “Brain. Brian.” I told him it was a good name, and he had a “very Brian face” and we both laughed at whatever that was. He did have a Brian face, though, like a blend of every Brian on the planet. Those were my thoughts as I danced and whipped my hair, similar to the way Echo was moving. My dress felt

cute, and I was glad I'd worn something flirty instead of my usual jean shorts. We kept dancing for a few more songs. At the table again, someone ordered pitchers of beer, and I drained my glass quickly, because I was thirsty. Brian told me he wasn't hitting on me, but he would still stay close to keep me safe from other, less-scrupulous guys, and did I want to go to a gay bar? The world sped up around me, but I didn't mind. Echo said a gay bar sounded fun, and she liked fun, so we piled into someone's car, two deep, with me on Brian's lap. A lot of sirens were going all around us, so I asked what was happening, and someone said there must have been some people fighting downtown after the hockey game, but not to worry, as we were going somewhere many blocks away. After a dizzying ride, I was in the second nightclub of my life. More tequila. The only women there, besides me and Echo, were six or seven feet tall, in platform shoes, with foot-long eyelashes. They were less pretty close-up. An androgynous waiter with thin eyebrows told us a “big, lusty, orgiastic” drag show would be happening in a minute —an event they'd been planning for months to help balance the city's energy after so much sports. The way he said the word sports was so adorable, like it was a communicable disease. When the show began, I was almost lost in the stampede, but Brian tethered me to his side, like a dinghy to a boat. We screamed for the drag queens as they came out one by one, each more fantastic than the last. “So are you half Japanese, or what?” Brian yelled in my ear. “Sure,” I said, not bothering to rub his spit off my cheek.

Some people were confounded by my dark hair and small size, and would try to solve the mystery of my background. Anything they thought would be more interesting than the reality. I was probably about as white as ol' Brian, Mr. Average Brian, but in the flashing lights of the club, I could play the mysteriously ethnic girl. He grinned, and despite the visible layer of plaque on his teeth, he was still charming. “Asian girls are totally hot,” he said, wrapping his arms around me protectively. I reached up and touched Brian's hair, which looked like it could be curly if he grew it out. Like Drew's hair. “You should grow your hair out,” I said. “Maybe I will.” Echo got pulled up onstage by a drag queen in a shimmering blue dress with giant tail feathers. The stunning creature asked the crowd if Echo should get a dancing lesson, and everyone screamed yes. The peacock pulled the opening of Echo's turquoise scoopneck shirt down even further, and pressed an elaborately made-up face to Echo's bosom, leaving behind a sweaty smear of blush and eyeliner. Echo reciprocated with her own face on the drag queen's chest, but her makeup didn't come off so much as her face received a liberal coating of glitter. The peacock bent her over backwards and dipped her, like you'd see on Dancing With the Stars. Echo's arms flopped like a doll's. I had to turn away, so I could catch my breath from laughing so hard. When I looked up again, Echo was behind the peacock, pretending to bunny-hump it, and waving her hand in the air like a rodeo cowboy. The lights changed from blue to red and the next performer came out and stole the spotlight. The new one was a mid90s Madonna, a bit on the short side, but full of energy. Echo stepped off the stage, dazed but not fazed, the impression of a face still visible on her chest.

More tequila. More dancing. Brian smelled nice, not like the guys in high school, who bathed in Axe. I was an awesome dancer. More tequila. It was too hot in there for clothes. Why did people wear clothes anyways? I kept hearing sirens, or was it the music? Someone dressed in a blue pinafore with a white apron and a black headband holding back golden-yellow hair grabbed me by the hand. “Come with me, down the rabbit hole,” this Alice-person said.

We danced. A sweaty, tangled mess of glitter and beautiful people. This is exactly what girls should do on a girls' night out, I thought. All too soon, the spell was broken, and Echo told me she was tired. I said I was just getting started, but she made me sit down for two minutes, and my tiredness started to kick in. When the two of us stepped outside of the club, the air was thick with smoke. I thought perhaps a big truck had just driven by, but the air didn't clear. Sirens were going all around us, and some people staggered past, like the zombies from The Walking Dead. The man had a bloodied head and the woman's shirt was torn and dirty. I didn't feel very good, and I wanted to lie down—to be home, on my sofabed.

“Riots,” a nearby man explained to Echo as he shook his head sadly. My hearing was funny, like when you get off an airplane and your ears won't pop, and everything sounds tiny. According to the man, there were thousands and thousands of people in the streets, and they hadn't cleared out after the hockey game. They were setting things on fire. Jerseys first, and then cars. Police cars. Something nearby made a terrible BANG! I dropped to my knees. “Do you live nearby?” the man asked Echo, without acknowledging the explosion. “You girls best be getting home. They read the riot act. You don't want to get arrested.” “Let's go,” I said to Echo as I got up and rubbed my knees. One was bleeding from the impact with the sidewalk, so I rubbed it with the hem of my dress. Home. I had to get home, but we were downtown, and home was across the bridge, and I wasn't even sure in what direction. The smoke was suffocating. I looked up from my knee, and Echo was gone. I called out her name, but my voice was lost in the noise as a crowd of people ran toward me. Some wild-eyed guys with their shirts pulled up over their heads were leading the pack. People screamed about tear gas, and suddenly I was down on the sidewalk, landing on my knees again, pain shooting through my body. People pushed and shoved and stepped over me, even as I called for help. This is how it happens, I thought. This is

how people get crushed to death. My eyes stung, I couldn't breathe, and people—bodies— kept hitting me. I felt arms around me, and I thought someone else had fallen, and I would be suffocated by a pile of people on top of me, but then I was being lifted up and carried.

“Coming through,” he yelled. I looked up and saw Brian's chin, Brian's face. It was polo-shirt-wearing, averagelooking Brian, carrying me through air that was still smoky, but at least I could breathe. Once we were free of the crowd, he put me on my feet. Echo was standing there, in a pay parking lot, with his friends. “I turned around and you were gone,” Echo said. “I tried to get a taxi, but obviously that's not going to happen.” I was so glad to see her, I wanted to throw my arms around her, but I didn't. “Home,” I said, and I vomited on the pavement in front of me.

Chapter 8 On the way home after our night out, Echo made me promise not to tell anyone where we'd been. She was worried Angelo would be mad, or that someone would sue her. “Who'd sue?” I asked. “Your parents,” she said. “I don't have any parents. I was raised by wolves,” I said, then I fell asleep. When they shook me awake, I found out Echo had gotten my address from the ID in my wallet, and we were at my apartment. I said goodbye to the guys, and Brian said something about having been through something huge together—a moment in history. I gave him a hug and thanked him for saving my life. Away from the riotous crowd, it sounded corny, like a joke, but I did feel indebted to him. Echo helped me open the front door, but didn't step inside the building. “Our secret?” she asked, and I agreed. The next morning, I slept past my alarm clock and didn't

wake up until Melanie was going to work. “Why are you wearing Irish Pajamas?” she asked. I pulled down the blanket and discovered I was still wearing my black dress, and one shoe. My body felt sore and bruised. My knee had scabbed over, but with the hem of my dress embedded in the fabric.

The sky was awfully bright on the way to work. All around me, people talked in serious tones about the riot the night before. Something else unusual was going on, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. When I got to work, I tried to keep moving to wake myself up. Echo wasn't there. “Stomach flu,” Angelo said, but even he didn't seem convinced. I wanted to stay in the back and bake with him, but since Echo wasn't around, I had to stay out front the whole shift, serving—and being seen by— customers. I had just congratulated myself on passing the halfway point of my shift when an indecisive woman with a big, greasy forehead began tapping on the glass bakery display case with her equally big, greasy finger. “No, this one. This one,” she said, tapping rapidly. I folded together a white box and searched for the tongs. I was sweating profusely from the effort of both breathing and lifting a cupcake. “What's that aroma?” the woman asked. “It smells like a homeless person in here. You don't put liquor in these cupcakes, do you? My friend is an alcoholic. He cannot consume liquor in any form.”

I used my shoulder to wipe away some forehead sweat, collecting from the ordeal of taping shut the box. As my arm passed under my nose, I realized where the stink was coming from. My skin. Even though I had showered, I reeked of ... I took a sniff ... tequila. “Well? Do you know your product or not? Do you use liquor? Is that a booze cupcake?” She was getting louder, and I wished she would stop saying liquor and booze. “No, ma'am, this is our All-Natural Sweetcake. The cake part is angel ... angel food ... wait, is that right? Angel food?” I checked the label, and it did indeed say angel food. “And the icing is colored with fresh fruit instead of ... uh.” What? I searched for the word—sounded like fruit but not fruit. The woman stared at me like I was the village idiot's stupider cousin. “Food coloring,” she said. “Obviously.” She jabbed her finger at the cinnamon buns. “Oh, and six of these. Not for me, they're for another friend.”

Sure they are, I thought as I boxed up her pastries. She must have thought I wouldn't remember her from the previous week, when Angelo was first training me to do the front retail stuff. That woman had sat at the counter by the window and eaten three of our gooey cinnamon buns, by herself. I imagined stuffing all that dough into my stomach, and was rewarded with a rolling wave of nausea. I took a ragged, painful breath and leaned against the counter while I rang in her order. My tailbone ached as though bruised. “What about the tax? The HST?” demanded the woman. Her eyelids were red, demon-like, and with the big forehead, she seemed evil in a way I didn't normally think of our agreeable bakery customers. “No, ma'am, you've got six. No tax on the cinnamon buns, just the cupcake.” She narrowed her eyes. “Well now, I guess I'll have to take

five more cupcakes then, won't I?” I shrugged. “You wouldn't be saving much.” She was fully glaring by then, staring into my bones like a human x-ray who knew I was sick, hungover, and an awful, awful person. She'd been sent there to torture me—sent by the Underage Drinking Crackdown Alliance, a division of the Vancouver No-Fun Police. My legs trembled as I boxed up five more cupcakes. The woman made a show of sniffing the air and leaning in to sniff near me. “I think someone spilled floor cleaner back here,” I said. She stopped sniffing and her face relaxed into something like sympathy. She reached into her purse, and handed me a card with a church name and address. “When you're ready to take responsibility for your actions, we'll be here for you.” She paid quickly and left. I pulled out my phone and texted Jaslene to let her know a complete stranger had tried to give me an intervention. I figured she'd get a kick out of that, even if she was feeling cool toward me about the potential audition. She texted back, asking for more of an explanation, because, of course, the last time I'd seen her, I was at the awesome one-man play. She didn't know about my night of drunken debauchery, or how I'd been knocked over during the riot. It was all too much to explain, since my phone was not an iPhone or Blackberry, but an old flip-open Motorola, so it always took forever to click the number buttons to create a sentence. Finally, I sent: Will give u million dollars if u bring me

Frappuccino at work. I folded forward, rested my cheek on the cool counter top, and gazed at the people who were free to roam around outside. Something was different that day in the city, I just knew it. I peeled myself off the counter, stepped outside,

and looked up and down the street. Cars. Trees. People walking their little French Bulldogs. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except none of them were wearing Canucks Jerseys. Not a single one.

Thirty minutes later, the bells on the front door jangled, piercing my solitude. My hungover brain imagined it was a robber, coming to shoot me. I looked forward to sleeping in the ambulance. I was mildly disappointed to see Jaslene, looking as fresh as a TV commercial for feminine hygiene products. Her silky black hair was curly and buoyant, and her eyelids were a shimmery silver, highlighting her dark skin. She dropped a copy of The Province on the counter in front of me. “Isn't that your sister's boyfriend?” “Ex boyfriend.” I scanned the headline and article—the first of many about the hockey riots. The jerk in the photo was definitely him: Snackboy, my sister's on-again off-again boyfriend. Of course he's a rioter, I thought, probably one of the idiots who pushed me down. Upon closer inspection, I discovered the paper was spinning him as a hero. Apparently, he'd rounded up some people and formed a human chain in front of a book store, preventing it from getting smashed and looted. The Bay and some other stores had not been as lucky. Still. Snackboy? A hero? And it was just a book store, not like he saved a baby from a burning house. What was the world coming to? “You still want that beverage?” Jaslene asked.

“Does Lady Gaga like publicity? Uh, yeah.” My mouth watered at the thought of a cold, sweet, slushy drink, setting off an unpleasant reaction in the juice pipes deep below. Peristalsis, the automatic muscle function that moved goods and services through my digestive system, was no longer my friend. I flipped the newspaper over so I didn't have to see Snackboy's stupid face. Jaslene floated away to get our drinks, and I told myself to think happy thoughts, while I helped customers make difficult, life-altering decisions, such as banana bread versus carrot cake. “Carrot is a vegetable, so technically it's healthier,” I said to one woman. “But banana is fruit, so either way, you're on your way to getting your six to eight from the Canada Food Pyramid.” “Is it still a pyramid? I thought it was a plate now,” the woman said. She was twenty years older than me, wearing a thousand bucks in diamond jewelry, and she saw me as the authority on healthy eating, simply because I wore an apron. “Plate? I think that's American,” I said. “Wait, no, something's coming to me. We're a rainbow. Definitely a rainbow. Or a highway.” “Gimme one of each,” the woman said. Her precious child used the glass cooler to do his impression of a tank-cleaning sucker fish. Mind over matter, I told myself as I rang in the lady's order. All I had to do was not look at her yellow-sauce-spewing baby or the green goobers her older kid was leaving on the cooler. In my mind, I put myself in an entirely new happy place, a new-to-me Beetle, windows rolled down, wind in my hair, the crowded city at my back, slushy drink in the cup holder. The woman and her germ-incubators left, holding the door

open for Jaslene, who came in saying, “For the love of hair conditioner, since when does Starbucks close a location?” “Oh, right, that one on the corner is closed.” My heart sank as I added it up. Frappuccino not forthcoming. “And the parking meters outside got yarn-bombed,” Jaslene said with disgust. “What's happening to turn people to the dark side of crafting? The economy? I saw a woman out there wearing generic-brand yoga pants. Maddie. She didn't have a single Lululemon logo on her.” “I'm sure another Blenz or something will spring up,” I said, but I couldn't help but wonder if disappearing coffee shops were a sign of some coming retail Apocalypse. The Starbucks on the corner had been papered up the day I'd tried to apply, and that was when I'd spied the Help Wanted sign at Angelo's Bakery. Then my life had changed. My thoughts turned to Brian. I wondered what he was doing—if he had a job in the area, or if I might see him again. He was a bit average, but he was nice, and he'd saved me. Terrifying as the experience had been, Brian had swept me up, like a hero. Jaslene's bangles crashed against the counter as she leaned across, peeking toward the back. “So, is he here?” she whispered. “No,” I said, a little too fast, before I realized she hadn't meant Brian, my new friend from the night before, but Drew, my original illicit crush. “Oh-my-god, there he is, in the bumpy flesh,” she whispered. “Mittens for kittens, nom nom.” As if on cue, Drew appeared at the arched doorway dividing the kitchen from the retail space. “Hey, how was that play?” he asked. Using her Wild West barmaid voice, Jaslene said, “Not as much fun without any gentlemen to accompany us.” She

fanned her face with an invisible fan. My mouth watered, and I got an ominous premonition I should be closer to a bathroom, so I muttered an excuseme to Drew and darted past him, toward the back. Angelo was prepping some baking sheets and called out, “Smell this oil. Rancid?” I wiggled my nose to pretend I was taking a sniff. “Seems fine to me.” “New. Cheap like borscht,” he said triumphantly. The idea of borscht, a dark beet and cabbage soup, was almost too much to bear. My tongue tasted salty, like a dill pickle. “Gotta pee! Be right back!” I announced and turned quickly. Inside the washroom, you could say things got real. Tears streamed down my face, and even though I hadn't called her in weeks, my only thought was I want my Mommy.

I wanted to go home, but feared leaving Angelo shorthanded and cross with me. After three rounds of mouthrinsing and face-washing, I was back up front. Jaslene perched on one of the bar stools along the front window, sucking on ice chips from a glass of lemonade. Lemonade! I didn't know where it came from, but she had two. Drew finished up with a customer and opened a roll of dimes by whacking the tube against the cash drawer, just like cracking an egg against the rim of a bowl. The sound made me jump, but I was impressed by the trick. “Let me know if you need anything else,” he said to me on his way back to the kitchen.

Jaslene handed me a lemonade, which I held to my forehead, because I'd seen people on TV do that when hungover or giving birth to babies, both alien and human. She asked, “After Chloe and I left last night, how many drinks would you say you had, exactly?” I hadn't told her about any drinks at all, which only confirmed my worst suspicions about how bad I looked. “What were you and Drew talking about?” I asked, hoping to change the topic. “Don't tell me you had more than four. At your body-weight, two drinks at once will impair your judgment. Three puts you in serious danger. Is Echo some kind of binge drinker?” I shushed her. At least the shop was mercifully customerfree, but it wouldn't be for long. “Don't tell anyone, especially not Parker, but we went to a bar and danced with some boys.” She gasped. “You took drinks from a stranger?” “Not every guy in the world is a sexual predator, okay?” She had that tight-eyed scrunch-face she always got right before she delivered a lecture. “No, but if you let the bull into the china shop, he's going to smash up some stuff,” she said. Why was Jaslene there anyway, sucking up all my oxygen? I wished she would go away. “Maybe I want someone to smash up my china shop,” I said. She shook all her perfect ringlets of dark hair. “The casting director, did you call her yet?” “What? Call her? She's supposed to call me. What do you care anyways? You want all the TV for yourself.” I sucked on my lemonade to prevent me from saying more.

“Maddie,” she said in a motherly tone. “You have to follow up on these things. Opportunities don't just fall from the sky like jelly beans.” I grunted and drank more lemonade. I didn't know exactly what her ploy was—whether she was truly trying to help me, or pushing me to make a fool of myself. I knew Jaslene cared about me, but the film industry didn't necessarily bring out the best in her. She'd been different before that first commercial she'd shot when we were both sixteen. It had been for ice cream, but they don't use real ice cream for shooting, because the heat from the lights would melt it instantly. She'd had to pretend to love eating a big scoop of dyed-green mashed potatoes, and she'd done it so well that whenever I saw the commercial, I craved ice cream and green mashed potatoes. “Promise you'll call the woman tomorrow,” Jaslene said. I shrugged. “If I can find the card,” I lied. It was in my top drawer, at home, but she didn't need to know that. “Sleep it off, Boozarella. We'll talk tomorrow. Oh yes, we will.” She slammed the door behind her on the way out. At least she left her drink, so I poured the remainder of her icy lemonade into my cup. I should have felt better after I was sick, but I didn't. New memories of the previous night were still surfacing. I may have gotten a little carried away during the dancing. The door jingled, and in walked a familiar-looking Asian guy. “Hey Maddie, how's the McJob?” Hudson asked. His shirt read HAN SHOT FIRST. “You just missed your cousin Jaslene, if you run, you can catch her,” I said. Please don't ask me to sell you pastries, I thought. He pushed his trendy, black-framed glasses up his nose.

“Smells good in here.” I shifted my weight from my right foot to the left and back again. “Really. I hadn't noticed,” I said, my voice as flat as my patience was short. “Everybody has to start somewhere,” he said. “Some friends of mine just opened a bubble tea shop and I'm helping out on the weekends.” “How humiliating that must be for you,” I said. “No,” he said, his cheeks flushing. “Sorry about your elephant, by the way. Can I buy you a new piece of paper? Would five cents cover that?” “I guess I had that coming,” he said. “Listen, I didn't mean to insult your career choice.” I shook my cup of ice and drank the last of the refreshing lemonade. Hudson pulled a folded sheet of paper from his messenger bag and slid it across the counter. “I put some information together for your boss. I haven't heard from him, so I don't know if you passed my card along, but, I'd like to do a website for Angelo's Bakery, for free. To build my portfolio.” Angelo came through the doorway. “Free?” he said. The two of them shook hands as I introduced them. Some time later, perhaps seconds, Angelo waved his hand in front of my face. “I think you caught a bit of Echo's flu. Wanna go home early?” I grabbed my bag and disappeared out the back before he could change his mind.

When I got home, Melanie was in no mood. “I am in no mood,” she said, further proving our sisterly psychic link. I peeked over her shoulder and saw she was washing the pot I'd made Kraft Dinner in a few days earlier. Her hair was in a loose bun, because I'd been too clumsy that morning to braid it for her. She wheeled around and grabbed me, then sniffed my neck and mouth. “I thought so,” she said, narrowing her big, sad-looking eyes. “I should have known, from the state of you this morning, but I guess I was too shocked. I've had some time to think, and talk to the other mommies of teenagers at my work.” I tried to form a question, but nothing came out of my mouth. “You are grounded until further notice,” she said. “What? I didn't drink that much,” I said. “Et mon cul, c'est du poulet?” “No, your ass is not made of chicken. I had a few drinks, but not too much.” “You're grounded,” she said, with a tone of finality. “Come on Mel, seriously? I'll do the dishes. Every night, I swear, and I'll clean the poopster, okay? With the disgusting scrubby brush and everything.” “This isn't about the dishes. You're frigging underage! Do you want to go live with Mom?” Her face was so contorted, I had to consciously relax my mouth so I didn't smirk. She was still wearing her smock from work at the dental office. Smock is a funny word.

Her body language telegraphed a desire to hit me, so I took a step back. I'd never been punched before, and I didn't want to find out what that was like, on top of having my first hangover. I'd have to dial up repentant if I wanted to get out of this one. “I'm sorry,” I said. Sorry you're no fun, I thought. “Like hell you are.” “The kitchen's my job this week,” I said. “Let me finish up here while you take a bath or something. Just dim the lights so you don't have to look at the tub.” “Obviously I've failed you as a role model.” “Well, yes, now that you mention it, this can all be seen as your doing. You were practically pouring the tequila down my throat.” I grabbed the towel from the fridge handle and inched closer to her and the wet dishes. “I've learned my lesson, don't worry. I'm better now, but earlier, I was hoping to get shot, or break a leg, just so I could lie down. Selfmutilation crossed my mind more than once. A person doesn't need all her fingers, does she?” I half-expected her to be smiling by then, laughing at my pain, but her voice was cold. “I suppose you'll be on the stripper pole by the end of the month.” “The pole is great for the abs,” I quipped back. “I'm going to book you an appointment with my doctor so you can go on the pill.” “Uh, thanks but no thanks.” I plunged my hands into the sudsy water and massaged the tines of the forks. I'd made it eighteen years so far without having to discuss birth control with a family member, and I'd hoped I was clear of the danger.

“And another thing,” she said. “Get off my back, okay! I'm not signing up for stupid dental school. You said I could take a year off and just be me.” “You can still be yourself when you're scraping bicuspids,” she said. “We should get that embroidered on a throw-pillow.” “You little asshole. You petite conne. Life's one big SNL skit for you, isn't it?” “More like a game show,” I said. “And I'm winning. Winning like Charlie Sheen.” “Your t-shirt's on backwards.” “That's the style now,” I said. She shook her head and walked away, toward the living room. I heard the squeak of my bed being unfolded. “What are you doing?” I yelled. She walked by with a white bundle of cotton. “These are six hundred thread-count Egyptian cotton, and they are mine. You're grounded. NO EGYPTIAN COTTON FOR YOU.” “Fine, I'll sleep on the flannel.” “Those are mine too, and you're not using them either.” “What? But I don't own any sheets.” “Maybe you should have thought of that before you ...” I rinsed the utensils and laid them out next to the sink. “You forgot what you're mad about, didn't you?” After a long silence, she turned and stomped down the hall to her room, then the bathroom. The tub water began

running, and I could finally breathe again. Sure, I'd made jokes to diffuse the situation, but I was bothered. Melanie seemed ready to give up. My mother had given up a long time ago—on us, on life, on everything. I didn't want to see that happen to Mel. I walked down the hall to the bathroom and tapped timidly on the door. “Bugger off,” she said. “So, hey, did you see you-know-who on the cover of the paper today?” Silence. “The paper's saying he's some kind of hero,” I said. “Can you imagine? I would've thought he'd be the one stuffing shirts into gas tanks and lighting cop cars on fire, but he was a good guy.” “Yeah, I heard something about that,” she said. “He's still a douchebag, but at least he's not a criminal,” I said. Silence. “You're not serious about the sheets, are you?” I asked. Silence. I turned and walked away, muttering under my breath, “Careful you don't choke on your self-righteous indignation and drown in our dirty tub.” After I'd finished the kitchen—and I'd done a mighty fine job, even throwing away the ancient, moldy takeout leftovers from the back of the fridge—I was actually feeling better than I had all day. The hangover must be wearing off, I thought. My first hangover. I felt like I'd taken a small step into adulthood. It was a shame Canadians didn't have any

fun coming-of-age rites, like the Jumpers of Vanuatu, who dive off platforms with nothing but vines around their ankles. I was thinking about the Jumpers of Vanuatu that night as I surfed the web and read articles about the previous night's hockey riots. Some people said it was only natural, youthful behavior, and society was to blame for not giving young men other ways to express their bravery, besides hanging from intersection lights and clashing with police. Meanwhile, the people who didn't get their kicks jumping on flaming police cars were setting up Facebook pages and websites to put names to the faces of people who were photographed breaking the law. I saw a bunch of guys I knew from high school, and I considered ratting them out, but I didn't have to wrestle with my morals, because some other people had already tagged them. I smiled a little. What was that word? Schadenfreude. Laughing at another's misfortune. Later that night, after Melanie went to bed, I searched around the apartment for something to use as sheets on my fold-out mattress. I still had a blanket, but I didn't want my body to touch the scratchy mattress, especially since it had been a Craigslist find. Towels weren't big enough, but eventually I settled on the cloth shower curtain, which Melanie and I had bought at a Linens 'N Things bankruptcy sale, back when I'd first moved in with her. I was pretty sure we'd split the purchase, so I was entitled to sleep on at least half of it. The plastic liner would stay in the shower, so, really, it was a perfect solution. The shower curtain didn't quite fit right, and it was no Egyptian Cotton, but it kept my skin off the mattress. I fell asleep, feeling rather proud of my problem-solving abilities.

Chapter 9 I am a shower curtain, I thought when I woke up the next morning. While not a perfect fit, I could be useful. When I got to work, I told Angelo I was going to stay as late as it took to make my prototype cookies. I had destroyed two batches by the time Drew decided he wanted to help. “You don't give up,” Drew said. “I don't believe in giving up. Do we have something around here I can squeeze?” “I can think of a few things,” he said. I tossed a chunk of cookie at him, but he dodged. Echo passed through the kitchen, wearing a big pair of sunglasses. “This flu's a doozy,” she said. “I'm going to cash in my spa gift certificates and get some sort of cleansing kelp wrap.” On her way out the door, she called back in, “I'll be a human sushi, that's pretty funny, huh?” “Rest up and get better.” I waved goodbye. “Remember to give them a safe word,” Drew said. “Uh, gross,” I said to him after she was gone. “Dude, she's

our boss.” He grinned. “I just meant that those wraps can be claustrophobic. You don't know how terrifying it is to be bound like that until it happens to you. And yelling in a spa is embarrassing.” “Sounds like you're speaking from personal experience.” “Everybody can use a good pedicure,” he said mysteriously. “Hey, what about the largest icing tool?” “For pedicures?” I asked, playing dumb. I blinked twice, the way my friend Chloe would have. Drew seemed confused by this, and frowned at me. “No, for the cookies,” he said plainly, as he assembled the large piping bag. Feeling like a total loser, I got busy assembling the ingredients, turning my face so he couldn't see me blush with embarrassment.

The next batch of prototype cookies came out smelling like our regular gingersnaps, but shaped in big, happy rings. I tentatively declared them a success, and secretly pledged to call the casting director to follow up with her. I could mention the new product, since she'd seemed interested in that. I held my phone, but the idea of dialing her number made my stomach flip. I'll call tomorrow, I thought, putting my phone away. Not today. Angelo joined us for a taste-test and the three of us munched in silence. The tiniest pinch of pepper made the cookies hot. Angelo and Echo's daughter Robin showed up

with her grandmother for a visit, and they both squealed over the cookies. Robin proudly wore one as a bracelet on her tiny wrist. Angelo said he'd put some out for sale the next day and see how it went. By then, it was already past closing time, and he and his mother-in-law and daughter all left, leaving me and Drew to close the shop. Angelo gave me a key and showed me how to set the alarm system. I proudly added the key to my keyring, increasing my total number of keys to three. I had two places I belonged. I hummed happily as I did the dishes. Drew came over to wash his hands in the sink, next to mine. Our fingers touched, deep under the suds. We were completely alone together. “I'm glad you don't quit,” he said. “Me, I quit all the time. I quit three times already today, four if you count when I dropped that bag of flour on my foot. But I can't leave you here, all on your own, so I unquit again right away.” “What made you unquit before I started here?” “The plane ticket to Australia. The one that costs money.” His hands were still in the water, slipping around next to mine, and we stood hip to hip—or more accurately my hip to his thigh—in the quiet bakery. In the time it took me to blink, I got an image in my head of him taking me out for a summer walk in the woods, and I started thinking about how his lips would feel on my neck. I could feel the heat coming off his body—or was it from me? When I dared to look up again, he was gone, getting changed in the bathroom. “See-ya-round, Maddie-Cakes!” he said on his way out the back door. Alone in the empty bakery, I closed my eyes and revisited the woods of my imagination. I could still feel his presence.

Someone said my name and I jumped in alarm. “Front door was open,” Parker said. Right, Parker was there to pick me up. Despite texting him less than an hour earlier, I'd completely forgotten we'd made plans to hang out that night. I smiled, hoping my shame wouldn't come out on my face. I hadn't done anything wrong, had I? Were thoughts as bad as actions? “Is this crap going to take long?” he asked as he pushed back his hair, which was almost white from the summer sun. His tan must have come from driving with the top down on his car, since Parker preferred video games to outdoor activities any day. “I'm glad you're here,” I forced myself to say. “Come, I'll give you a tour of my bakery. I mean, Angelo's bakery.” Parker picked up a fresh meringue and sniffed the pink cookie before putting it down carefully, as though whipped egg whites might explode if handled roughly. “Fine, but hurry up. This place is so pokey, it gives me the sads.” I gave him a five-minute tour and he followed behind me, hands in his pocket. I grabbed my jacket and stopped to check the schedule. Parker put his arms around me from behind, and poked me in the tummy. “No more cookies for you. I feel cookies here, and here, and what's this?” He pinched my flesh. “Is this pie?” I should have stomped on his foot, like I'd learned in a selfdefense course, but he was kissing the back of my neck and growling a little, which always made me weak in the knees. With his arms around me, I got a flash of memory from my night out with Echo. Brian had held me like that when we were dancing. I hadn't remembered until just then. I nudged him away with my shoulder. “Parker, I'm at work.”

“I don't see anyone,” he said, his hands moving up my back and rubbing across my shoulders, which I hadn't realized were sore until he squeezed them. His touch felt good, like it always did. “We should lock the front door,” I said. “Silly customers will come in even if the lights are off.” “Ooh, danger,” he said, kissing the nape of my neck again. I kept thinking about Brian, and Drew, and all the confusing feelings I had. If I loved Parker so much, how could I flirt with other guys? Was there something horribly wrong with me? “You're so pretty,” Parker said. “Your neck is pretty, and your mouth. Kiss me.” That did it. I finally pushed those other thoughts out of my head and was able to focus on Parker. Just Parker, my boyfriend. I turned and jumped up on the stainless steel prep table, then pulled Parker closer to me. “You're feisty today,” he said. “Shut up.” I kissed him, hard.

I dragged Parker out of the bakery before things got too feisty. I'd only had my key for hours, and didn't want to disgrace my second home. We went for a walk around the neighborhood, since the weather was nice, seemingly for the first time all summer. We walked past a clothing store that had signs up for The Summer That Never Happened Sale. “Do people seem extra polite to you?” Parker asked. We were crossing a street, not even at the crosswalk, and cars in both directions had halted in a way that did seem extra

polite. “Now that you mention it, yes. And people were really nice at work. Is it the change in weather?” “I think it was the riot,” he said. “Everyone's embarrassed about the incident and overcompensating. I'm interested in seeing what legal precedents are set. We're living in an age with no privacy.” “Some people don't value privacy. Like Chloe.” He laughed. “No kidding.” “She told me about some guy who has a webcam implanted in the back of his head. I think the only thing stopping her from getting one is it wouldn't be pointed at her.” “Attention-seeking fail,” he said with a laugh. “Hashtag nobody cares,” I said, joining him in making fun of Chloe's distinctive I'm-a-computer-junkie manner of speech. He squeezed my hand.

Parker treated me to a slice of gourmet pizza and then we drove back over to my apartment. It was still early, so he came up for a bit. Melanie was home from work and in the shower, using the building's never-ending supply of hot water to loosen her shoulder muscles. Parker flopped on the sofa and turned on the PS3 without asking. I asked in my sarcastic air hostess voice, “Can I fetch you

anything?” “Coke, no ice,” he said, oblivious. I didn't know what I'd been expecting, but our date together had been so nice, and I didn't want to spend the rest of the night playing video games, but there we were, as usual. I split our last Coke over two large glasses and asked how his family was. “Guh,” he grunted, slouching on the couch, open-mouthed and staring at the screen. Was this the guy I wanted to be with for the rest of my life? He'd been so sweet when we first started dating. He made me feel special, but I didn't feel that way anymore. Not around him, at least. If I stuck with Parker and eventually married him, I'd never get to feel that rush of falling in love, ever again. Assuming what we had even was love. I'd never considered it before, but maybe there was something wrong with us, and that was why I'd been eyegroping my co-worker and dancing too close to college boys. Parker and I could still be friends, so a breakup wouldn't be the death of us. We'd still see each other around, or hang out and play video games. How would I even bring it up? Tell him we needed to talk? How original. Melanie whooshed out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, stark-naked except for the towel turban on her head. Parker turned his head and stared. She squealed, and darted out of sight into her bedroom. Parker called out, “Lookin' good hot mama!” I swatted him on the chest.

Melanie came out a few minutes later in her Lululemon track suit. She flopped in the chair next to the sofa, put her feet on the coffee table, and began painting her toenails. “Maddie, how's that shower curtain working out for ya?”she asked. “Awesome. Better than sheets,” I said. Parker kept playing the video game. “You've been working out,” Parker said to her after a minute. “No, but thanks for saying so. Pervert.” She put a streak of nail polish on his baby fingernail. Melanie never was bothered by Parker seeing her naked. Well, she was mortified the first time, but not-so-much the second time. “He's family, like a little brother, or a neutered pet,” she'd said after the third or fourth time. He passed the controller my way and I played a round of Angry Birds. We are a somewhat-happy little family, I thought. And I wanted to break this all up? Parker stretched out along the couch with his legs crossing mine. We wouldn't do that, or the kissing stuff, if we were just friends. I felt sick and lonely for him, just thinking about not having that contact, not being able to grab his butt or kiss him whenever I wanted. I snuggled down next to him and put my head on his chest. “Ick,” Melanie said. “Don't look,” I said back. My ear was over Parker's heart, and if I covered my top ear, muting the music from the video game, I could hear his heart beating. First it was slow, then fast, which seemed weird.

I'm going to break up with him, I thought. Tonight? Maybe tonight. Once I'd dared to think about it, the decision felt instant. And I almost couldn't wait to get it over with.

Parker's heart stopped. No heartbeat. Was I imagining things? I got the craziest thought: He'd read my mind about the breakup and died. His heart started again with a rush, and then more uneven beats, like a kid banging on a drum —a kid who doesn't know drums and hearts are supposed to be steady. I sat up quickly. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked. “Yeah.” “Your heart is all bumpity and uneven. Melanie, come listen.” Parker looked annoyed, but let Melanie take his pulse. “It's a murmur,” Melanie said. “Very common. I mean, not common, but, maybe, to be safe, you should call your doctor.” He dropped the controller. “Do you think I should go to the emergency room?” His face was pale and waxy. “No. What can they do? Oh, God. My heart. What would they do?” Melanie went to the computer, telling us to stay where we were and breathe deeply. Parker held both hands over his chest, as though his heart might leap out of his chest. I sat primly, hands on knees, waiting for Melanie's diagnosis. Her field was teeth-related, but she always knew more stuff about bodies and medicine than anyone else I knew. She asked Parker a few questions about pain or shortness of breath. The bland expression on her face irritated me, but I tried to stay calm, for Parker. Poor Parker! Melanie kept clicking away on the computer while Parker phoned his mom. He relayed back to us that she'd said something reassuring about murmurs running in the family. “Problem solved,” Melanie said. Seconds later, she had

Facebook up on the computer screen. “Thanks for the diagnostics, Dr. House,” I said. “You can go back to checking on how fat or bald your old high school friends are.” “I think Danielle and I are fighting,” she said.

What about Parker? I wanted to yell. After all, I'd almost stopped his heart with my thoughts. Melanie kept muttering, “I can't tell if she's being passiveaggressive or just stupid. She always was such a little prick. Now I remember why we haven't kept in touch the last decade.” “So, ignore her,” I said. “It's just Facebook. It's not life or death.” “But she keeps poking me.” Meanwhile, in the living room, Parker had switched off the game and the TV was showing a nightmare creature with a demon face and bunny ears. “What the devilbunny?” I asked. “Donnie Darko. Classic,” Parker said. And that was that. Heart crisis over, or so I thought. We settled into the couch, and I watched the rest of the movie, complaining every ten minutes that it was depressing. Even the appearance of a baby-faced Jake Gylenhaal wasn't helping. Later, when I walked Parker out to his car and we said goodbye, he held me tighter than ever. “I'm only eighteen,” he said. “Are you worried about the murmur? Maybe you get a pacemaker or—” He hugged tighter, squeezing the breath

out of me. He needs me, I thought. I liked being needed.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling in the dark. One of the water stains looked like a devilbunny. Something was off, besides the fact I had no sheets and was sleeping on a cloth shower curtain. I got up and took the stinky kitchen garbage down the hall to the garbage chute, then came back and tightened the dripping kitchen taps. The apartment was peaceful for a moment, until the ice maker in the fridge made scary monster noises. Something was lurking in the corner, watching me—the devilbunny creature from the movie, there to skin me alive! I sucked in air and my hands flew to my throat. I thought my own heart might stop, but it didn't. Much to my chagrin, I realized the movement had been some leaves falling off our temperamental ficus tree. Parker would love hearing about the ficus tree trying to kill me—he'd call it a “typical Maddie overreaction.” What would I do if Parker wasn't in my life anymore? Who knew me like he did? I climbed back into bed with my cell phone and sent him a text: Thinking about u. Call me as soon as you get up.

Miss u! My phone buzzed a few seconds later. He must still be awake, I thought, worrying about his heart as much as I was. He said: Making a bucket list. Got a lot of things I

wanna do. Me: But you're fine! This murmur doesn't change

anything. :) Parker: I didn't think you'd understand. :(

I started typing a million different messages but hit delete without sending them. I didn't know what he meant, and the dull ache in my stomach said I didn't want to know. Bucket list? He had to be kidding—he hated people saying bucket list. I got up and raided the fridge, but found nothing edible, so I ate white-streaked, dried-out baby carrots dipped in Miracle Whip until I hated myself. What did he mean by I

wouldn't understand?

Chapter 10 Parker's talk of bucket lists reminded me that I also wanted to seize the day. I'd put off calling the casting director for long enough. At the bakery, I popped out the back door during a quiet moment, and pulled out the business card for Romy Roberts. As I dialed her number, my nervousness surprised me: Palms sweating, heart racing, dry mouth—the whole deal. Calm down, I told my body. It wasn't like a bear was chasing me up a tree. “Romy Roberts!” she said. “Talk to me!” I stammered my name and some details about the small town in Saskatchewan were I'd been born. Finally, with some coaxing from a very patient Romy, I was able to narrow in on why I was calling. “So, do you have a log line?” she asked sweetly. “A high concept idea? Give me your best elevator pitch, right now. Go.” I gurgled for a few seconds, then I confessed I had no idea what she was talking about. Instead, I mentioned the doughnut cookies had been a big hit, and blathered on

about some ideas I'd had for segments on cake decorating. She said things like “Mmm?” and “Oh, really?” as I talked, so I kept going. But with each passing second, I realized she sounded exactly like Melanie did when she was using Facebook and only pretending to listen to me. Finally, she said she had to go “to an important meeting,” so I politely thanked her and said goodbye. She said she'd be in touch. I shut my cell phone and wiped my damp hands on my pants. To think, all that stress response and adrenaline, for nothing. Back inside the bakery, Angelo had me boxing up some orders for coffee shop deliveries. I put together a small package with some of our doughnut cookies, paid for them myself, and sent them to Romy's office with a note thanking her for her time. I figured that later, I'd look up log lines, whatever those were, and maybe try to phone her again in a week. If I could figure out anything coherent to say. I spent the rest of my shift feeling pretty bummed out and stupid. I made mistake after mistake, even coloring a batch of meringues a sickly army green. Angelo said they were “interesting.” To my absolute delight, when Parker came to pick me up after work, he brought me flowers. Flowers! And not some cheap grocery store bouquet with unnaturally blue carnations, but a breathtaking arrangement of things I didn't even know the names of. The yellow flower—possibly an orchid—was so darling, I could have eaten it. “I love these,” I said. “I love you.” I leaned across the car and kissed Parker on the cheek. “My dad's an idiot,” Parker said. “He always forgets about my mother's allergies, but we figured you might like them.” “Oh.” I passed the flowers back for him to hold while I fastened my seat belt. To my right, through the window, I watched Drew inside the bakery, helping a tiny, white-

haired woman. All the older ladies adored him, of course, and that particular octogenarian always pinched his cheeks. I wanted to pinch his cheeks. Wait, no, I didn't. From then on I would only think about my boyfriend—the one who brought me expensive flowers, even if they were his mother's castoffs. Parker talked about sunsets and some list of things that made him happy. For the past few days, since he found out about the murmur, he'd been obsessed with sandy beaches, waterfalls, and other motivational-poster subject material. “Are you on some mood-altering medication?” I asked. “Show me your pupils.” “You're lame. I'm high on life. I'm glad this heart murmur thing happened.” “What did the doctor say? Do you have to do some special exercises? One of the guys I work with is into Ultimate Frisbee. We could go with him sometime, bring Jaslene, for a double date.” “Jaslene? Let me think, hang on.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “That's a no. How about, instead, you drive a rusty nail through my balls.” “Instead of Jaslene? Or Ultimate Frisbee?” “Both.” Parker put the car in gear and jerked the vehicle out into traffic. My head bonked against the window and water from the bouquet spilled on my lap. A vehicle behind us let out a horn blast. Parker rolled down the window and gave the other driver the middle finger. I bit my tongue (metaphorically) because my commenting on his driving always led to a big fight.

He swerved into a different lane without signaling. “I'm pretty sure this is an orchid,” I said. “I might bring these in to work tomorrow and model the same flowers in fondant. Drew brought in a book that's all about creating flowers and leaves.” “Who?” “Drew, one of the guys I work with.” “You're never going to make any real money rolling around balls of icing. It's no better than playing with Play-Doh. It's infantilizing.” “It's art. There's a place for art in our society. Not everyone's cut out for law school.” “Damn straight,” he said smugly. I felt like throwing his stupid flowers out the window, but they weren't the ones being condescending. “So whatever happened with your mom's table?” I asked. “Did she give it back to your neighbor?” “An acceptable arrangement was reached.” “I hope she came to her senses and gave the table back. How could you enjoy eating off the thing? Guilt would make the food taste bad. Karma or whatever.” Parker was quiet, and holding his right hand over his heart, which sent a pulse of terror through me. “Are you okay?” “Yeah. I think talking about my parents makes my murmur worse.” “I'm sorry. We can talk about something else. I made tiny fruit today, out of marzipan. My hands still smell like almond —do you wanna smell them?”

“No talking. Just for a bit.” “Where are we going, anyways?” “No talking. My heart.” An hour of silent driving later, we turned in under a sign advertising bungee jumping. Bungee Jumping. Up ahead was another sign, for a pick-your-own-fruit farm, and I asked, with a glimmer of hope, “Strawberry picking?” “Nope.” Now, I wasn't afraid of heights, no more than any reasonable person would be, but I'd never seen the allure of testing my fear. Weren't all those “Extreme” sports just invented to sell more Power Bars and Gatorade? People actually went bungee jumping? I considered opening the door, rolling out, and taking my chances hitchhiking. First the talk of bucket lists and sunsets, and now bungee jumping. I never thought it would happen, but I actually missed boring, video-game-playing Parker. We pulled off to the side of the road and parked. A group of five or six guys were standing next to a wood cabin—the office, or equipment rental place. They were examining bungee cords and packing them into backpacks. Parker's face lit up. Clearly, he was quite pleased with himself. “Excited yet?” I should have said something encouraging or supportive, but I couldn't find my voice. It wasn't just the prospect of leaping to my death. My mouth went dry because someone awfully familiar-looking stood a mere twenty feet away— someone I never expected to see again. Brian, from my tequila-soaked night. Brian, my hero, who saved me from being trampled in the post-hockey game riot.

His hair seemed a little thinner than I remembered, but he was still average-looking in a hot way, like an Olympics speed skater. I climbed out of Parker's car carefully, nodding my head down so my hair shielded my face. Maybe he wouldn't notice me. “Maddie!” Brian called out. Parker asked, “You know that guy?” Brian trotted over, eager as a golden retriever, hand extended. “Hey girl, how you doin?” Fearful he might upgrade to a hug if I hesitated, I gave him a quick handshake and turned to my boyfriend. “Parker, sweetie, this is ... um ... Brian. It's Brian right? Echo introduced us. You know, Echo from the bakery.” “How is the fabulous Ms. Echo?” Brian asked, not missing a beat. I babbled about how she'd rediscovered her love of dancing, and enrolled in both an 80s retro Jazzercise class and a Zumba class, but really, she was “looking for something more upbeat.” Neither of the guys got my little joke, and Brian switched the subject to smalltalk about bungee jumping. I was pleased at his discretion, but what had I expected? That Brian would say Gosh Maddie, I haven't seen you since that night in

the bar, when you threw your cheap self all over me, like you were fresh off a ten-day juice cleanse, and I was a slice of pumpkin cheesecake. Brian and Parker walked ahead of me, comparing cell phones like new best friends. When we reached a wooden bridge, two redheaded guys in blue Jumpz Crew t-shirts talked us through the safety protocol. They were twins, identical, except one was about half an inch taller, which made me wonder if one of them

stole the other's food when they were growing up. We had a few twins at my high school, and I was always suspicious of the slightly bigger ones. As I started buckling into my safety harness, I wondered, wasn't it a safety hazard to have identical twins around when you're doing something dangerous? You're talking to one guy, and you turn around, and suddenly he's over there too, and you become disoriented and step backward off the platform, and the bigger, more evil one laughs as you plummet to your death. “You two will jump on the count of three,” one of the Jumpz Crew twins said, pointing to us. It was all happening so fast, and I hadn't even asked Parker if he'd cleared the activity with his doctor. Parker and I were strapped together, jumping in tandem. We inched out on the platform. A confusing rush of emotions swirled inside me. Anger, that he'd just assumed I'd go bungee jumping because it was what he wanted. Fear, that the bungee would break, or worse, Brian would say something about my dirty dancing the previous week. But overriding all of that was a desperate sense of helplessness. Looking at Brian's face made me long to be held in his arms again, being rescued, being carried away from the platform. Someone help me, I thought. I don't have the first clue

what I'm doing. “Look down, or you'll miss out on the full experience,” Parker said. Far below us, two hundred feet away, according to our guides, was a river. My stomach dropped away, so I pulled back and focused instead on the horizon. The day was overcast, and off in the distance, I could see Mount Washington, slightly hazy. Brian gave me a thumbs-up when I turned his way, but other than that, he seemed more interested in taking photos and clowning around with his friends. Some of them were

familiar, but I couldn't recall if they'd been at the bar that night. “Count of three!” a twin said, then, “One!” The songbirds stopped chirping, leaving nothing but the wind. I took one last look at the coiled length of bungee cord, and reminded myself that thousands of people had jumped there without incident. It was a rite of passage, simple as that. My body and mind felt strangely still, as excitement mingled with fear. Parker was holding me tight. Parker. Everything's going to be all right, I thought. The Jumpers of Vanuatu used vines, but we had technology. We had elastic bungee cords. “Two!” the other twin said, and he shoved us off the platform. Air rushed past, drying my eyes and whipping my hair. But he didn't say three, I thought, and then my mind shushed. Weightless. Colors streaking by. Parker, tight up against me, his arms around me. Safe. Pause. My fingertips dipped into the water. Pulling, pulling, flying up again. Stillness, like holding my breath. And down. I reached, but the water pulled away. Parker, my love. I tried to find his face so I could kiss him and tell him I'd never loved him more. “Wooooaaaaa!” he yelled in my ear. “I wanna go agaaaaaain!” Our bounces shortened, and we were swinging. Parker was pumping his legs to accelerate us, and I said, “Hey, stop, I want to tell you something.” “All riiiight!” he hollered up to Brian and the other guys hooting on the bridge. I kissed Parker on the cheek, chin, moving up to his lips,

which were plump and strawberry-red. “Maddie, don't. Stop,” he said. “You mean 'don't stop' right?” I grinned. “No, stop. Not here, okay?” “What do you mean 'not here'?” The cord suspending us trembled, and a ripple of fear coursed through me, before I remembered about the winch up top. They were lengthening the bungee cord, so we could be lowered to the ground. “Maddie, I think we should talk.” Someone—a girl in a blue Jumpz Crew t-shirt—waved to us and extended a pole our way. My lefts and rights were mixed up, what with the sky being at my feet. “Talk?” I asked Parker, my voice sounding strangled. “About what?” The harness felt unbearably tight, digging into my shoulders. I was bursting with the urge to unbuckle, but I'd fall out to the rocks, on my head, so instead, I squirmed and tried to get more comfortable, which is impossible when you're upside-frigging-down in a stupid bungee-jumping harness. Parker arched his back so his head pulled back from mine. His face swelled up, red and puffy from being upside-down. He looked strangely angry and fat, like a bullfrog, which made me giggle. “Maddie,” Parker said, “I totally respect you and stuff, but we need to talk about the future.” “You look like a little red froggy.” “Can you be serious for once? I think it's time we started seeing other people.”

He's playing a joke on me, I thought. We were hanging upside-down, over a river, and Parker suggested we date other people—that would be something he'd find funny, in some sick Donnie Darko way. A hand grabbed my leg and pulled me toward the Jumpz Crew girl's crotch, face-first. “Hang on,” she said. “Hang on to what?” I asked. My head touched the ground and the rest of my body followed in a crumpled heap. Parker got himself out of his side of the harness and gave the girl a high-five. “That was awesome!” My cheek rested on the dirt. “Did you just break up with me?” I asked. The girl looked at Parker, at me, then at Parker again. “Did you just break up with her?” she repeated. “On the bungee jump?” “I was moved by the experience,” he said. “I can't keep my feelings bottled up anymore. I want to fully engage with life, experience my life while I'm alive. Why, are you available?” Her jaw dropped, and she slapped him across the face.

You go girl, I thought, and I meant to give her my own highfive, but instead I maintained my attractive position of lying with my head in the dirt. “You're having your Jumpz membership privileges revoked,” the Jumpz Crew girl said to Parker. I slowly got to my feet, peeled off the harness, and started walking up the hill, back to the car. Parker trotted up behind me and put his arm around my shoulder. “We're still pals, right?” “No,” I said as I pushed his arm away. “You're having your

Maddie privileges revoked.” “Come on, don't be like that. We can still hang out and stuff. We're young! Don't you want to be free for other experiences?” I rubbed my lower back. Something was going to be sore tomorrow. “She totally slapped me.” He laughed. “That was awesome. I've never been slapped by a chick before. I'm going to put that on my bucket list, so I can cross it off.” “Eat a dick,” I said. “That, actually, is not on the list.” “I can't believe I loved you. You're a ... a selfish asshole.” “Come on. Everybody's selfish. We're all out for ourselves, for our own experiences. Get what you can when you can, before someone else does. Eat the Chilean seabass before it's extinct.” “Not everyone's like you,” I said. He didn't say anything in reply, and we walked the rest of the way to the car accompanied only by the sound of our feet on the trail. Inside the car, my beautiful flowers were drooping and halfdead from the heat. I considered throwing them out in the ditch, but instead, I clutched them like a life preserver. The drive home was the longest ride of my life. I tore the petals off the flowers, one by one.

Chapter 11 Back home at the apartment, Melanie asked where I'd been all evening and reminded me I was supposed to be grounded. The sun was setting outside, glaring in our sliding glass door. Breathing deeply so I wouldn't cry, I told her what had happened with Parker. She excused herself for a moment, then returned with her Egyptian cotton sheets, nicely folded and freshly laundered. “I'm sorry,” she said, holding them out to me. “Thanks.” The sheets were soft on my cheek, like flower petals. Melanie rocked her head from side to side, stretching her neck. “Wash your face and put on your jammies,” she said. “I'll be back in fifteen minutes.” “Okay.” As soon as she was out the door, I dropped facefirst on the couch and sobbed into the rough upholstery. When she came back, she peeled my face off the sofa cushion and handed me a spoon and a pint of ice cream. “This is cliche, and normally I'm against institutionalized disordered eating, but let's make an exception.” She

cracked the lid on hers—Amaretto with chocolate cherry chunks. “You start on the cookies and cream and eat down half, then we can switch.” The first few spoonfuls were flavorless. “All the color's gone out of the world,” I said. “Mm hmm.” “Parker said he loved me. Why doesn't he want to be with me?” “He does. But he also wants to be with blondes and redheads and girls who make oil paintings of castles and get Brazilian waxes on their noonies.” She got up and turned on the lamps to fight the gloom. “I bet those Brazilian waxes hurt like a mothertrucker.” I spooned up another chunk of ice cream. “They do,” she said. “They really do.”

Days passed. I ate a lot of ice cream, and I didn't let myself call Parker. I emailed Jaslene to let her know, and I also told her I didn't want to discuss it with her, at all. I was afraid she'd take the opportunity to say I told you so about Parker, and that was so not what I wanted to hear. Days passed and I still hurt. My chest ached a little less if I lay completely flat on the ground and tried to disappear into nothing. Not that anyone would have missed me. Well, Echo might have missed me. A few days after the breakup, she tried to take me for another girls' night out,

but I told her I'd read that since the riots, the cops were cracking down on underage drinking. Of course, I'd read nothing of the sort, but it had the feel of truth, and was a legitimate use of the social white lie, I figured. “You'd better rest up for your birthday,” she said that day, “Cause I'm gonna make you par-tay.” The maniacal twinkle in her eyes terrified me, just a little. I liked work, especially the sense of accomplishment at the end of a shift. The new O-shaped cookies I designed were selling even better than the double-forked peanut butter cookies. They were time-consuming to make, but we kept selling out by noon. Everyone had been calling them doughnut cookies, despite Angelo's attempts protests. He'd even thought up an alternate name he felt was surefire. I did not agree. “You can't call them Big O's, that means something else,” I told Angelo. “Nothing I know of,” he said. Drew walked by with the flour delivery. “You never heard of that, boss?” he asked, grinning. “Maddie, why don't you tell him what it means?” I avoided looking at Drew, as I had for the past few days. As much as I'd enjoyed his attention before, when I had a boyfriend, now that I didn't, it felt unbearable. I had the feeling he wasn't teasing me, in the flirting sense, so much as he was mocking me. I felt pathetic, ugly, and rejected. I'd had an awful day, but the first hint of a smile came as I watched Angelo trying to figure out the name. “Big O,” he mused. “Big O.” Echo bonked him on the back of his head with a spatula. “It means orgasm.”

“No.” His face turned red. “No.” “Yeah, every girl knows that,” I said. It felt good to smile, like I might be able to breathe normally again soon, and the breakup weight wouldn't be on my chest forever. “No.” Angelo looked around, as though BakeCo spies could be inside the bakery, watching his every move. “Mrs. Henderson. I offered her a free Big O. She said yes. But she seemed ... confused.” “On the bright side,” I said, “You probably made her day.” And sweet little Mrs. Henderson, with her white hair and her one good eye, came in later that very same day, for a cookie. Or so she said. As I put her cookie in a bag, I began to laugh. A little of the weight eased off. But then, some pretty girls came in the door, all giggles and expensive perfume. The high-heeled trio looked like they'd never worked a day in their lives. “I'll get this,” Drew said, elbowing me out of the way. “It's time for your break,” he said, even though we didn't have set break times. The three girls looked at Drew and simultaneously stuck their chests out at him. It was amazing, the effect he had on women's postures. Typical guy, I thought as I went back to the kitchen. Always wanting a sample of something new.

On my day off, I had two choices: Hang out with Jaslene, or stay home and bawl until my eyeballs turned into the raisin version of eyeballs.

Despite the risk she might say I told you so about either the casting director or Parker, I called Jaslene. She had an audition later that day, but said I was welcome to come over, if I brought some of the new doughnut cookies. She forced me to go clothing shopping, and then we returned to her house. Jaslene was making happy food noises and eating one of the cookies, holding it with both hands, like a tree squirrel with an enormous nut. She sat on the closed toilet in her ensuite bathroom as I flat-ironed her hair in preparation for the audition. For a moment, I was so pleased about the cookie, I felt some relief from the heartbreak-related constriction in my chest, but then I remembered the bungee jumping and subsequent dumping, and the heaviness returned. Parker wanted to date other girls, and by girls, he meant anyone but me. Not me. “Have you seen Chloe Poker-Face lately?” Jaslene asked. “I heard about a receptionist job she should apply for.” “That would be a good gig for her. On the phone, nobody has to see this.” I made my face expressionless and twitched the edges of my mouth. Parker had always enjoyed my impression of Chloe. “Hey, I smell burning,” Jaslene said. I slid the flat-iron down and gave my head a shake. “Sorry, Dave.” I went into my Space Odyssey movie quotes, saying, “I don't think so, Dave,” but my heart wasn't even into teasing Davina-Jaslene about her name. Hairdressing was making me warm, so I set the iron on the counter for a moment, took off my brand-new boxy jacket with the permanently-rolled-up sleeves, and dropped it on the floor. “Why do they call it a Boyfriend Blazer anyways?” I asked. “Don't they know that's insulting to people without boyfriends? Boyfriend Blazer. Pff. More like Overpriced Loser Blazer. And I think it has shoulder pads. What is that

about?” “So much for retail therapy,” Jaslene said as she handed me a hair elastic from the counter. “Put this on your wrist and snap the elastic every time you catch yourself thinking about stupid Parker.” I left the elastic, since I didn't think additional pain was the answer. “What are the odds of you getting this acting gig?” I asked. “Fifty-fifty. Either I book the job, or I don't.” “You goofball, there'll be more than two people auditioning. Your odds can't be one in two.” She raised one eyebrow and said, in a wise Yoda-like voice, “Maybe you say can't. I may get role, or I may not. Those are but two outcomes. Hmm?” I had taken statistics in high school, getting a B+, but Jaslene wasn't talking about that kind of statistics. Success was all attitude, I realized, and Jaslene was the poster girl for confidence. “Now if I can just lose ten pounds before three o'clock,” she said. Without moving her head, or the hair I was working on, she grabbed a bottle from the counter and applied a lavender-chamomile-scented cream to her arms. Long rows of lotions, creams, and makeup kits lined Jaslene's bathroom counter, like bullets in an armory. At my apartment, Melanie and I shared cheap hair gel that smelled like orange Kool-Aid, whereas Jaslene regularly dropped hundreds of dollars at Sephora, a store that smelled even better than the cologne Parker wore. “Who's he going to date anyways?” I asked the steaming strand of hair running through the flat-iron. “The trendy alternative chicks he ogles aren't going to give his nerdy ass a second look.”

“Enough Parker. Tell me what happened with the college guy, Brian or whatever, from the bar.” “I told you. Nothing.” Nothing, depending on your personal categorization of nothing versus something. “I wish you'd tell me,” Jaslene said. “Might help to get it of your chest. I'm not judging you or anything—” “Tsst! You're the most judgmental person in the universe!” Jaslene grabbed her script and flipped through the pages while I finished pressing the front segments of her hair a second time. When finished, her hair was about a foot longer, and shiny as a new car. After a few minutes, she said, “I don't judge. I'm observant, and I deduce.” “Same thing.” She sighed, and I was triumphant in my victory for a few seconds before I remembered I was broken. Heartbroken. The weight returned, like a giant boot pressing down on me. He doesn't love me, I thought. Jaslene could give me all the pep talks in the world and Melanie could stuff me with ice cream and pamper me in expensive sheets, but neither of them was Parker, and neither of them could tell me why he didn't want me. Something about me wasn't lovable and Parker found it. I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, from my limp hair to my oily face. The lighting in there brought out the red of old acne spots, and highlighted Nasty Carl, the little fleshy, warty bump on my nose. I hate you, I thought. “Everyone says breakups gets easier day by day,” I said to Jaslene. “But does this awful pain ever go away? Or is having a crushed heart something you get used to, like jeggings or humidity?”

“How many days has it been?” “Five.” “Once you stop counting, you'll be better.” “I wish I could be better now,” I said. “Well, I wish my donor dad hadn't given me curly hair, but whatcha gonna do?” Jaslene got up from her seat on the toilet and pointed. “Sit.” I complied, and she whipped open one of her boxes full of colors. I tried to get away, but she plonked herself down on my lap. “Aren't we too old to be playing Beauty School? Honestly, this feels more like a lap dance.” “The lap dance is free with the makeover.” “Interesting business model.” I closed my eyes. “Do your worst.” The feather-light eye shadow brush dusted my eyelids. “I call this style 'Five Dollar Whore'” Jaslene said. “Sexy. Are you going to black out my front teeth too?” Jaslene snorted. Something big and soft dusted my forehead and cheeks. “Seriously though, you have good bone structure. Momma gonna make you look real purty. Then Momma gonna put you out on the street to earn some money!” My cell phone rang. It was a number I didn't recognize— likely a wrong number, so I pinched my nose and said, “Jaslene's House of Pleasure and Waffles, how may I direct your call?” “Madeleine Bird. I'm calling from the Baking Network.”

I almost dropped the phone in the sink. “Uh, uh, this is she,” I said. “Maddie,” said the helium-high female voice on the line. “You're responsible for my five-pound weight gain. This is Romy. What do you have to say for yourself?” “I'm sorry?” Jaslene asked who it was and tried to snatch the phone from my hand, but I shoved her away. “You'd better be sorry,” said Romy Roberts, Casting Director, on the other end of the line. “I should kick you with my pointy red boots, because pretty soon nothing else will fit.” “Oh no.” “Everyone at the office is eating the doughnut cookies, the ones you created for Angelo's. They've gone viral, like a bad YouTube video. Viral. They're everywhere, did you know that?” “I understand the coffee shops we supply have been doubling their orders.” I managed to wrestle a grabby Jaslene out of the room entirely, shut the door, and lock it. “What can I do for you? We offer a delivery service.” She laughed. “I don't want your cookies. I want you, honey. You're the cookie girl, you're the magic.” We talked for about ten minutes, as she made all kinds of promises. I mostly just agreed with her and tried to keep from squealing. After I hung up the phone, I looked at my made-over reflection. It was happening. I was going to be somebody, on a TV show. One of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities that people always talk about was happening, to me. When I opened the door to tell Jaslene, her face was sour.

Apparently, she'd heard enough through the bathroom door and had figured it all out. I didn't even need to break the news to her gently. “I should get going,” she said. “Mom's driving me, so you don't have to come.” By then, I was getting used to being uninvited by her, so I didn't argue. I grabbed my cute, new Boyfriend Blazer, and left. For the next few hours, I didn't think about Parker once.

Chapter 12 The bakery itself seemed to be holding its breath the day the executives were scheduled to visit. I was worried Angelo would say no. I had talked to about a hundred different people at the Baking Network the past week, and I'd gone in the day before for an in-person interview. They said I was charming, and mature for my age. What they didn't know was I'd run out of clean laundry that morning. Underneath the dressy black skirt I'd borrowed from Melanie, I wore blue-flowered bikini swimsuit bottoms. I still hadn't done laundry, so the day of the visit, I was wearing a scratchy thong I hated. I should have thrown the thing out, but the constant scratching did work as a reminder to do laundry. I reached down and surreptitiously dug it out of my crack as I eyed my boss. The whole TV show deal hinged on the bakery owners, since it was their business. “Please, Angelo. Please please please,” I said. “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” Angelo said. I knew his parents had been taken advantage of many times after they'd immigrated to Canada, and he'd learned from their experiences, all those times they'd had no money for new

clothes or school trips. Trying to reassure him, I said TV was an opportunity, like the doughnut cookies. If we didn't try, we'd never know. Also, the other bakery shows must be successful, because they kept getting renewed. “I have cable,” he said. “Every show has a villain. Who's it going to be? Me, Mr. Boss, Angelo the wacky Greek.” He mimed pulling his hair out and began pretending to yell like Gordon Ramsey. “You're going to kill someone! These baklava are undercooked!” Some spit flew out of his mouth. It was a startlingly accurate impersonation. The woman standing at the bakery counter said, “I can come back later.” We called her Tupperware Lady, since she who wore wrinkly hemp clothing and brought all her own containers and bags with her. I was glad she brought her Tupperware, because it was even better than recycling, but also so I could think of her as Tupperware Lady and not Giant Turnip-Shaped Birthmark Lady. “He's joking.” I reached out to receive her containers. “Angelo's not a villain. We love him, don't we?” “Oh, your actual name is Angelo?” she asked. “I've been coming here for years. I always assumed 'Angelo's Bakery' was a made-up name, like Earl's or Starbucks. There's no Mr. Starbuck.” “This is why we need to be on TV,” I said to Angelo. “Customers can't love us if they don't know us.” Tupperware Lady peppered us with questions, and told Angelo what a lovely idea the show would be, “As long as filming doesn't interfere with the business.” After Tupperware Lady left, he muttered about using the extra income to buy some new equipment. I twirled on one foot, clapping my hands.

“What's in it for you?” he asked. “I dunno. When someone offers you the opportunity to be on television, do you really have to think about it?” He shook his head and gave me his you're so young look. “So, you do want to do the show now,” I said. “Echo,” he said, as in, Echo wanted to do the show. She wasn't back yet from getting her hair highlighted, or lowlighted, or perhaps both. “Good,” I said. “The increased exposure would give us help with, you know, the B-A-K-E-C-O situation.” He winced at the name. I'd assumed Echo must have told her husband the news, yet he hadn't mentioned it, so I wasn't sure if I'd be breaking the news or salting the wound. “I heard a rumor they're moving into the old Little Shop of Horrors space,” I said. “That's, what, six blocks away?” I felt a bit dirty, using the information as a means of coercing him into doing the show. Angelo sucked in a deep breath and said in a very low, calm voice, “I know all about that.” “So, you almost have to do the show. It's our only chance at a buttload of free publicity.” “Free publicity is never free,” he said. “Beware of Greeks —” “With big horses. Yah yah.” I grabbed some empty cookie trays from the display case. “Madeleine?” I froze. “What?” Whenever he'd say my name, it paralyzed me. I so desperately wanted him to say something—

anything—that indicated he was glad he'd hired me in the first place. “Don't get your hopes up,” he said. “I'm fine either way,” I lied. Inside my head, though, I did a cartwheel of joy. I knew about the pile of unpaid bills in the office, and I knew he was a smart man who wouldn't turn down an opportunity. Our cookie orders were up, thanks to the doughnut cookies, but we needed more. I brought the trays back to the sinks, and then I took it upon myself to tidy up the shelves, making the space a little more photogenic. The kitchen could use some paint, and were the fluorescent lights always so flickery? I was starting to see the place the way Parker must have—as run-down and pokey. Every square foot was going to be on display when the cameras got there. Everything would be exposed, and everyone. A nervous shiver went through my body. I hadn't eaten anything that day, just coffee. I stacked up my borrowed library books about cake decorating, which I'd decided was my new passion. At least I finally had a hobby, which Parker would have been happy about. The whole time we were together, whenever I'd wanted him to hang out with me more, he'd say I needed to get a hobby. I'd always picture myself building one of those tiny wooden sailboats inside a glass bottle. A hobby. What a jerk! I just wanted a boyfriend who appreciated spending time with me. Maybe one day in the future, I would. I stopped organizing for a moment and mentally checked my heart area. It felt ... normal. I couldn't remember when or how the clouds had lifted, but the got-dumped-on-a-bungee weight was gone, and I had only a new fluttery sensation in my chest. Excitement.

Old Parker would be seeing more of me, on TV, and feeling stupid for letting me slip away. Maybe a solitary tear would trickle down his cheek as he watched the as-yet-unnamed baking show. Someone hip-checked me out of my daydream. “Hey Coworker,” I said cheerfully. It was nice to have body contact with a boy, even if it was just a hip check. Drew had just arrived for the afternoon shift and hadn't changed into his baggy work clothes yet. After days of avoiding looking at him, because it hurt my broken heart too much, I was enjoying the eye candy once more. “I came in the front way,” he said. “Angelo's helping some lovelies, you should get in on that action.” Through the doorway, I could see my boss ringing up a sale for two young women. “Those are sweet jeans,” I said, admiring Drew's skinny, dark-blue jeans. They were an ultra-tight style I hadn't thought I liked on guys, but maybe I did after all. He grinned widely, showing off teeth that weren't perfectly straight, but perfect anyway. “Are you checking out my butt?” “What? No.” “You seem happy today,” he said. “You're excited about the TV thing? Your girlfriend treating you right?” “Who? Jaslene? I think she's peeved about me getting more telly time than her. She's an actress, by the way, but anyways, she'll get over it.” I took one more lusty look down his tight jeans, over the muscles they revealed and things they suggested. “You should wear those jeans for the interview with the executives.” “I thought I'd take them right off. I'm wearing my best

underwear.” He pulled up a striped waistband. “I'd like to see that. But quickly, the TV people will be here soon.” Even as I said the words, I was taken aback at how bold my flirtations had become. He pretended to lick his thumb and rub his nipple. “I could put on a little show for you and Jaslene.” He wiggled his hips and snapped his fingers. Parker would have never done something that goofy and adorable. I covered my mouth with both hands and giggled. Drew picked up two grapefruits from the counter, tucked them up his shirt, and continued the dance, rubbing his new grapefruit boobs. “Hey, you're not being Foodsafe. Those are for some fruit thing Angelo's making,” I said between gasps. He smushed the grapefruits together. “You like this. Ooh baby, come get some.” I pulled one banana off the bunch, put it at my crotch, and started dancing over to him. “Oh dear!” he cried, and dashed a few feet away from me. “I'm-a-gonna-get-you,” I said in an ogre voice. He yelped and whooped, and I chased him around the kitchen, until he stopped suddenly. My banana squashed against his leg. “And this is my hard-working staff,” Angelo said to a group of strangers, staring open-mouthed at us. With a straight face, Drew dropped the grapefruits from under his shirt and said, “Maddie and I were just working on a skit for an upcoming sexual harassment workshop.” I set my mangled fruit on the counter. “We're going to need

a lot more bananas.”

Two things occurred to me when I looked up and saw the TV people observing our erotic fruit dance. One, I'd blown my opportunity, and they'd never let someone like me on their network. And two, it had been completely worth it. But they weren't deterred. If anything, our performance endeared us to them, while they shared a laugh at our buffoonery. After composing ourselves, we gathered in the kitchen, sitting on folding chairs amidst the rolling trolleys full of fresh baking, which were covered in their zip-up clear plastic protectors. “What are these plastic things called?” one of the executives asked, leaning over and unzipping the plastic to take a quick sniff. “We just call them the plastic things,” I said helpfully. Darn, if I was going to be on TV, I was going to have to step up my game, as they say on reality shows. Was I in it to win it, or would someone be throwing me under the bus? I wished Tim Gunn from Project Runway could be there to tsk tsk and tell me to make it work. As I giddily daydreamed about potential crossover guest stars, the men in suits—all executive producers, whatever that meant—asked Angelo a few questions, but mainly talked up how great the show would be for business. They started giving us paperwork to sign and were discussing time slots and run times, as though the show were a done deal. Just then, Echo floated in with her new Christina Aguilera hair, a strapless tube dress, and shoes borrowed from, well, Christina Aguilera. After seeing Echo, the executives practically forced the pen into Angelo's hand and moved his arm to sign.

The youngest man, with the fit body and thin face, was the only one not too transfixed by Echo's rack to answer my question about when the first episode would air. “Yesterday,” he said. “Which means September, which is, what, weeks away. God, I love drama. Don't you love drama?” He leaned in toward me, said to hold still, and lightly touched my face, soft as a butterfly kiss. “You should see someone about getting a little sumthin-sumthin squeezed into those old acne scars,” he said. Then, in a stage-whisper, he sang, “Fillers! Fillers are your friend.” Angelo and Echo kept talking to the other men about wiring and the electrical panel. “Oh, okay,” I said quietly. I leaned back and tried to disappear into my chair. Drew kept facing straight ahead, and I was pretty sure he'd heard, but he was polite enough to pretend he hadn't. After a few minutes, I escaped to the bathroom, which was brighter than I remembered. Angelo had replaced the burned-out light bulbs over the sink, and under the cold, hard light, I didn't love the round face in the mirror. Maybe everyone saw my skin problems and only the skinny-faced executive guy was honest enough to say something. I did not have the skin of adorable French actress Audrey Tautou, that was for sure. I needed to do something, and I didn't think anything as cheap as new lip gloss, or as pain-free as Echo's highlights, was going to cut it. Despite having been as high as a cloud just a few minutes before, I had gracelessly returned to earth, sore feet and everything.

Chapter 13 Filming would begin in less than a week. The cameras were all High Definition, which was why I had booked an appointment with a dermatologist. A few days earlier, I'd posted on Facebook, asking if anyone had any Groupon coupons or recommendations, and Jaslene was on the phone to me within seconds, talking like a late-night infomercial, about skin sensitivities, treatments, and the size of my pores. So much for me being the only one who took note of my pore size. Jaslene introduced me to some dermatology-related message boards and told me the whole sordid back story about the secret side boards where mean people made fun of those who posted their photos on the main boards. Some of the things those monsters were saying—they made me want to never have my photo online. No, they made me want to never leave the apartment. “Let's go to my derm,” Jaslene said. “I'll even go with you.” Jaslene had been lukewarm to me since the casting director had called with the good news, so I thought maybe this bonding over my giant pores was just the thing to repair things between us. It would be like a cleansing cucumber facial for our friendship.

I arrived at the swanky clinic early, and tried to disappear behind a magazine. Jaslene walked in, smiling like a Vaseline-toothed pageant contestant. “I booked the commercial,” she announced, sounding a bit like Oprah Winfrey and loud enough for everyone in the waiting room to hear. One of the troutlipped blond ladies in big sunglasses flipped a magazine page, but only the older lady in a leopard-print jacket looked up. Her hair was dyed that specific shade of purplered favored by animal-print ladies. “You booked the commercial!” I said to Jaslene. “I'm so glad we're even now.” “Even?” Crap. Foiled again by my honesty. “Err, I have my show, you have the commercial. Now you won't make the constipated face when I talk about Baking Network stuff.” “What constipated face?” “Like this.” I frowned and tensed my neck. “I'm not seeing it.” I grimaced harder and squeezed my eyes shut. Jaslene snickered. “Now stick your tongue out. More.” “Bleaaaah eeeeagh.” Someone who was not Jaslene asked, “Are you okay, Miss?” I opened my eyes to find a wide-eyed young woman in pale pink cotton scrubs. “Just doing some face exercises.”

Cheerily, she said, “Good for you! Way to be proactive.” She checked her clipboard, got my name, and asked me to follow her. Jaslene was already twirling one of her long, dark ringlets and reading an article titled, Ten Things Your

Guy Really Wants. I pointed to the magazine, and said to Jaslene, “The answer is nine dumb girls and a double-bacon cheeseburger.” “You want me to come with you?” she asked. “No,” I lied. Pink Scrubs led me down a thirty-foot long corridor, past abstract paintings depicting what I hoped were burgeoning flower blossoms. In the consultation room, a pretty lady in a white jacket sat down across from me, with a pantyliner-thin white laptop and a white mug. She was white too, but her skin was a perfectly-even brown, likely a spray-on tan. “They say you can't microwave coffee,” she said as she blew across the top of her mug. “But I like it hot. Don't you?” “Yeah, hot and tall, like I like my men. Heh.” “Or rich and strong,” she said. “Mmm, full-bodied.” She leaned in toward me, even though we were alone in the office. “And first thing in the morning.” “Ohmygoodness,” I said, somewhat surprised. I was used to double-entendre talk with my girlfriends, but not with a complete stranger. “Have you had Turkish coffee?” I asked, to change the subject. “It's a bit of a process, but totally worth it.” “Fascinating,” she said, in a way that made me realize I

wasn't. “What can we do for you today?” she asked. “Make me pretty, with big mattress lips, like an aging soap actress,” I said. She nodded seriously. They must be trained to take everyone literally, I thought. “Just kidding, ha ha.” “No need to be embarrassed,” she said. “All of us at Inner Radiance Skin Spa are here, along with millions of dollars in equipment, for you.” I recognized the line from their website, but it was nice to hear, all the same. “So, are you here today about one specific issue, or several things? Tell me what's bothering you.” I pulled a folded-up paper from my pocket. My handwriting was tidy enough, so I considered handing the whole note over to her, like a very weird takeout dinner order. “You have lovely skin,” she said. It was a lie, but one of those benevolent ones I didn't mind people saying. I could feel myself blushing, and the words on the paper blurred a little before I could pull myself together. I was about to break one of my rules: Pointing out my physical flaws, like some silly girl. “Well.” I paused for dramatic effect. “I have these awful acne scars, patches of dry skin surrounded by an ironic sea of oily skin, and of course, the gnarly thing.” She feigned ignorance. “Gnarly thing?” “Come on. You don't see it?” Her face remained professionally blank. I pointed to the spot and leaned forward. “This horrible, awful, mega perma-zit.” Dr. Faketan, assuming she was a doctor, got out a magnifying glass and peered at the fleshy lump that called my nose home. “This little fella bothering you?”

“His name is Nasty Carl,” I said. “Don't squeeze. You won't like him when he's angry.” “Hmm. Nothing we can't take care of with our trusty lasers.” She sat back and gave me a look that actually was comforting—not too pitying, but not too business-like. Her crisp white jacket was so crisp, and white, and convincing. “Lasers.” I pretended to swish around a light saber. “Neroom-whahoom, ptschoo ptschoo.” “Is that all?” she asked. “Because I think we can help you. We don't believe in perfect here, but we can definitely make an improvement.” Improvement. That was a word with a lot of wiggle room. Still, I was confused about the logistics of this improvement. “How do you do it?” I asked. “Do you, like, cut Nasty Carl right off? Won't that leave a scar instead?” “Oh no,” she said breathlessly, as though I'd just told her I believed the earth were flat, and fairies lived inside computers. “No scars,” she said. “The laser zaps the excess tissue away. Laser treatment is safe and effective.” “How soon can I get it done?” I'd said the magic words. Dr. Faketan gazed down at her laptop screen demurely and smiled, like a vampire who's just been invited to enter your home. “Good news,” she said. “I can fit you in right away, because of a last-minute cancellation.” She still hadn't mentioned pricing, which made me nervous. I wondered if it might be like that saying, if you have to ask, you can't afford it. What an arrogant expression, clearly designed to make the non-rich feel even worse.

“What's this going to, um, cost?” I finally asked. “If payment is an issue, be assured we do offer a financing service.” Her blue-white teeth were blinding against her fake-tan skin. I tried to follow along as she tallied up the suggested treatments. An all-over laser treatment today would diminish my acne scars and “renew the skin, thus delaying the onset of wrinkles.” The total was not as much as I'd feared, but it would put a dent in my savings account. In my mind, my Beetle drove away from me and disappeared over a hill with its cute little putt-putt. But I'd make a bit more money from the TV show. And I was doing this mainly for the cameras, so laser skin treatment was basically an investment. Yes, that was the right word. Investment. “Will it take long? My friend is waiting in the lobby, I'll go tell her so she can head home, if she doesn't want to wait.” She didn't get up from her chair. She didn't move a muscle, and I wondered, for a second, if the door behind me was locked. “Let's get you prepped,” she said. “I'll send someone out to let your friend know.” I was gripped with the sudden urge to bolt for the door and escape, but Dr. Faketan must have read my mind, because she gave me a supportive tap on the hand, to let me know that she, and millions of dollars in equipment, were there for me. “Let's lock and load,” I said. Sexy smooth skin, here I

come. In the treatment room next door, she gave me goggles to

protect my eyes, as she listed off everything that could possibly go wrong. “And blindness, of course, but that's very rare,” she said. I raised my hand to ask a question about the blindness, but she kept going. “Now scoot your butt up on the seat,” she said. “And—Oh! I love your little sockies, so fun. I love strawberries.” “Actually, they're ladybugs.” My stomach grumbled audibly. I should leave right now, I thought. The woman couldn't tell the difference between strawberries and ladybugs. What if she lasered off something I'd need later, like my eyebrows?

Don't be melodramatic, I told myself, as I lay back on a white thing that was halfway between a chair and a bed. It was similar to a dentist's chair, but cushier, which meant it probably cost a fortune—Melanie had told me a room of medical equipment like this would cost more than her entire education. I took a deep breath and put on the very-tight goggles. I couldn't see a thing, but I was still aware of how bright the room was, as though my skin could feel the light. Was that possible? Of course I could sense warm sunshine on my skin, but I had never considered that a bright room might feel different than a dark one. Without my sight, the room felt harder—the corners of things sounded sharper, less forgiving. At least I had my clothes on. Splork. Something wet and cold landed on my face. Dr. Faketan said, “Oops, sorry, meant to warn you. I just get caught up in my own thoughts.” Without the reassurance of seeing her crisp, white coat and teeth, she seemed suddenly and dramatically incompetent. “It's okay,” I said. I wondered if I should mention my attachment to my eyebrows. The machine whirred to life. I tried to picture the laser in my mind, but all I remembered was a chunky mass of metal hanging from the ceiling, like the thing aliens use to probe

their human captives. The treatment began, and true to what Dr. Faketan described beforehand, it did feel a bit like an elastic band snapping against my face. Only not as pleasant. A more accurate description for the brochure would be imagine your face, covered in lemon juice, paper cuts, and cayenne pepper. Snap, crackle, pop, went the musical accompaniment to dollars disappearing from my bank account. Did I smell something burning, or was the hot dog aroma my imagination? I felt a tap on my arm. “You had a few hairs on your upper lip, but they're gone now,” she said. “No extra charge for those!” My body was hot, and the backs of my arms were sweating all over the cushy white chair. She said something that sounded suspiciously like “Oops.” My legs trembled and my right foot went kick, kick, kick, out of my control. The lower half of my body wriggled to escape the sensation of the laser, so I grabbed one hand with the other and squeezed as hard as I could. My ears were wet, possibly from tears, but I couldn't tell for sure. Out of all the mythical creatures I could have thought about, the phoenix popped into my head. Wasn't it a bird that exploded in flames, then was reborn? Unicorns, think about unicorns, I told myself. Or those winged horses. More cold jelly splorked on my face. So this is what regret feels like, I thought.

As accommodating as Dr. Faketan had been before the procedure, she was equally brusque after we were done. I

looked around the room, confused about where I'd left my shoes, and she pointed to the chair and snapped her fingers, as though instructing a dog to lie down. I started to ask a question about the results, and she handed me a brochure, while giving me a pointed look that said I was overstaying my welcome.

Fine, I thought, I didn't want to hang out and talk about coffee anyway. I slipped my shoes on over my ladybug socks and left. Jaslene's mom, Rebecca, was sitting with her daughter in the waiting room. Her pixie-cut silver hair had grown out a bit, and looked striking with her silver jewelry. “Yup,” she said when she saw me. “You look like a spanked baby's butt.” “In a good way?” I joked. They both stood, and I went to get a hug from Rebecca, but she backed up, so I dropped my hands and looked away. “You guys want anything? You can put it on my tab,” I said. Jaslene's gaze went to the display cabinets full of skin products, and I swear she licked her lips. I quickly rescinded my offer and said I wanted some fresh air, so we headed out. I felt like I was forgetting something, but I'd already paid by bank card, before the treatment. Outside, Rebecca insisted on giving me a ride home. I called shotgun, and Jaslene graciously let me sit in the front, for once. Everyone was quiet inside the car, until finally Rebecca said, “When you're young, you want to try everything, on the chance it might be great. But the older you get, the more bad experiences pile up in your memory, and you become risk-averse. Eventually you never try anything new. Like sushi. Have you ever seen an elderly person eating sushi?” “I don't think so,” I said. “But I just get my order of California

rolls and get out. And by California rolls, I mean deep-fried tempura vegetables.” Rebecca gave me a sidelong smile. It felt good to sit in the passenger seat, up front, in the aura of her motherly energy. She glowed a bit, like the tooth fairy. “You feeling okay?” She reached a hand toward my forehead, but pulled it back gingerly. “I'm okay as long as nobody looks at me.” My legs had been trembling when I left the dermatologist, and the air outside was chilly, but sitting in the car, a heat was rising in my skin. I put my hand up to shield my face from the children crossing the street in front of the car. I didn't want to frighten them with my red-baby-butt face. Marching behind their Filipino nanny were three pale-haired kids, two boys and one girl, all the same height. “Fertility treatment triplets,” Rebecca said. “How can you tell?” Jaslene asked from the back seat. “Real triplets are quite rare,” Rebecca answered. “Same with twins, but look around on the west side and you'll see tons of them.” “How'd you get so smart?” I asked, half-joking. “Having knowledge is not the same as being smart. Facts are merely trivia. Smart is knowing what to do with it.” I pointed the air conditioning vent at my hot face and tried to suck up the cool. Jaslene was lucky to have two moms, both of them so smart about the world. Everyone our age made mistakes, but Jaslene seemed to make fewer.

My fever was simmering by the time I got home to the apartment. The common area hallway smelled like socks and boiled cabbage, as usual. If Parker were there, he'd have said, “Smells like poor people.” Strangely, I didn't miss him as much that day. Something bad was afoot inside the apartment. The door was unlocked. I walked in, and my ankles were lovingly attacked by a white furry monster. “Fancy!” I reached down to get a pet, and the wire-haired terrier covered my hands with sloppy kisses. “Where's your dolly?” He skittered off down the parquet-wood hallway, his doggy toenails using up what was left of our damage deposit. He was having a good day, acting like a young pup again. I added up the clues. Door carelessly unlocked. Fancy. It could only mean one horrible thing. Melanie and her ex were back on again. There he was, stirring something on the stove. The hero, according to the newspapers that had run photos of him keeping hoodlums away from a book store, during the riot. “Hello, Snackboy,” I said. “Hello, Fartcatcher,” he replied. “What's for dinner?” I asked. “Should I just take some Pepto Bismol now, pre-emptively?” “Meat, meat, meat!” He tilted his head back and drank the remainder of a can of Pilsner. He turned, his gaze met mine, and the beer spewed out of his mouth, all over the back splash by the sink. “Cool spit-take,” I said. “Hand me a beer, I've always wanted to try that.” “Jesus Mary and Joseph, what happened to your face? It didn't look that bad before.”

Fancy, worked up by the yelling, jumped around our feet barking. Melanie came to shush the dog and froze, speechless. “This is intentional,” I said calmly, pointing to my face. “I had a treatment, so I might be a bit red for a few days.” I touched my cheek with one hand, and my skin stung. “Honestly guys, is it really that bad? You're freaking me out.” “More than usual, your face is killing my appetite and any future boners I might have,” Snackboy said. I noticed he had some Saran Wrap taped to his forearm. “Another tattoo?” I asked. The outlines of big, blue stars were visible under the clear wrap. “You said I could go with you next time you got one.” He pushed up his retro-80s glasses. “You stay away from tattoo parlors, Fartcatcher. That's a man's place.” Melanie passed behind him, through the galley kitchen, and got a close look at my face. “What?” Her hands flew up and floated over my skin without touching. “Why?” “I can't be all acne-scarred on TV.” “You had maybe one little dent, nothing abnormal.” She crossed her arms emphatically. “This TV thing, I don't think it's a good idea. Maybe in a few years, when you can handle the scrutiny.” “You're just jealous because nothing fun ever happens in your dental office.” “I'm going to kill the people who did this to you,” she said. “You look like a burn victim. Tell me who did this. Did they give you an after-care pamphlet?” I grabbed the folded-up papers from my pocket and smoothed out one—the financing brochure. “Typical,” she said. “This is exactly the kind of stupid

impulsive thing you do. Have you even looked into courses for school in the Fall? No, I would imagine not. You're too busy going clubbing, and having your social life, and treating this place like your personal hotel.” “You go, girl,” Snackboy said sarcastically. I put on my squinty-eyed, mean look. “Stay out of it, NoButt.” His face fell, like the expression of a kid who's just dropped his ice cream in the dirt. “You told her?” he asked Melanie. “Baby. Please. I've been doing squats.” “Ironic that have no butt, yet you act like such a giant ass,” I said. He pointed his bony rear at me and slapped it. “Feel that. My glutes are totally coming in.” “I wouldn't touch your ass with someone else's hand.” Melanie turned on the garburetor until she had our attention. I mimed zipping my lips, and she finally turned it off. Melanie said to me, “Don't they need your legal guardian's approval before they cook your face?” “I just say I'm nineteen. Nobody checks. Same as when I went bungee jumping.” Melanie shook her head. “You have to think, Maddie. Imagine the consequences of your actions.” “Like you did? Inviting Mr. Small Trousers back into your life?” From his spot at the stove, Snackboy said, “I'm right here. I can hear you.” “How are your pants even staying up?” I asked, scowling his way. I didn't know what Melanie saw in the guy, but it

sure wasn't his butt. Melanie took my hand and led me down to the bathroom. “He's really sorry,” she said, referring not to the day's bickering, but his crimes from a few months back. I sat down on the edge of the tub while she got me some pills and a glass of water. “This should help with the swelling,” she said as I glugged down the glass. Ten minutes later, Melanie was satisfied I'd been adequately lectured, and she agreed to not call the dermatologist's office unless my redness got worse. She even let me lie down in her bedroom, with the air conditioner. Summer had abruptly started that very day, it seemed. As I lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness, I dreamed Snackboy came in and said something like he was “putting the rice to bed.” When I woke up, I could smell rice, so I pulled back the covers next to me and found a warm pot, still steaming. Inside was fragrant white basmati rice flecked with cranberries. My mouth watered in anticipation. I sat up, my head pounding, as alarms went off in my head. After he had tucked in the rice, he'd sat his flat butt on the foot of the bed and told me he was planning to propose to my sister, and that he'd appreciate me keeping it a secret, while also treating him with a pinch of respect, since he was going to “be my new brother.” Propose. New brother. My appetite disappeared. Melanie came into the room to get me and the rice for dinner, and I followed her out in a daze. The three of us sat around the little Ikea table just off the kitchen. The ficus tree angrily rained leaves down on me when I nudged my chair against it. The table looked nice, though. The mail and other paperwork that normally

covered the table were on the floor in the corner. “You should get a filing cabinet,” Snackboy said, for about the hundredth time. “They cost money,” Melanie said. “You can't let the chaos creep up on you. It's loose papers today, and tomorrow you're saving up bags of ... what do you call them ... those plastic date things that go on loaves of bread.” I knew he was about to dig into our family drama, so I seized the opportunity to turn the topic. “At the bakery where I work, we use twist-ties,” I said. Melanie shifted in her seat and rolled back her shoulders. The pain in her neck seemed to get worse when people offered advice. The summer evening sun blazed through the cracks in the ugly 80s vertical blinds. Snackboy stared at my face, wincing. “You look demonic. And, dude, you're shiny. Is that sweat? Oh man, you're oozing, aren't you?” “I am eating,” Melanie said without taking her gaze off her plate of rice and curry. “Geez,” he said to her. “For someone who scrapes sludge off people's rotten teeth, you'd think you'd have a stronger stomach.” The heavily-salted food in front of me became less appetizing by the second, so I put the rest of my plate in the fridge and went to sit on the couch. How long had it been since I'd felt excited about the future? A week or so? When I was auditioning at the casting director's office? It felt like forever ago.

Fancy tried to jump up on the couch, but missed. I scooped him up, and he settled in for a good grooming session. He loved to chew his tail and feet, but he needed to be touching me with at least one paw or he'd get restless and bark. After much slurping, he drifted into a twitchy sleep, grumbling and moaning at his dream adventures. A dog's life is pretty simple. Eat. Sleep. Lick your feet. Without me and my oozing face at the table, the conversation had become more convivial, with glasses clinking and Melanie laughing at Snackboy's anecdotes from work at the garage and other adventures around Main Street. Most of his stories were funny, because he acted like a jackass all the time, and got himself into dumb situations. Once, he went to a poetry reading and mocked everyone by dramatically reading the ingredients from a bag of chips—a performance that was met with thunderous applause. Why do people love jerks so much? They wouldn't like them if they had to deal with the aftermath. Was he pulling my leg about them getting married? Something told me he was digging in, there to stay. A heavy feeling returned to my chest, like a thousand tiny vines wrapping around my rib cage. I breathed in deeply, and some of them snapped, but more sprouted up in their place, like Morning Glory, growing inches overnight and choking everything else in the garden. Sure, I liked to boast about being able to pack all my belongings in a bag and get out of my sister's apartment in a heartbeat, but it was still my home. If they got married, he'd move in, and where would that leave me? I didn't even own a set of sheets.

Chapter 14 Three days after having my face laser-incinerated, I could finally leave the house for work. I'd missed a couple of shifts, and Angelo had grumbled about that, which only made me feel worse. Things with the TV show had been moving fast, and filming would begin the next day. With my face still red, I hoped they could change the lighting for my interviews, so I'd be a shadow person, like someone testifying anonymously. I suggested this to a crew guy, when he was setting up the sound equipment, but he just blinked. One of the other men, a cameraman named Mitch, said to me, “He's union. He doesn't come with a sense of humor.” I was measuring powdery icing sugar into The Mangler, our Hobart 60-quart mixer, and trying to stay out of everyone's way when Angelo came over and said, “I feel like I'm going on American Idol.” “You should do an Iglesias cover.” “You think?” He held a spoon up as a microphone and took a serious crooning pose. Angelo could be considered foxy, with his square jaw and buff arms. I wondered what our target demographic would think of him.

“New shirt?” I asked. “Yes.” He seemed to have more face than I remembered. “No way! You got your unibrow waxed.” “Threaded. Didn't hurt.” He held out both his hands. “Manicure.” The power went out and the mixing machine wound down to a halt. “Sorry!” one of the crew yelled in the dark. “And cue Roxzilla,” I whispered to Angelo. With my eyes adjusting to the dim light, I heard her before I saw her. Roxanne Carmichael, the producer of our yet-tobe-named show, galloped through the kitchen on her sensible heels. “People! Which one of you idiots loaded up all the lights on one circuit? It's not rocket science. I can't touch the breaker panel or the union will eat my balls. Would someone come and flick the switch? I'll hold the flashlight.” Silence. “Mitchell, I know you're there, I can hear you mouth-breathing.” “Jussec,” he called, and all at once the lights came on and The Mangler started up with a sudden frenzy, sending a puff of icing sugar all over me and Angelo. I experienced deja vu, as a similar thing had happened on my first day there, only it had been me and Drew shrouded in a sugar fog. Roxanne clapped her hands, which made the film crew jump into double-speed. Even her bleached-blond, ultrashort hair stood at attention. “Marvelous,” she said to me and Angelo. Her nearly-black eyes were mesmerizing. “Marvelous?” I asked. I tried to look away, but I couldn't. “Sugar all over,” she said. “Very cinematic, people. We'll do

that tomorrow, on-camera.” “This isn't how we normally mix icing,” I said. “We pour the sugar in gradually, with the paddles already turning, so it doesn't—” “Precision,” Angelo said. “Baking is about precision.” He threw his hands up and down emphatically. “We use recipes. We have procedures.” Roxanne sighed grumpily. “We're not making an infomercial. Listen, Angelo, help me help you, by letting me do my job, which is making entertainment. We're going to have to ... let me put this in terms you can relate to ... crack a few eggs.” “I'm no ouzo-swilling Greek buffoon,” he said. “You won't be made into anything you aren't already, and you're not a buffoon, you're an intelligent businessman and a wonderful baker. That's going to come through. Put your faith in me. I'm not some sad loser who teaches television production at community college. I am television production. I do.” Everyone had stopped working and was rapt as she continued her speech. “And I have the best damn crew in the business. I'm hard on them because I know they're the best.” “Damn straight,” cameraman Mitch said. A smattering of applause broke out and grew. Roxanne Carmichael, the woman with the bottomless dark eyes and spiky, bleachedblond hair, was both their bully and their hero. I want to be like her when I grow up, I thought. “Now back to work, people!” Roxanne barked, with a touch of sweetness. Angelo dusted the sugar off his pants. “Just put me in a clown costume.” Roxanne said, “Now that you mention identity, how do you

feel about changing the name?” “I don't care what the TV show is called,” he said. “No. Of the bakery. We need to talk about that big ol' sign out front, the business name.” “But it's Angelo's bakery,” I said. “He's always going to be Angelo. Nobody said anything about changing the bakery name.” Angelo's mouth twitched as he silently wiped the same spot on the counter, over and over again, which I didn't think was a good sign. Roxanne sidled up next to him, and put her hand on his shoulder. I pretended to make brownies, but quietly, so I could listen. She told him she had a big sponsor at the network, and they made pasta, under the name Angelo's Pasta. They were launching a national campaign, but worried about brand confusion. Angelo turned and walked away slowly. “This funding deal's as good as done,” Roxanne called after him. “They've already signed as a major sponsor, conditional on the change. You won't even pay for it—I have a budget for re-branding. Signs, new advertisements, a dozen of those little sandwich boards to clutter up the sidewalk.” “Everybody out! Pack up,” Angelo said. “Showbiz people. I should have known better.” “What we're offering is an opportunity,” she said. I raised my hand and meekly waved. Angelo shot me a disgusted look on his way to the office. “Keep working, people,” Roxanne told the crew. “Um, Roxanne?” I was still waving my hand. “Can it be

anything, the new bakery name?” “Anything except the name of a sponsor. Nothing lewd, though. And by lewd, I mean puns. God I hate puns.” I could see Angelo through the window of the office. He was facing the computer screen, but I knew he could hear every word we said in the kitchen. “I've got some ideas,” I said. “I took a commercial art class in school, and I did a lot of the design work for our annual.” “Ideas,” Roxanne said. “An idea plus a dollar will get you a delicious pepperoni stick. Doers make ideas happen. Can you make a whole new identity happen?” “I made the doughnut cookie happen.” “So you did. But are you sleepy-eyed alt-rock singer James Blunt?” “Huh?” “Are you a one-hit wonder?” “No, I have lots of ideas. For the business name, and for a logo design.” Drew, who I'd almost forgotten was there, piped up and said, “I can help. Maddie can come to my place and we can design some new signs on my computer.” I restrained myself from breaking my neck nodding enthusiastically to that plan. “Every crisis holds opportunity,” Roxanne said to me and Drew. I'll say, I thought. Drew's place! I nodded periodically, as Roxanne told us a bunch of stuff about Sun Tzu's Art of War, and how nightclubs were always re-branding, and ants could lift twenty times their own body weight, and blah blah blah. Repeat: Drew's place!

“Should I come over after work today?” I asked. He shrugged. “I guess. If you don't have other stuff to do.” “No, yeah. I mean yes. I can, you know, shuffle some things.” Indeed, waxing my armpits could probably wait another day. Roxanne grinned and leaned on the counter, chin on her hands. “I wish I could spare the crew to film you two, working side by side.” She gave me a wink. “Burning the midnight oil.” “Gross,” I said. “This is strictly professional.” Drew joked with a straight face, “That's what Maddie said when she made me take off my shirt to test the temperature of the walk-in cooler. The air was ... very nipply.” I said to Roxanne, “Don't believe a word he's saying. It was only mildly nipply.”

Drew's place wasn't bad for a basement suite shared by single guys. Some patches of carpet weren't sticky at all, and really, the Canadian flag was the most patriotic of all curtain choices. The plastic lawn chairs in the living room nicely matched the ones in the dining area. “Excuse the mess,” he said. “We had a rockin' big party for, uh, New Year's Eve.” “Really.” I put down the bowl of snack mix and spat some half-chewed pretzels into my hand. “Come on, I'll get you some real dinner.” I followed him to the kitchen, where he made chicken salad

sandwiches with chopped-up pickles and grainy Dijon mustard. He cut the sandwiches diagonally and served them on big plates, with carrot sticks, celery, and radishes. “This is unbelievable,” I said after one bite, and I meant it. That sandwich was the nicest meal I'd had since Parker had dumped me, and I'd stopped getting family dinners at his house. “What other secret, hidden talents do you have?” I asked. “I don't wanna brag, but I'm pretty good at laundry,” he said. “Cool. Maybe you can help me sometime. I never know if I should put the purple with the blue, or the red, or start a purple pile on its own, but really where do you draw the line?” “Oh, no, sorting wastes valuable time. No sorting.” “That does explain some of your pale pink shirts.” He finished his sandwich with one enormous bite and started on the radishes. “So tell me something,” he said, around bits of radish. “Anything.” “What happened with your face, you had some sort of acid peel?” My hands went up to make a modesty cloak in front of my face. “No, lasers. It's so horrible now, all red. I'm sorry you have to look at me, I must look demonic.” “Lasers are cool,” he said. “Naw, you don't look that bad.” Relaxing a bit at what I happily took as a compliment, I washed out a glass from beside the sink and poured myself some water. “The computer's in my bedroom,” he said.

There was a silent pause as I drank my water, with only thumping footsteps emanating from the ceiling. I'd already deduced little kids lived upstairs when I heard a thump and a muffled wail. “Just because I bought you dinner doesn't mean I'm going to put out,” Drew said. “Gross.” “Okay then, right this way.” I left the water in the kitchen and followed him into his room, which, compared to the rest of the place, looked like one of those cute little Ikea showcase bedrooms, minus the price tags hanging from the Bzjorkes and Schmnoops. Instead of a closet, an industrial-sized clothing rack on wheels sat in the corner. I was dying to browse through the clothing and look at everything there in the Museum of Drew, but I pulled myself together, and sat on the edge of his neatly-made bed. He sat at his small desk, and turned on the computer monitor. “We should go for that upscale Kerrisdale look,” he said. “Attract the ladies who drive Land Rovers.” Right, we were there for the re-branding. I told myself to stop thinking about how, if things were different, we might be making out on that very bed, with the soft duvet cover I was absent-mindedly stroking with one hand. “The name is the key,” I said. “We get the name first and picking graphics will be easy.” “It can't be Angelo's and Echo's last name. For obvious reasons.” “Right, because nobody can pronounce it, and even when they do, it rhymes with apocalypse.”

“Exactly.” His face was lit by a serious blue glow from the monitor. I got my spiral notebook out of my bag and pulled the pen out of the coil. “The first rule of brainstorming is never say no. Actually, that's a good rule for life. Wait, wasn't that the theme for a Jim Carrey movie?” “I think it is. But it's a good rule.” “Okay, so let's not say no. Neither one of us. No matter what we come up with for ideas.” Drew stared at me, tipping his head to the side, as though trying to figure out abstract art. I sensed the conversation was about to get awkward, so I looked down at the doodles I'd been making on my notebook. “So, bakery names. Let's get to work, people. This bakery isn't going to re-brand itself.” “You sound like Roxzilla.” “I shall take your insult as a compliment.” We threw out names for the next hour. Some of them were really bad, and a few were even puns, but as agreed, we wrote each one down without criticism or judgment. “They'll change it one day anyways,” Drew said. “When Angelo retires and passes the business down to Robin. I don't think they're going to have any more kids, not with the way Echo is.” “I can't believe she had one kid,” I joked. “I bet she wore her little American Apparel tube dresses as maternity wear.” Drew rearranged the plastic action figures decorating his desk. He had three dinosaurs and a Boba Fett. I frowned down at my circular scribbles, wrote Robin's name in capital letters, and circled it. Something came into

focus—it was so obvious, I wondered if I hadn't seen it somewhere before. That's the thing about a good idea. Once you get it, you feel like maybe you knew it once, years ago, but forgot. As soon as I drew that oval, I knew I was onto something. “Have you ever held a robin's egg?” I asked. Drew shook his head. “I'm a city boy. They're blue, right?” “A robin's egg is the most perfect thing you can imagine. I found one in a nest, unhatched, when I lived in Saskatchewan.” I remembered the egg, impossibly light in my palm—so tiny, and blue, and perfect. “We should get back to the name and logo design.” “No, no, this is the idea. Robin's Egg Bakery. And we can use a blue egg for the logo.” “Not bad. I can draw an egg no problem,” he said. “An egg is almost too easy.” “And the blue color. I think Tiffany's uses a shade of it on their gift boxes. Rich ladies will lose their minds over our stuff if we could put it in blue boxes, don't you think? Angelo could increase prices.” Drew was smiling by then, and already drawing an egg onscreen. “They'll load up their Beemers and Land Rovers, for sure! Plus Angelo's going to spontaneously combust. He loves the bakery, but the sun rises and sets on Robin.” I searched around the room for an example of the color. “The blue is pretty similar to your pillowcase. We could combine it with a complementary color, like yellow.” I picked up one of the two pillows on his bed and held it near the computer screen. Something pink was smudged on the pillow—makeup. From whoever slept over in Drew's room, I guessed, though up until that moment, I had always assumed he was single. What kind of girlfriend would let

him be such a big flirt with everyone? He jumped up from the swivel chair. “Beer break.” “I shouldn't.” No you shouldn't, said my internal voice. Drew smiled. “Okay, just one beer,” I said. “No tequila though. Apparently it turns me into some sort of party-monster.” While he was out of the room, I examined my surroundings for clues about his girlfriend, or about his life. The curtains were gray linen, a few sci-fi paperbacks sat on his desk, and the walls held three posters: The skyline of a city I didn't recognize, a tree, and Bruce Lee. I could peek in his dresser drawers, though I'd have to open them, and that was a whole 'nother level of snooping. A low murmur told me he was talking to someone—a roommate, I figured—on the other side of the wall. I coaxed the top drawer next to his bed open slowly. Inside the pinescented drawer, I found socks. White sport socks and black dress socks. I was just easing the drawer shut when two guys burst into the room: Drew and another boy, early twenties, with a full beard, asymmetrical features, and shaggy blond hair. “Maddie, meet Scotty. He looks like this because he's from England and that's how they all are.” “Halloo, eh,” I said, mustering my best Cana-dyun accent. “Chuffed to meetcha. I best be tucking in now, got to get up early,” Scotty said. “Thin walls, I hope you're not planning to do a lot of moaning and groaning. Huh huh huh.” “Excusez moi?” I said. “Do I look like that kind of girl?” “I work with Maddie,” Drew said. He tapped his roommate on the skull. Scotty hung his head. “Aww, I didn't mean nothing,” Scotty

said. “I don't think before I talk. I'm sure you're not that type of girl. At all.” He backed away slowly. “I was never here.” He swooshed his hand across his face. “These aren't the droids you're looking for.” “Real smooth,” Drew said to Scotty, then to me, “Star Wars reference.” “I know. Hey, Scotty, relax. I'm cool. I knew you were only joking.” “Off to my room,” Scotty said sheepishly. “To watch a grown-up film, entitled Gosford Pork. Maybe you want to pop in. See, there are all these butlers, and housekeepers in french maid costumes.” “We get the idea,” Drew said as he shoved Scotty away and shut the door. From behind the closed door, Scotty said, “I made popcorn.” “Goodnight!” Drew called over his shoulder, as he handed me a cold bottle of Heineken. I smiled—coyly, I hoped—and sketched on my notepad with one hand while I took a sip of the beer with the other. I was alone in Drew's room with him, so maybe Scotty wasn't that wrong. Maybe I was that type of girl. Whatever that meant. Pretty soon, my insides and outsides were warm and relaxed. The logo was going to be great. Angelo would be happy and everything was going to be fine. Life was looking pretty great indeed. Drew had completed most of the design work. I leaned over his shoulder and pretended to be interested in the software, but really I was smelling the back of his neck. The tag on the back of his shirt stuck out, so I tucked the tag in, but he didn't react to my touch.

He kept working away on the logo, as though alone. He had the text wrapped around a blue robin's egg, and it looked beautiful—like a real, professional business logo. I wished he were as interested in me as he was in the logo. At midnight, he yawned and stretched. “Good thing we don't work early tomorrow,” I said. The bakery would be closed, as it was every Tuesday, but we'd be going there in the afternoon. The plan was to catch up on some baking and do a few filmed interviews. Drew examined the color printouts. The previous week, Angelo had taken up Jaslene's cousin Hudson's offer to make a free website for the business, so with the site up, we were able to download a photo of the bakery. Drew had superimposed the new signage on our awning, to show what it could look like. “Angelo's going to freak,” Drew said. “For reals. High five, partner!” I slapped his hand. Was that my cue to leave? “Thank you for the hospitality,” I said. “What do I owe you for the mead, good sir?” “On the house, gentle lady.” He drained the remainder of his own beer. “I think I'm too riled up to go to sleep.” “Me too.” The sandwich dinner had been hours ago, and I was a bit light-headed. My face didn't feel hot, so I had to assume my freshly-lasered face had a healthy, attractive glow. Indeed, I felt rather attractive. “What to do, what to do,” he said, tapping his hands on his knee. “Wanna make out?” The first rule of brainstorming was don't say no, so I said, “Yes.” “Yes?” he asked. “Sure,” I said, because yes, I did want to make out with

Drew, and I'd thought he'd never ask, let alone so casually. He swiveled his chair to face me. I slid to the edge of his bed, and leaned forward, daring him to close the distance. “Nice moves,” he said. I licked my lips, lowered my eyelids to where I could just barely see him, and waited.

This is happening, I thought. Then Drew kissed me, his hands resting on my legs, heavy and hot. I leaned forward so my chest was almost against his, both of my knees inside his. I wasn't sure what to do with my hands, but they had a mind of their own, and went right for Drew's muscular chest. I could smell the beer a little, but it was nice. After a few seconds, he leaned back and said, “We're just having some co-worker fun, right? Nothing serious?” “Yeah, just casual.” I shrugged. “I'm kinda seeing someone right now,” I lied. “You're pretty cool.” He kissed me again, and I marveled at how similar it was to kissing Parker, and yet, how different. I wished I'd never kissed anyone before, and this could be my very first kiss. The longer it went on, the more I found myself forgetting every kiss I'd had in the past. All too soon, there was a knock at the door, and I jumped back guiltily. “Hey man, you still up?” asked Scotty, the roommate. “Yup,” Drew said. “I can't sleep,” Scotty said from the other side of the thankfully-closed door. “Hey, who was the girl you had over? She was nice. Do you think she'd go out with an ugly bugger like me?” “I dunno, I'll ask,” Drew said.

I held a hand over my mouth, stifling a giggle, and shook my head, no. Drew whispered, “Tell him yourself, he won't believe me.” After a few seconds of silence, Scotty said, “She's in there right now, isn't she.” “Hey Scotty,” I said. “We're still working on our logo thing, for work.” The door handle jiggled. “Oh, yeah? Why's this door locked?” Drew wheeled his chair away from me, knocking over one of the dinosaur figures on his desk. “We should wrap this up,” he said. “Sure, yeah. It's late.” I smoothed down my clothes and stood, as he opened the door. Scotty was there, in nothing but a Ghostbusters t-shirt and boxer shorts, revealing impossibly skinny legs. “Maddie! What a surprise. Say, would you consider accompanying me on a date some time?” “He's a good guy,” Drew said. “I bet.” I turned back to Drew, trying to figure out what was happening, but his mischievous gold-brown eyes didn't tell me anything. Just like at work, with all his constant jokingaround, I couldn't tell which part was the truth.

Chapter 15 Even as I walked down the street, away from Drew's place, my body bubbled with excitement from kissing him. I used to make out with Parker all the time, but not like that. Drew's kisses were sensual—passionate, but with restraint. Parker was always greedy and grabby, like a wild bear pawing through garbage cans for leftover spaghetti. The night air was cool and dewy, and somebody's flowering hedge gave off a lush aroma. I wanted to enjoy the dark, so I kept walking past the bus shelter, with its lit-up poster advertising something for beautiful women. Perfume, maybe, or the yogurt that makes you poop. I phoned Jaslene. “Guess who I just made face-friends with.” “Hang on,” she said. “I've got my window open, so don't say you're back with Parker or I'm going to plummet to my death.” “Your room's on the main floor.” “I could fall in the koi pond and drown,” she threatened.

“Hold off, because I just got to second base with Drew. The cutie patootie from my work. Second base! Well, second base on my part. I had my hands all over his chestal region.” I didn't mention that at the end, we'd had an extraordinarily awkward goodbye, where I'd gone in for a kiss, and he'd given me a chaste hug with a back-pat. “No ha-way-hay,” she breathed. “Did you take photos?” “Jaslene, we just did French kissing and waist-up groping, we weren't making a sex tape.” “Ha ha,” she said. “Wait, did this happen at work? In front of the innocent pastries? Is that even hygienic?” “No pastries were violated.” I checked around me to make sure nobody was listening. That section of West Broadway was dotted with pubs. Bunches of people clustered outside, smoking and nodding to thrumming music, but they couldn't be less interested in my conversation. I loved my neighborhood. It had some night life, but unlike the socalled entertainment district downtown, the Granville Street area, you could walk around Kitsilano without getting hooted at by bridge-and-tunnel-trolls or having to step around piles of pre-chewed pizza. I recapped the night's events into my cell phone, which relayed the signal to satellites, and back down to Jaslene, whose house was about seven blocks away. Instead of congratulating me for designing a great logo and smooching a hottie, Jaslene said, “You're giving away an awful lot of free honey samples, Bumblebee.” “Free honey? No, just a little spit. And I took as much as I gave.” “What about before? Your big adventure with your bosslady and whatsisname. College boy.” Her tone felt accusatory. First she'd been snarky about the baking show, and now she was ruining my excitement over a new guy.

Plus, she'd never liked Parker. Had Jaslene ever been happy about a good thing in my life? “Oh, Brian? That was nothing,” I said, trying not to let her ruffle my feathers. “Can you let up with the constant judgment?” “I am so not judgmental.” “Ow, stop, you're hurting my eyes ... from rolling them so hard.” Jaslene was quiet for a moment. I thought our connection had been dropped, but she said, “I need my beauty sleep. FYI, you blew it with Mr. Bumpy Chest Drew, so here's what you do tomorrow. Act like nothing happened. If he wants so much as a handshake from you, he has to take you on a date.” “What?” “A proper date, minimum two hours, and working together doesn't count.” I mumbled agreement. My brain replayed earlier events, and touching my fingers to my lips made me smile. I could still feel his presence, just by remembering. The air had cooled considerably, and I should have been cold without a jacket, but I wasn't. Jaslene was still buzzing in my ear, like an angry hornet's nest. “Promise me,” Jaslene said, “No more free samples.” “Uh-huh, I'll try,” I said. I considered that, annoying though she was, Jaslene could be right. Drew had kissed me, but the moments leading up the kissing had not been by-thebook romantic. Shoot. I didn't know the rules for dating—I'd thought I was going to marry Parker, my high school sweetheart. Jaslene and I said goodbye, and I walked the rest of the

way home in a daze. Melanie was snoring softly in her room, and judging by the giant shoes at the front door, Snackboy was there too. His dog, Fancy, emerged from the bedroom slowly, looking all of his twelve years. I sat at the computer desk, and Fancy curled up near my feet, while I checked on all things online. On Facebook, the unexpected sight of a little red heart icon gave me a chill. Next to the heart was an announcement that Parker, my ex-boyfriend, was in a relationship. What? I clicked through, but he wasn't linked to anyone.

He's changed his mind about me, I thought for a splitsecond. My pulse raced as I clicked to check my notifications. Nope, nothing. No love for me. At my feet, Fancy farted in his sleep. Perfect. Parker had moved on. Well, I had too, sort of ... if you counted my co-worker locking lips with me, and ignored the strange part about him trying to send me on a date with his roommate. I scrolled through the usual junk from my friends, finding photos of people planking everywhere: Zoe planking on the counter at the games store where she worked, amidst multi-sided dice; Jaslene, planking at the base of two giant diamond ring sculptures in the West End. Chloe was doing something new, poking her head over the back of a couch while someone else lay in such a way to appear headless. Horsemaning, it read under the photo. A new message popped up. Speak of the devil, as my mother would say. The message was from Brian, as in Brian from my girls' night out adventure. My hero. In the message, he said he was glad I had such a unique name, and he asked for approval to be my friend. “A girl can't have too many friends,” I said out loud. Fancy twitched in his sleep.

Sure, Brian, let's be friends, I thought, as I approved him. I should have gone to bed then, but instead, I stayed up for an hour, looking at photos of my new friend, Brian. Even though I'd just had a make-out session with Drew mere hours earlier, I was already shopping for a backup plan. Of course, I didn't admit that. Brian was just a friend, I told myself, although he was rather appealing in one of his profile photos, holding a kitten on either side of his head in a kitten sandwich.

Despite my lack of beauty sleep, my skin looked better the next morning. The redness from the laser treatment was almost all gone. On the way to work, I kept looking at myself in every reflective surface. I'd always liked the idea of fuller lips, and I wondered if I should get mine plumped up with one of the new fillers. Not a trout-pout, but a tasteful boost, so the top and bottom matched. My bank balance was low, thanks to my last visit, but Dr. Faketan, the dermatologist, had said they offered financing. I knew I should have been happy with my functioning limbs and my health, but I couldn't help thinking my life would be easier—better—if I made myself more attractive. Everybody loves a winner, and beautiful people are winners. A white Beetle pulled up beside the bus I was on. I tried to catch a glimpse of the driver, but the car pulled away, leaving me staring after it, my hand pressed against the window. I shoved my hands in my pockets. I didn't want a white one anyway. Why did money have to stand in the way of so many dreams? The pay from the TV show would only be a small

stipend. Somehow, the executives had made it sound like so much more, when I'd signed the contracts. I put my fingers to my lips and thought about the previous night's kissing with Drew, and that cheered me up. Today I would have to be strong and ignore him. Or something like that. It had made sense when Jaslene said it.

When I walked into the bakery, Roxanne greeted me with light applause and, “Yay! The talent is here. People, look, it's Maddie, our marketing whiz kid.” “Thought I was a one-hit wonder,” I said. Roxanne flipped back her bleached-blond head and roared with laughter. “You didn't take me seriously, did you? I only push because I know what you're capable of. You remind me of a younger version of me.” Angelo looked up from the miniature flan he was arranging peach slices on. “Hah!” he said. Roxanne fixed her powerful glare on Angelo. “What do you mean Hah? You don't think she's a bit like me?” “Sure,” he said. “Except you can throw a bucket of water on Maddie and she doesn't melt.” Roxanne picked up one of the flans and slapped the whole thing, flan-first, against Angelo's chest. Custard dripped down his black shirt. “How much fun are you now?” Roxanne asked, her dark eyes blazing. “Woman! What's gotten into you?” he yelled, though not without some amusement. “Now you have no excuse. Put on your bakery whites.

Pronto.” “Bakery whites?” I asked. Roxanne held up a clothes hanger with a white button-down shirt and white pants. “I assume you're a Small? You haven't been working with cakes long enough to blossom into a Medium.” The uniform looked cheap, sheer, and worst of all, unisex. Roxanne unbuttoned the top and handed it to me. “These are only for the before shots, the early episodes. We want to show more contrast after the re-branding. How did everything go last night at Drew's place?” Her bottomless, coal-black eyes bore deep into my soul. Oh crap. She knew about the kissing. “Save it,” she said, pressing a surprisingly not-cold finger to my lips. “Save your story for the confessional, which is waiting for you in that little sweat-box you people call an office.” Her knowing smile made me feel dirty, and not in the good way. I took the awful white uniform into the bathroom to get changed. The clothes fit, and wouldn't have been so bad, except I was wearing black underwear, which showed through the thin cotton. I pulled out my phone and quickly texted the details to Jaslene: I'm going to be the show slut! She texted back: Producer can't know. Don't say anything!

Show is about baking, not ur love life. Oh wait. Is the show about ur love life? I texted back: Only if they pay Kardashian money! Which

they will not. She sent me a barf face, just as my phone rang with a duck quack, announcing a call from Chloe.

“Hey girl, I've been meaning to call you,” I said, before she even said hello. “What's this headless horseman thing? Did you make that up or is it a thing?” “Um. Maddie?” “Yeah? Can you hear me? I haven't seen you in, like, forever. I need to catch you up on all this crazy TV stuff. Today I got this white uniform and I'm wearing a black bra, since I only own, like, two bras.” “Right, the TV thing. Hashtag old news. I read about that on Facebook.” “Thanks Chloe. You know how to make me feel like I'm the sad re-run of my own life.” She didn't laugh or say anything. She was probably too focused on keeping her face smooth and wrinkle-free. “Okay, what's new with you?” I asked, putting the lid of the toilet down to take a seat. I knew I should get back out to the action in the bakery, but I didn't want to lose Chloe's voice, which reminded me that no matter what happened with us all now that we were out of high school, some things would always stay the same. “Don't be mad,” Chloe said. My skin pricked all over. What happened next came in waves, where she said things that sounded like words but didn't make sense in my reality. I thought about how much I hated the tiny bathroom, with its too-bright light bulbs and ugly linoleum floor. Chloe said more confusing words, about a set of rules, and not dating a friend or a friend's boyfriend. A voice started singing in my head, drowning her out.

Chloe and Parker, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love then comes ... “It's not a problem, is it?” she squeaked.

“You're dating my boyfriend,” I said. “Why would I mind?” No response. I continued, “Would you like to have all my other things, too? You always liked the diamond earrings I got from my grandmother. Sure, why not.” “Parker thought you'd be mad,” she said. “He did, huh?” I took a deep breath. If he thought I was going to be upset, then I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I dialed it down. “Sorry, Chloe, you just took me by surprise,” I said, careful to smile, so my voice wouldn't sound crazy. “Actually, it's not a problem at all. Phew! Just a bit of a surprise is all. So, what else is going on with you? Any other developments I should know about?” I must have done a fine job with the acting, because Chloe bought it. “Other developments? Well! I just got hired as the fashion writer for the Weekly Van-Culture paper. Isn't that amazing? Squee! They saw my work online and I get to do basically the same thing, but for money. And I get free clothes.” She paused, waiting for a reaction. “Squee!” she repeated. “What? You're writing for the paper? Don't you have to go to, like, journalism school or something?” “This! Blogging for the win!” she squealed. “Wow, uh, that's great. Great stuff, Chloe, congratulations.” She said something else, in too high a pitch for me to understand. “You're smelly?” I repeated. “I'm smiling,” she said. “With my mouth. A big wrinkly, smushy, smile. I'm going to get laugh lines, I'm so happy.”

“You get those from laughing,” I said. “I know. It feels so good! Ha ha ha!” “Well, I should let you go,” I said. “You have lots of blogging and laughing to do. Maybe even some frowning.” “Parker says to say hi.” My voice strangled in my throat before I could say anything else. I ended the call and stood too fast, causing little stars to flash around my head. I'm going to faint, I thought, but it was a false alarm. Fainting would have been too good for me—merciful. Instead of being unconscious, I had to step out the door and be charming, a marketing whiz kid. In three, two, one. I opened the door to find Drew, standing with his back to me. His broad shoulders were delicious in the new uniform, but of course, he would have looked good in anything, even an elf costume. There's the spirit, I told myself. Even in an elf costume, Drew was a zillion times better than Parker, so I just had to focus on him—while also ignoring him, as per Jaslene's advice. “Terrific new uniform,” I said, to nobody in particular. “I like how soft it is, like it's been pre-broken-in.” “No need to be sarcastic,” Roxanne said. “I'm sure the service bleaches them between contracts.” “Mine has pit-stains,” Angelo said. “And I found a curly hair in the pants.” “Hey, Drew,” I said. “You look like an orderly in a mental asylum. Quick, what am I?” I crossed my arms, tucked my hands into the waistband of my pants, and made my best crazy-face.

Drew picked up the mini-flans and took them out front, without even a glance back. Roxanne came over to me, and whispered, “Don't chase. Make him come to you.” I growled at her, “I don't see a ring on your finger.” “You got me,” she said. “I'm married to my career. If my opinion is worth anything at all, I thought your impression of a mental patient was endearing, albeit not at all accurate.” She paused, scouring me with her gaze. “The boy's just nervous about the filming. He asked me if I thought he looked fat in those pants.” “Really?” “He invited me to look at his butt. See, that's the problem. Guys like him are peacocks, getting the attention of every woman around by making her feel she's special, that she's the one.” “I'm not the one, am I?” Roxanne raised my chin with one finger. “Every one of us has something special. And every one of us has been made to feel like garbage at some point. When you're young, you wear your hurt like a badge and it's always a competition about who had it worse ... who had to sleep with a loaded gun under the pillow, whose parents had drug dealers on speed dial. And then, one day, you stop competing.” I silently stared at her dark eyes. She saw me. In just those few seconds, she'd seen me more than I'd ever been seen before. “Just be you,” she said, then she turned on her heel and started yelling at Mitch about the lights.

Chapter 16 After my chat with Roxanne, I tried twice over the next hour to talk to Drew, but both times he muttered some excuse and practically ran away from me. I was confused, and then I felt worse. A dark cloud grew inside me, making me want to yell, or cry, or punch something. I decided to put my head down and focus on my work, if only I could find a few square inches amidst all the TV gear where I could breathe, let alone stand and work. I wished Angelo hadn't already made the bread, because, boy, would I have loved to punch down that dough. I could punch down dough all day. Roxanne told the crew how proud she was everything was running so smoothly. Cords crisscrossed the floor, a stack of equipment loomed ominously high along one wall, and the tripods were multiplying and leaving baby tripods everywhere. The counter workspace had been taken over by monitors, we were an hour behind on baking, and I was expected to crank out four dozen of our hit doughnut cookies. This was smoothly? I got to work mixing the batter while a camera tracked my every movement. “Act naturally, this is just for filler,” Roxanne said, while sniffing the dough. “Too bad we don't

have smell-o-vision. Can you imagine? One day. Now, don't look at the camera, focus on me and tell me what you're thinking.” What I was thinking wasn't pretty. Parker and Chloe were probably all over each other at that moment, if they weren't laughing about how stupid I was. She'd have told him what I'd said about wearing black underwear under a white shirt, and he'd sneer and say, “Typical Maddie screw-up.” Oh, no. What about the times I'd made fun of her? Would Parker tell Chloe we called her Poker-Face and made fun of her tired Internet-speak? Was there some sort of boyfriend-girlfriend confidentiality rule protecting me? The thought sent an actual shiver through my body, and I'd never felt so exposed. I looked down at my black bra strap showing through my shirt, and shuddered again. Roxanne snapped her fingers. “Up here, up here. Your face. You look like you're pooping your diaper. What's going on in your head?” “I'm focusing on the dough, to create a top-quality product,” I said cheerfully. “Not so business-like,” Roxanne said. “Keep rolling,” she mouthed to the cameraman. Staring into the dough as if it were a crystal ball, I saw Parker and Chloe watching me on TV when the show aired. “Look at that little double-chin,” he'd say. “Too many carbs. I told her not to take the job at that bakery. You work for a small family business, you get caught up in the drama, and you pack on the pounds, too.” “Oh Parker, you're sooo smart!” Chloe would say as she cuddled up next to him. “I'll always take your advice.” Roxanne got called away to something else, but told me to keep going.

The dough in front of me was hypnotic, and I tranced out for a moment, thinking about, thankfully, nothing at all. Somebody dropped a stack of pans, and the clattering jolted me back to reality. “Shoot, did I pour in one measure of sugar, or two?” I asked Mitch, the cameraman. He shrugged and mimed a zipper across his lips. “Rewind the camera ten seconds and see,” I told him. He shook his head, no. What? I'd thought Mitch was cool, but he was a thoughtless, savage jerk. Typical guy. “You're going to let me ruin a batch of cookies,” I said. “You can't just back it up? Well do you remember, like, with your brain? Can you rewind your brain?” On the half of his face I could see behind the camera, Mitch's mouth turned down at the corner, but he still wouldn't say a peep. I switched off The Mangler, got a clean spoon, and took a small sample of the dough. I didn't think there was enough sugar in it, but I didn't normally eat the dough, just the finished product. Screw it. I'd add another measure of sugar, and it would be stupid Mitch's fault if they were ruined. I gave him my dirtiest look. Ten minutes later, the cookies came out of the oven, looking perfect. Roxanne had me say a few words about their unique design. “Don't talk to the camera, don't even look at it,” Roxanne said. “Look right at me, and imagine I'm your friend. Who's your best pal in the world?” “I don't know. I don't have any friends.” Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Seriously?” “One friend, maybe. Jaslene.” “That's a bit sad, but go on. Pretend you're talking, not to the camera or millions of strangers, but just to her. You're talking to Jaslene.”

I did as she said, and it got easier. Thinking about Jaslene enjoying the cookie, I told the story about creating a cookie that had more edges, and how popular it had been at the bakery. “Perfect,” Roxanne said, then she got Mitch and the camera to move closer to me. “Now say the same thing you just said, again.” “I thought you got it? Why do I have to say everything again?” “We're getting coverage.” So I repeated my little speech again, while Roxanne told me more about this coverage idea. They shoot from three spots: Closeup on the face, mid-shot from the waist up, and a wide shot further away. They can't shoot them all at once, or you'd spot the closeup camera inside the wide shot. “So, it's a bit fake then, isn't it?” I asked. Roxanne gagged visibly. “We don't say that word. It's unscripted. This is how it's done.” “Why not one single shot of something? Why the cutting between all the angles?” “Oh, Maddie. If I produced twenty seconds of a single shot, people would sprain their little thumbs in their rush to change channels, and I'd be teaching TV for Dummies at community college, faster than you can say careerus interruptus. Now do the thing. With the cookies. Like it's the very first time you've said it, only better.” I pictured Jaslene, and talking was almost bearable. My mind strayed to Chloe and Parker just once, and the cookie I held crumbled in my fist. “Stay with us,” Roxanne said. “Don't go to that dark, surly teenager place. Your character is not emo. Nobody likes to

watch emo, not even other emos. Is that the plural? Emos? Or is it emii?” Echo came to watch, with her white baker's shirt tied in a knot above her belly-button, which I noticed was pierced with a silver ring. Roxanne asked me, while I was on camera, “How do you feel about being the marketing whiz kid?” “I like it,” I said. Then I remembered what she'd said earlier —that she wasn't miked, and her questions wouldn't be in the final cut, so I had to include the question in my answer. I put on my goofy stupid grin—the one I used whenever dealing with customers who couldn't make decisions, or people who sniffed their noses instead of blowing. “Gosh, how do I feel about being a marketing whiz kid?” I mused out loud. “Honestly, I haven't given it much thought. My mind's on other things.” I caught Drew's eye, but he looked away, just as fast. I quickly recovered with, “Like, for example, a scone with peanut butter and jam filling, so you can eat it for lunch instead of a sandwich.” Roxanne put her hands together, squealing with excitement, but on mute. She circled her hand for me to continue, and I carried on enthusiastically about combining traditional bakery products in new ways, and helping people. I sounded like I was trying to take over the bakery from Angelo, or get elected Prime Minister. Roxanne yelled, “Cut, and a wrap. Okay people, take a ten minute break, next we do the big re-branding logo reveal.” “Hey Mitch,” I whispered. “I'm really sorry about the 'rewind your brain' comment. I'm having a challenging day.” “S'okay.” He stepped away from the camera. “I'm so hungry right now. I just ate, but the idea of that PB and J scone takes me back to when I was a kid.”

“That's what it's all about,” Roxanne said. “Baking represents love.”

Neither Angelo nor Echo had said a peep about the rebranding, and I couldn't gauge their temperature at all. They talked furtively with each other, but went quiet when I got near. I'd find out soon enough, now that Roxanne was calling for everyone to get in place. The four of us crammed into the tiny office, with Mitch filming from the doorway. Drew said, “Hey man, you look like a cyborg.” Straddling Mitch was the camera mount, a boxy piece of equipment supported by his shoulder and straps buckling around his body like a backpack. “Yeah, Mitch, take me to your leader,” I said. Drew settled in the seat next to me and stared blankly ahead, as though waiting for a bus, and not sitting inches away from the girl he'd made out with less than 24 hours ago. I wished I'd never met him, wish I'd never kissed him, and most of all, I wished his hair didn't smell so good. Seriously, he smelled like green apples and mint. Angelo worked his toothpick across his top and bottom gums. He'd told me the toothpicks helped him quit smoking, because they gave him something else to do with his hands when he was stressed. Echo squirmed in her seat, alternating between tucking her hands between her thighs and under them. “Do you need to run to the bathroom?” I asked Echo.

She shook her head, her hair-sprayed blond helmet barely moving. Between clenched teeth, she said, “He's blocking. The door.” “Are you claustrophobic?” Mitch asked. “Want me to lean back a little?” Angelo said, “She's fine.” He put his hand on Echo's lap, but she ignored it, as she looked back and forth between me and Drew. Angelo said, “I'd like to see the new names.” “Seriously?” I asked. “Coulda fooled me. I thought this was going to be a deal breaker for—” “Save it!” Roxanne called from behind Mitch and his cyborg camera apparatus. “Wait! Wait ten seconds.” She held the black and white clapboard in front of the lens, snapped it, and we were rolling. “I'd like to see the new names,” Angelo repeated. “The ones you and Christopher did up.” “Um, Christopher?” I asked. “That's my real name,” Drew said, without looking at me. “My first name. But there were two other Christophers in my class, and two Christines, so I switched over to my last name.” “You regret the change?” Angelo asked. “Not at all,” Christopher/Drew said. “Maybe change is not so bad.” Angelo glanced once at the camera, then at me. “Sure,” I said. The conversation gave me another deja vu. Had they orchestrated that little bit about the name? How had I not known that Drew was his last name? I was so confused. If they had rehearsed the lines and devised a

plan, they'd left me out. Drew (he would never be a Christopher to me) opened the folder on his lap and flipped up the first page. Echo made a tittering nervous laugh, but Drew was smooth and calm as he explained the concepts. Angelo didn't react, beyond furrowing his brow, deeper and deeper, until we got to the final design—my personal favorite, with the words Robin's Egg Bakery wrapped around a perfect, tiny blue egg. Drew asked if I wanted to add anything, so I said, “Since one day the shop will be hers to run, we thought, why not give it Robin's name, today?” Angelo put his hand to his chin, as he pulled back silently. All the joy whooshed out of the world. He hated it.

Echo should say something, I thought. She always had an opinion, but there in the office, looking at the logo ideas, all she did was rock back and forth in her chair. I looked up to see if Roxanne was making any helpful gestures, but there was only the red light of the camera. That blinking, unambiguous red light. Angelo lurched up from his chair, pointed a finger at the cameraman, and said, “You. Out of this doorway. Now.” Mitch obliged, and Angelo vacated the room, Echo right behind him. I heard the back door to the alley open and slam shut. Roxanne called for Mitch and the sound guy to follow her, and they were out the back door as well, leaving me and Drew alone in the office. “This is where some smartass says 'that went well,'” Drew said. “Not everything is a big joke,” I said. The inside of my mouth was sour, and the desire to punch something returned.

“I knew the robin's egg was too girly,” he said. “You traitor! You said you loved it last night.” “Last night was not today. Things are always different in the light of day. So he doesn't like your name idea, you don't have to be such a little girl about it.” My skin flushed and I started sweat-soaking my white baker's uniform. “I'm not a little girl. And don't yell at me.” “I'm not yelling. When I yell, you'll know.” I looked up and noticed the small camera mounted to the corner of the office. The red light was on, which meant the confessional camera was still recording. “We work in Angelo's bakery,” I said. “If Angelo doesn't like those ideas, I'll just come up with more.” As I was saying the words, I noted how dramatic I sounded. Was the presence of cameras making me emote, like some botoxed loonie on a Real Housewives show? “Ideas are what I do. And I don't need your help.” I got up and walked dramatically out of the room. I kept on marching, straight out the front door. I didn't look back. So dramatic! A block later, I had to turn around and go back for my purse. Slightly less dramatic! Back inside, I found one of the crew, who said they didn't need me for more shots that day, so I could go. I left again, even less dramatically, but without looking at Drew.

Chapter 17 I'd walked halfway home from the bakery when I started to get a blister on my foot, but I didn't want to spend the money on bus fare for such a short distance, so I kept going. Toughen up, I told my foot. Toughen up, I told myself, all the way home. Back at my apartment, I marched past the broken elevator and up the stairs, impressed by how much energy white-hot rage gave me. All I did was think their names—Smug Parker and Stupid Hot-Cold Drew with his nice-smelling shampoo—and I was ready to climb a mountain. Inside, Melanie was pacing while talking on the phone. Snackboy sat on a kitchen chair with ... a puppy? Everything washed away. “Hello, lover!” I grabbed the little furry brown thing and smushed it on my face. Tail-wagging and happy facelicking. Bliss. That's the thing about puppies. You can have the worst day in the world, but it all disappears when you see a puppy. To a puppy, you are the greatest thing, even better than cheese.

“Puppy,” I squealed. “I want to eat your little feet. Nom nom nom. Whatcha gonna do? I got you and I'm gonna eat your feet.” The puppy whizzed on me. “Ack. My shirt. Bad puppy. Oh, but you're so luscious.” I tried to put the puppy down so I could go change, but he wanted to lick my nose and my eye, so I couldn't let him go. “Oh, puppy, why can't I quit you?” I looked down at my ugly, bakery-white unisex shirt, wet with puppy wee-wee. Snackboy, to my surprise, wasn't even laughing at me. “What's wrong?” I asked. “And where's Fancy?” He looked down at his hands, and my insides lurched. Fancy had been getting old, but he'd still had days where strangers thought he was a puppy. “I'm so sorry,” I said. Oblivious to the seriousness of the situation, the puppy stuck an exuberant, wet nose in my ear. “Hey, are you okay?” I asked Snackboy. “You're not in a coma are you? Do you need to check your blood sugar?” He finally answered with a gravelly voice. “I'm fine. I, uh, it's hard to say goodbye.” “Fancy was a good dog.” “Yeah. Fancy Two has some big doggie boots to fill.” “What? You gave this dog the same name? Isn't that a bit ... oh, dammit, I think he just peed again.” Snackboy leaned in and gave me a clumsy embrace with the puppy between us. His head was a little close to my boobs for my liking, but the guy was grieving, so I let it go. “Fancy loved you too,” he said. Behind me, my sister was yabbering to someone about

dates and guest lists and ... dresses? “You guys are getting married?” I asked. He released me from the hug. “Yup. Don't worry, Little Poopstain, your day will come too.” Melanie waved her hand in front of my face to show me the ring, which wasn't the tasteful princess-cut solitaire she'd always fantasized about, but an oval ruby, with a ring of small stones. Something was different about Melanie's face —she wore a red lip gloss that matched the ruby, despite the fact she rarely wore makeup. Snackboy's influence. He was pushing her into being some Bettie Page pinup type, like his Burning Man alterna-friends, who shook their tassels at burlesque festivals and called it art, not stripping. Melanie kept talking loudly into the phone, and I caught a bit of the other person on the line. Voice like a toothache. Tiff. Melanie's best friend since forever, and I believed the one whose goldfish died, which I knew because she'd added me as a friend recently. An unopened bottle of champagne sat on the table. “Congratulations.” I gave them both the thumbs-up and backed out of the room, off to take a shower and change out of my clothes. I needed to talk to somebody. Could a person still live with her sister after the sister gets married? Seems like the extra person would be a useless and unwanted attachment, like those skin tags you get in your armpits. In the shower, I imagined a phone conversation with Jaslene. First, she'd demand to know who the bridesmaids would be, and then, she'd get jealous of my being in a wedding party, hogging attention and having my photo taken. After the shower, I hit the computer, where a fact I couldn't avoid pummeled me in the solar plexus. It was Facebook-

Official. Chloe and Parker were a couple, and uploading revolting photos of themselves together. Oh, but they did belong together, with their matching square-shaped faces and blond hair. He was looking tanned, and she was wearing another of her re-fashioned dresses. And darn her if it wasn't the prettiest one yet. I clicked through to view the rest of their photos. I kept expecting some rush of emotion, some name-worthy feeling, but I got nothing. Awkward, maybe. Is awkward an emotion? I pulled up the most recent picture—the one that made me taste bile—and posted a comment. So perfect together, just like brother and sister! I shouldn't have. But I did. A notification popped up, saying Brian had sent me a message: It was cool to run into you at that bungee

jumping thing. We should get a drink sometime and compare bungee notes. The little puppy, Fancy Two, wandered over and yipped meekly at me. “That's right. I'm the intruder in this scenario. Good boy.” I rolled my eyes, but sarcasm is lost on dogs. I messaged back to Brian that I was pretty busy, generally, but I had some time that night if he was free. He immediately responded that he'd pick me up in half an hour. How quickly things change. Soon I'd be homeless, but at least I had a date.

Melanie was still on the phone when I left to meet Brian in front of the building. He pulled up in a pick-up truck—an honest-to-goodness, hay-hauling, firewood-carrying pick-up truck. He got out to open my door and I noticed he was wearing a polo shirt again, like he had the night we'd met.

The polo shirt said jock, and yet he had the wholesome looks of a boy born and raised on a farm. “This side doesn't lock,” he said. “But it's still kinda tricky to open, all the same.” “Sweet wheels.” I climbed in the passenger side. He crossed back and jumped in behind the wheel. “Now you know my secret.” “I sure do. The truck told me everything. You're a farm boy.” “Plus this.” He pointed to a gray furry thing dangling from the ignition, attached to his key chain. “I'm a bit superstitious. Are Japanese people superstitious?” “I dunno, I'm from Saskatchewan.” He looked confused by my answer, and I remembered bits from the night at the two bars—things I'd thought hilarious to let him believe. “Oh, Japanese people in general,” I said, since it would have been awkward to admit I'd lied. “A little bit, but nothing fun, not like Chinese people and the number four. Is that from a real rabbit?” “Yup.” He passed me a cold can of beer, slick with condensation. I didn't want to be a little girl, so I popped the tab and drank as much as I could—about a third of the can. I'd be legal drinking age in a few months, and if we'd driven for a few hours and crossed the border into Alberta, I'd have been legal there for months. Still, the sun rested, hot and low on the horizon, and I'd be lying if I said the beer didn't taste better because it was illegal. No wonder people do bad things—that beer made me feel defiant, like I was pulling one over on everyone else. Brian drove us west along 4th Ave., then along Northwest Marine Drive, past Jericho, and out to Third Beach. The parking lot was about half full, and dozens of families were

having barbecues. One of the families looked really nice, with smiling kids, a happy mom, and a happy dad. I hated them. “Sorry I don't have a beach blanket,” Brian said. I told him I didn't mind a bit of sand. He grabbed an orange cooler and we stepped out on the beach. My strappy sandals were useless at keeping the sand out, so I took them off and walked barefoot. The surface of the sand was hot from the sun, but just underneath, it felt cool and compact. We passed a woman in a wedding dress, posing with her bridesmaids, who wore coppery brown dresses. I wondered if brown was a normal color for weddings, or if this bride—a skinny fake-redhead with a dove tattoo on her shoulder blade—was a trendsetter. The gentlemen were around the next corner, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. Was this real or was I having a psychic vision of the future—of Melanie and Snackboy's wedding? If I squinted, these people could be them, especially the young men, with their floppy hair, ear piercings, and ironic sunglasses. “So, my big sister's getting married,” I said to Brian. “It might be fun to be a bridesmaid, help pick out flowers and stuff. And of course I get to do the cake, since I work at a bakery.” No response. “I don't know if they've even set a date,” I said. “It only happened today. They had champagne. Maybe we should have stayed there, back at my place. Isn't that what people do?” “What people?” “Oh, um, whatever. Weddings are stupid, it's all a lie and

then you get divorced,” I said. One of the guys in the wedding party waved at me. I waved back with my beer-free hand and a bunch of them hollered for me to come over and pose with them. Brian put his arm around my shoulder protectively, which put an end to that interaction. My hero, I thought, and I got a rush of appreciation as I remembered how he'd scooped me up during the riot. Further down the beach, we were alone, and Brian said, “Knock knock.” “Who's there?” “Haywood.” “Haywood who,” I said before I tipped back the rest of my beer. “Hay wood ya blow me?” For a moment, I didn't believe he'd said that. I must have misunderstood, or maybe it was funny and I just hadn't expected it. I forced out a little laugh and slapped Brian gently on the arm. “You're so bad.” “But being bad feels good,” he said. Something about the way he said it made me suspicious, like when a person says trust me. Brian pulled two more beers from the cooler and handed me one, as we settled down on the sand with our backs to a log. The soft waves of the ocean were hypnotic, like a wood fire, and as I stared out across the sea to the distant, shiny, downtown buildings, I was as cool as the air and equally unburdened. So what if Drew didn't see my value. There were other fish in the sea, apparently, and I had a lot going on, with the TV show, and making new friends, like Brian.

“I love how the beach air smells fresh but also a bit manky,” I said. “Like cedar and rotting fish, but not too much. But I'm weird that way. Back home in Saskatchewan, I loved the smell of the horse barns.” “Horse barns are the worst,” Brian said. The breeze played with my hair. “I'm going to come out to this beach more often,” I said. “I only live a couple blocks away and I come here all the time, and just meditate. Do you do that? Meditate? Sometimes when I'm around other people, I can't think.” “Yes! Like at work, well, we're shooting this TV show now, and the producer, Roxanne, is ka-razy. We call her Roxzilla. That's funny, right?” “I think I could be a good Buddhist,” Brian said. “You know? Like the Dalai Llama, but not that Kabbalah stuff though, that's lamesauce for posers.” “Right.” I picked through the sand beside me, pulling out interestingly-shaped rocks and shells, while Brian told me all about Eastern religions. An old man with knobby knees and a pot-bellied dog walked by and gave us the evil eye, probably for our open beer, but possibly just for being young and having fun. “Call the cops,” Brian said to him, in a not-very-Buddhist way. “Here, you can use my phone.” Once he'd gotten a dozen feet past us, the old guy turned back and said, “Please remember to clean up your litter. We all have to share this beach.” “What a dick,” Brian said to me. “Does he think he's my dad? Does he want me to pick a willow from the bush here so he can give me a whooping?”

“I dunno. It's sweet that he cares about the beach.” Brian got up, walked back to the wall of rock that backed that section, and unbuckled his jeans. “Hey look, I'm littering.” I whistled to myself to cover the sound of him whizzing. The sun disappeared into the sea, the temperature dropped, and I didn't want to be there anymore. Brian plonked back down next to me. “You cold, baby? I got a jacket in the truck.” He draped his arm across my shoulders. His cologne was strong. I grabbed my sandals from next to me and got up. “I told my sister I'd be right back. I just needed to get out of the house, but, you know, I have to get up early for work tomorrow.” He didn't move. “Come on baby, aren't you going to stay for the sunset?” “The sun's already gone down.” “And now's the best part,” he said. I shivered and crossed my arms. “I'm cool if you want to stay and meditate. I'll just walk up and get a bus.” “Don't be a Debbie Downer,” he said. “I'm not.” “Daddy's gonna take you home before your bed time. Giddyup.” He staggered up and took long strides, getting well ahead of me by the time we reached the parking lot. The sand was all cold now, and the wedding party was gone. The world was neither dark nor light, but twilight, where you can't see anything clearly in the murk. “Are you okay to drive?” I asked. In a mocking tone, he repeated, “Are you okay to drive?”

He opened my door, then slammed it shut before I could get in. He yanked the door open again and bowed. I didn't know what kind of game or joke he was playing, but I figured if I just kept my cool and pretended everything was normal, the awful date would be over soon enough. I got in the truck and fastened my seat belt. We pulled out of the parking lot. Brian didn't say anything until we stopped at a traffic light a few blocks later. “Knock knock,” he said. “Nice,” I said, staring straight ahead. “You really know how to treat a girl.” On the surface I was calm, but underneath, I'd begun to boil with rage and maybe fear. My senses yelled to get away. He revved the engine and squealed the truck's tires when the light turned green. I had my hand over my seat belt button, and when we stopped at the next red light, my heart was pounding like mad and my fingers were numb, but I clicked the button and opened the truck's door so fast, even I was surprised. I jumped out, slammed the door, and started running. My legs were like springs, propelling me forward. I ran into the nearest business, a pub. I was breathing heavily, my eyes adjusting to the light, when an approaching woman startled me. Did that whole awful encounter in the truck really happen? Had I actually jumped out of the truck? My chest ached and all I could hear was my pulse rushing in my ears. The woman said something I didn't understand, then repeated it. “I'll need some ID.” “Can I get a root beer?” My legs had the same shakes I usually got after a filling at the dentist.

“There's a corner store up the block.” She pointed to the door. Still reeling, I pushed the pub's big wooden door open slowly and lingered, looking left and right for Brian's truck. It was big, rusty, and had a brown stripe down the side. I'd have known the ugly old thing anywhere, but it wasn't there now. Behind me in the pub, a live band started up and people cheered, having the time of their lives with friends— all grownups over nineteen with proper ID. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and started walking home. It hit me: I wasn't even wearing shoes, since I'd left my sandals in Brian's truck in my hurry to get away. The sidewalk aggressively pumiced my bare feet. A shimmering pile of broken glass lay near the curb. Walking shoeless was idiotic, so I pulled out my phone and clicked on Parker's name. “Yello,” he said. “It's me. Maddie.” “Yup.” “Do you, um, would you give me a ride?” He sighed heavily. “Can you call someone else? I'm busy.” “Is Chloe there?” “Maddie, what do you want? I mean, seriously, you say all those nasty things to me about how selfish I am, and now you want me to drop everything and chauffeur you around? Why don't you get that guy you're chasing around work to come get you?” “What? Parker, I messed up, okay? I don't know what I'm doing. I really miss you.” “Hang on.” There was a pause that sounded like he was

talking to someone else, with his hand muffling his receiver. “Parker, I'm kinda stranded. I'm on 4th Ave, I think.” “What the hell? Typical Maddie. Seriously, you need to get yourself together. Did you ever think the problem might be you?” I held my fist over my mouth to quell the balloon coming up my throat. “Never mind. Have a nice life.” I could have smashed the phone on the sidewalk, or chucked it in front of a trolley bus, but I clicked the red button and slid it back into my pocket. I was only about ten blocks from my home. One step at a time, I told myself.

Chapter 18 When I got home, the apartment was empty. Melanie had left me a note, saying not to wait up, tucked under a plastic cup of champagne. A toast to happy days, she'd written. I poured the flat champagne down the sink. I spent the rest of the evening deleting. I'd already removed Parker from my speed dial, and next was his photos, but I stayed up until two looking at them. I revisited our adventures, from shopping trips to Seattle, to skiing in Whistler, and even watching double features at cheap movie theaters and sneaking in Tim Horton's doughnuts. Deleted. In between punching my pillow and bawling into it, I decided to give up boys for a while. Cold turkey. My top priority was helping at the bakery and working on the TV show. Those were the only two things I was being paid to do, therefore the only things I cared about. Period.

On the morning of the second day of filming, I filled my

stripper Smurfette mug with fresh coffee, and vowed to get through the day with a smile on my face, no matter what. So I'd had some bad luck with boys, it wasn't like I was dying. I may have felt like a rotting garbage heap on the inside, but I'd be damned if anyone would see. “Can I give you some advice?” Roxanne's Personal Assistant asked me. Candy had barely said a peep to me so far, and with her pale red-blond hair, and taupe and gray clothing, she did blend into the background. I told her sure, why not, and she said, “When you're doing a seated interview, try to lean forward just a bit. Fifteen percent will take off fifteen pounds. It's the same effect you get with a web cam on the top of your computer monitor, how it makes everyone look skinny and fresh.” “Oh no. No. I look fat on the camera?” I asked. “My friend Jaslene—she's an actress—always says the camera adds ten pounds, but I thought she was joking.” Candy made an I'm-sorry smile. “It doesn't add pounds. But, if you cover one of your eyes with a patch and look at, say, your coffee cup, it will look bulkier. Humans, with our two eyes, see in stereo vision, a blend from both eyes. A camera is like one eye. It flattens things out, making them look wider.” “Okay, I get it. That's actually quite scientific. My actress friend makes it sound like voodoo.” “We mostly save the voodoo for the editing room,” Candy said. “Anyways, we're ready to film you talking to Angelo about the logo.” “Already?” I was not looking forward to that, not since he'd stormed out the day before. I took my seat in the office, across from Angelo, and leaned in toward the camera. I might look idiotic, but at least I'd look thin. I started to apologize, but Angelo cut me off with, “You win.”

“Oh. What? Did you change your mind? Because yesterday ... did not go so well.” He cleared his throat and looked at the floor. He'd said I'd won? It sure didn't feel like winning. All I'd ever wanted was for Angelo to like me as much as I admired him, and now he wouldn't even look at me. Echo flounced into the office and sat down next to him. “He was all emotional, okay? Like, Angelo only has two emotions, hungry and angry. But seeing that new name made him have a new feeling, and he didn't know what to do. Isn't that right, babe? You're a guy.” “Sure,” Angelo said to Echo, as though being a guy was a full and complete explanation. “I love the new logo,” Echo said. Echo loved it. That would have to do. We talked some more about design ideas, and I suggested reupholstering the stools up front in an accent color, and painting the walls a matching blue. “Painting,” Angelo said, spitting the word out. “A hot, lipstick-red,” Echo said, oblivious to his growing irritation. The camera was recording all of this, and I got the idea our little scene had been set up ahead of time, including Echo's timely entrance. Everything felt fake. Echo didn't love the new logo so much as she loved talking about it while Angelo silently glowered. I wished I'd never suggested working on a logo, then I wouldn't have kissed Drew, or been rejected by him. I wished I'd never walked through the door of the bakery. Echo kept on babbling excitedly. We talked for another minute about color schemes and the sign out front, until Roxanne yelled “Cut.” Then, to my horror, she had us film

the whole thing, all over again, from another angle. The second time around, Angelo said the word painting with so much contempt, I wanted to hide, cowering, under my chair. After we wrapped the scene, I was refilling my coffee when Roxanne snuck up on me. She wore soft-soled shoes that day, all the better for making us forget she was there. “Cold tea bags,” she said. “Under the eyes for five minutes. You'll be your gorgeous self, and camera-ready in no time.” Candy was at Roxanne's side. “She really is a lovely girl,” Candy said, indicating me. “Quite the find,” said Roxanne.

Angelo doesn't feel that way, I thought. But instead, I pasted a smile on my face. I was going to fake it until I felt it. Happy, happy, happy. I was young, with a great opportunity in TV ahead of me. And Candy and Roxanne were flattering me, even if it was a ruse to get me to drop my guard around them. “I kinda want to hug you two,” I said. “Okay, make it fast, then get to those tea bags,” Roxanne said. I hugged them both. Even if it was completely fake, it still felt good.

With the tea bags on my eyes, I sat on a plastic bucket and listened to the hullabaloo around me. I had been the one to make it all happen. For better or worse, I was the one who impressed a casting director and got things started. I wondered if there were another version of me, another Maddie, who'd had a slightly better resume, and got one of the other jobs she applied for. She would be in an office,

downtown, wearing a trendy little business suit and working her way up the corporate ladder. Of course, that Maddie didn't get to bake, or be on a reality TV show. “It's not reality TV, people, it's a serial documentary!” Roxanne yelled at someone. A shiver ran up my spine. She was reading minds now? Through some new kind of microphone? I let the tea bags fall off my eyes. Something had changed. Angelo was acting almost agreeable, for the first time since the crew had arrived. “Sure, Rox,” he said. “Tell me where to stand and what to say.” She told him they needed Robin that day, to get her reaction to the new name, and to help pick the new paint color. Angelo's mood shifted back to obstinate. “Seems exploitative,” he said. “It's a wonderful opportunity for her,” Roxanne said. “We'll treat her like a princess. Trust me, she'll love it.”

Echo returned half an hour later, with little Robin in tow. Candy, who was also our hair and makeup person, tried to brush Robin's hair, but the little girl wouldn't sit still. “Don't you want to be pretty like Mommy?” Echo asked her daughter. “No!” Echo held a dress up against Robin. “It's new, and purple. You love purple. Look at the pretty ruffles. Hey, look at me

when I talk to you.” Robin shoved the dress away and said she didn't like purple anymore. “Oh, grow up,” Echo said. Robin lashed out with one hand, punching her mom in the chest and knocking the dress to the ground. Angelo came running back from the front of the store. “Time out,” he said. “Both of you.” Echo started to argue with him, but he grabbed her by the elbow, led her into the office, and closed the door. Robin, still on the chair in front of me and Candy, busied herself examining the contents of Candy's makeup kit. Candy looked to me with big eyes and raised eyebrows, as though I might know what to do. Roxanne stood quietly near us. “You're not filming this, are you?” I asked her. “Give me a little credit,” she said. “No, the story is about a loving family, using innovation and hard work to get ahead in a tough economy.” Candy laughed into her fist. “Yeah right,” she said. “So it's not about everything falling apart?” I asked. “Because I'm starting to wonder. First the forced rebranding, and now, making Robin have tantrums?” “The awful dress was her mother's idea,” Roxanne said. “It is an awful dress, isn't it?” Candy echoed. “What would you do?” Roxanne asked me. “You are interested in TV as a career, aren't you?” Robin had tired of the makeup brushes, and was completely focused on us and our conversation. She wore a stained sweatshirt that had seen better days—days full of

hot dogs, snow cones, and mustard. “I really like how Robin dresses when she picks out her own clothes.” I gave Roxanne a wink with my right eye, which was angled away from Robin. “Too bad she's in such a bad mood or I'd take her shopping right now.” “Right,” Roxanne said, catching on. “Yes, we have to film right away. If you were to go to that precious little clothing boutique down the street, you'd have to leave immediately.” I sighed. “I wish I was little again, so I could wear those nice clothes.” Robin jumped out of her chair and sidled up to me. “What store?” Roxanne slipped a wad of twenties into my hand. “Get a receipt.” Echo intercepted us on the way out. “You're taking her shopping for a dress?” “Yeah. We're going to have fun, right Robin?” Echo sneered at me. “Fun! We'll see.”

When we returned from the shopping trip, Robin was smiling like a little angel in her new blue dress. I carried her old clothes in an ornate shopping bag from the boutique. Echo said, “I didn't think you'd survive.” “It wasn't so bad,” I lied. I let go of Robin's hand and she dashed over to her father, who immediately began cooing over her. She was a little con artist, that one, all angelic when her daddy was in hearing range. Were all little girls

like that, or was Robin actually evil? “Any screaming?” Echo asked. “Not much. Just whenever anyone said no.” Echo nodded. “Shopping is not my daughter's best skill. Get her in front of strangers and she pushes all the buttons.” Over in the office, Angelo was being filmed as he showed Robin the new logo, with her name on it. After a few takes, Angelo came out of the office, leaving Robin to continue on her own. “That was quick,” I said. “My daughter's a natural star,” he said, beaming with pride. He floated past us to do some business at the front. Alone with Roxanne and the crew, Robin sat and batted her eyelashes, pretty as a princess, for a direct interview. She was perfect for the camera. You would never guess that minutes earlier, she'd made a grown shopkeeper cry. “Now you know what I have to deal with,” Echo said. “All day, every day.” “She's a sweet kid,” I said, enjoying disagreeing with Echo under the guise of positivity. Echo gave me a blank stare, and I got the picture. She'd been a mean girl back in high school. “Sweet,” she spat out. “Don't you dare judge me.” “I didn't. Echo, I don't.” “You're just a kid yourself. What do you know.” Our conversation was thankfully cut short by Drew, arriving for his shift, and saying hello to all. He stopped to fawn over Robin and her pretty dress. She hugged his leg and chattered away as he gave her his full attention. In what was

not one of my finer moments, I imagined choking Robin, just a tiny bit.

We'd cut a few things from the menu that day, but we were mostly trying to run the bakery like normal, despite the crew and cameras. I remembered my vow to quit thinking about boys, and hunted around for some work, to keep my mind and eyes off Drew. I smiled until my cheeks hurt. From the front, Angelo's hearty laugh rang out as he talked to customers. With them, he acted so easy-going and jovial. Despite camera equipment and cords everywhere, it was business as usual. The world keeps turning, no matter how you feel inside. My insides were twisting, because Angelo probably despised me, and Echo was heading the same way, since I'd insulted her parenting skills. As for Drew, I couldn't guess how he felt, since he wouldn't even look at me. I grabbed the onions for the day's galette, a rustic-style tart with a savory filling, and started prepping. The outer papery layers weren't even off yet, and tears were in my eyes. Those were some powerful onions, and our little trick of refrigerating them ahead of time wasn't taking away their power to assault my eyeballs. Echo and Drew worked together, preparing the pastry we used for our galette. You could call them tarts, but they're worth more with a French name. “Hey guys,” I said, attempting to make things light and fun between us again. “Why do people compare getting to know someone to peeling the layers of an onion?”

Drew kept rolling out dough; apparently, my voice no longer registered in his ears. “Is that a joke?” Echo asked. “No, it's an expression,” I said. “I was thinking, though, people are nothing like onions. Onions are exactly the same, all the way through, with no surprises. They don't act one way, then totally change their minds.” Echo twirled the end of her blond ponytail and gave me a quizzical look. “I don't get it.” “Never mind.” I piled the rings in a pan to caramelize them. “Smoke break, come with,” Echo announced to Drew, and he followed her out the back door like a puppy. Curiosity trumped onions, so I turned off the burner and made my way, over the zigzagging cords, up to the front, where Angelo was telling some regular customers about the show. After they left, I asked, “Since when does Echo smoke?” Angelo pulled the pack of toothpicks from his pocket and put one in his mouth. “On occasion,” he said. He didn't seem that happy about it. “My mom smokes,” I said. “Always did. Every New Year's she says she'll quit. She makes a lot of promises.” I paused and waited for a reaction from him. Somehow, I'd thought sharing my own story about loving someone who smoked would help us connect. He chewed on the toothpick. “Oh, Roxanne told me the name of our show,” I said, trying an alternate topic. “Get this: Bakery Confidential. Better than My Big Fat Greek Bakery, don't you think?” “Bakery Confidential,” he said slowly. He moved from his

spot by the counter, and I thought he might give me a pat on the shoulder, but he squeezed past me to the back. The door jingled, and I helped three or four customers before I realized Mitch, the cameraman, was filming me. How long had he been there? Roxanne was right, they did become invisible. I would have made an excellent camera operator.

Chapter 19 By the end of my shift, my forced smile was working. I buzzed with energy and curiosity over what the crew would be shooting next. I certainly didn't want to go home and be left out. Drew was showing off, throwing dough in the air and stretching it out. We didn't make pizza dough at the bakery, so he must have learned that skill at some other job. He expertly tossed the dough up, catching it at the last moment. I stood watching, in the doorway between the front and back, and wondered what had gone wrong. We'd been friends, having fun at work, and then we'd kissed, and he'd seemed to like the smooching at the time. I touched my hand to my lips, closed my eyes, and remembered. The front door jingled and I practically jumped out of my ugly white bakery uniform. Melanie walked in, holding hands with her new fiancee. “Hey, Mini-Mel, get changed, we're going to dinner,” Snackboy said.

“I've been calling you all day,” my sister said. “Is your phone broken, or are you mad at me?” “I'm not mad at you. Are you broken? We were filming today. All cell phones have to be shut off. You could have called the land line, duh.” “Why'd you run off in such a big snit last night then? I was totally going to ask you to be my bridesmaid, but then you ruined it.” “No, you ruined it,” I said. “You wouldn't get off the phone for a millisecond, dummy.” Snackboy came around behind the counter and picked me up in a bear hug. “Sister! You're gonna be my new sister! I always wanted a cute little sister to hug and HUG!” “I'm not—erk.” A smile crept across my face. Something about getting picked up like that completely disarmed me. “I'm paying for dinner,” he said. “You can have anything you want, even dessert. Sister!”

At dinner, they talked about nothing but food, and the wedding, and how the food had to be good at the wedding. “Hit me with your ideas for the cake,” Snackboy said to me. “Sell me on it.” “Usually we have people go through an album. We have photos of all the styles we offer.” “No, I want something original.” He flagged down a waiter and borrowed a pen and paper, which he handed to me. “Design one for me. The sky's the limit.”

I doodled a few ideas, but nothing was coming to mind. What kind of a cake design is appropriate for the worst mistake of someone's life? A lemon represents a bad car, but what represents a bad relationship? I sketched an armadillo. “We can make this one with red velvet cake, so when you cut him open, he's all bleah. Gory.” “Sick!” he said. “Can you make it flatter, and with tire tracks?” “I could do that.” “Nuh-uh,” Melanie said. “Oh, no. No novelty cakes. No giant tooth, no movie theater where we went on our first date, but definitely, certainly, no road kill.” Snackboy got up with his man-purse. “I have to pee like a Shetland pony.” “Nice,” I said. “Also gotta shoot up my insulin,” he said. “When my whiskey sour comes, order me another one.” “I can't take it,” Melanie said as soon as we were alone. “You could at least pretend to be happy for me.” “Whoo.” I twirled a finger. She flicked me on the arm. “It's different now. He's finally ready to make a commitment.” “Really. So he's screwed all the girls in the city and he's done with his bad boy days? Look on his Facebook profile and count how many of his pictures are with you, and how many he's got his arms around one or two skanks. Not just the burlesque ones, but all those roller derby girls.” “You do know most of those girls are more into each other, right?”

“No doubt. He probably turned them off men.” Our drinks arrived, and we sat in annoyed silence, me sipping my iced tea, and Melanie crunching the salt from the rim of her Caesar. Snackboy returned from the bathroom. “So, besides the TV thing, what else is new with the brat? You got someone to bring to the wedding as your date, or are we going to save a hundred bucks?” “I'm giving up on boys,” I said. “I might research some courses to take in January.” “Good!” Melanie said. “Who made you give up on boys? Parker?” Snackboy noisily drained his first drink. “Not just Parker,” I said. “I've been on, like, two dates, and they did not go well.” The waiter appeared with our food, and Snackboy tore into his steak, grinding away like a garbage disposal. I looked down at the plate of stuff in front of me and wondered if I'd ever be hungry again. “How not-well, exactly?” Melanie asked. I started talking, my eyes never leaving my fried onions. I left out the tongue-to-tongue session with Drew, but included my crush on him and his confusing on-again, off-again behavior at work. And then, since it was all ready to come gushing out of me, I told them about the beach date with Brian, starting with him picking me up in his truck, and then everything up to the minute I jumped out, including how he made me feel unsafe. Snackboy nearly choked on his mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Not cool.”

Melanie gave him a searing look. “All you say is 'not cool'?” “But it's not cool,” he said. My green beans looked like frowns, or smiles. “Well, thinking back, it's kinda funny,” I said. “He's probably one of those creepy dudes who mails around pictures of his wang, like he's really proud of it. The date was pretty awful, but in twenty years or so, when I eventually go on another date again, it could make a good anecdote.” “I want his name,” Melanie said. “I want his address. I'll go to his house and make him sorry.” “I'd feel better if you put down your knife,” Snackboy said. “I'm okay,” I said. “I'm fine, he was just extremely rude, but he didn't touch me. Just forget it.” “I'll poke his eyes out,” Melanie said, wielding a fork. Right then, the waiter came to check on us, and startled when he saw Melanie stabbing the air with her utensils. “Ma'am, shall I get you another Caesar?” Snackboy turned to the waiter and said, “You're not out of your mud pie, I hope. She'll start removing body parts if you are.” “I'll go check,” the waiter said, and scurried off. “Mel, calm down,” I said. “I'm fine, nothing happened. It served me right, going off with some guy I didn't know. I probably did some stuff to give him the wrong impression.” Melanie stared at me, open-mouthed, utensils still in the air. The waiter came by with a Caesar, “On the house.” “Explain,” Melanie said. She put her weapons down and bit into the celery from her drink. “I met him the night I was out dancing with my boss. I think I

might have done some stuff with him. I remember dirtydancing a bit, at this one bar.” Snackboy pushed aside his finished plate. “I'm beginning to understand what happened.” “Shut up,” we both said. Melanie slurped her drink and crunched her celery. “I'm never drinking again,” I said. “More for me,” Snackboy said. “Shut up,” we both said, again. “Nope, I'm on the case,” he said. “This Brian guy has besmirched the honor of my sister-in-law. Tell me where he resides and I will challenge him to a duel. He shall pay for his misdeeds.” “My hero,” Melanie said, with only a small amount of irony. She chugged back her drink and gave him a shy smile. She was so easy. Easy, and he knew just how to play her.

Chapter 20 After three more days of baking, and filming, and ignoring Drew while he ignored me, I was glad to have a day off. I folded up my bed at noon and called Jaslene. We'd talked a few times over the last week, but I felt like I hadn't seen her in months. I hoped something good had happened from one of her auditions, but I was scared to ask, so I threw out a vague question about life in general. “Life's good enough,” Jaslene told me over the phone. “Meet me in one hour at the bicycle rental.” I spent twenty minutes sniffing dirty laundry for something clean to wear. As proud as I was of having minimal possessions and being able to theoretically pack everything and go at a moment's notice, I did not have long between laundry days. I was a few minutes late, and when I got to the rental shop, Jaslene was already standing out front, proudly holding a bicycle with two seats, a long body, and two wheels. “No ha-way-hay,” I said. “Believe it.” She handed me a helmet. “After the unicycle, this is the next logical step.”

I climbed on the back seat, which had handlebars for me to hang on to, but not for steering the bike. After a few giggling fits and one detour through a patch of landscaped flowers, we were pedaling along the sea wall. Everyone loved us, especially seniors. One woman, Nordic walking with ski poles, flagged us down to say, “It's so nice to see young people out being active.” She took our picture with Jaslene's fancy camera phone, and we were off again, past the gelati shops of the West End, under the Burrard bridge, and along the waterfront, across the inlet from Granville Island. At first I was thinking about work and my sister's wedding and how I'd look on TV, but by the time we reached the sparkly disco ball of the Telus Sphere, I was just pedaling and breathing in and out. When we got to Olympic Village, the new condo development area where athletes had stayed during the 2010 games, Jaslene stopped the bike. “Let's rest. I want to talk to you about something,” she said. I pointed to a vacant retail space. “This corner spot would make a great bakery, if Angelo were expanding. Once this area fills up with people, it'll be great.” Jaslene shielded her eyes with one hand and craned her neck. “You could live up there in a penthouse and take the elevator down to work.” “Sure, I'll buy the penthouse with my spare million dollars.” I steered Jaslene over to the benches, and flopped down on a seat facing the sixteen-foot tall sculpture of a sparrow. The bird's giant mate was across the courtyard, keeping an ever-watchful eye over us. “So, I might have a part in a movie,” Jaslene said. “Nothing huge, it's one of those franchise series, a sequel to that movie about the kids who have the big house parties.” “Wow, great!” I said. “The lead, or supporting, or what?”

“I don't wanna talk about it. Bad luck,” she said. “That's what you wanted to discuss? The thing you won't talk about?” A guy who looked like he could be Parker's brother walked by. Jaslene tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned in. “So tell me something. Do you miss Parker? Do you miss the boyfriend benefits?” The sun slipped behind a cloud and my forearms rippled with goosebumps. “Not really,” I said. It was easier than telling her I felt giddy at the prospect of freedom and maybe falling in love again, but also lonely—more lonely than I'd ever been. Some nights I thought I might die of loneliness and not wake up, and the world would keep turning and nobody would notice. “I think I'll get a boyfriend,” Jaslene said. Like it was that simple. I gazed up at the enormous metal bird statue looming over us. It was a sparrow, but sixteen feet tall. If the bird came to life, it could kill us with one snap of its beak. “How's it going with Drew?” she asked. “Like I'd tell you,” I snapped. “One more thing for you to be judgmental about.” She jerked her head back and waved her hands, like a tough girl on Jerry Springer. “Oh, no, you didn't. I use my judgment to tell the difference between a good opportunity and a bad one.” I shrugged and rubbed my clammy palms on my laundrybasket-wrinkled Capri shorts. “Sometimes I feel like I'm a bad puppy and you're going to rub my nose in the carpet when I screw up.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You're the smartest person I know. I give you some tips sometimes, because I have two moms and you don't have any, not really. I'm just passing on what they tell me.” “Well, you could wait until I ask your opinion before you give it.” I looked down at my hands. We'd been having such a nice afternoon, but things had soured so quickly. This was the fight that had been brewing for weeks, and could no longer wait. “You're not perfect, either,” I said. “You were practically sick with jealousy when I got the TV show.” She laughed—a fake-sounding laugh. “I wasn't jealous. You didn't even audition for yours. They needed a bakery, and Angelo's was the best fit on short notice.” “Gee thanks. Nice how you make it sound like I had zero involvement.” “You didn't have to take acting classes,” she said. “And you're not going to have to show your tits to get a three-line part in some straight-to-DVD piece of crap.” “Nudity? Jaslene.” I couldn't believe what she'd just said. “Well, I took the part. So who's judging whom?” “If you want to do it, do it. I'm not stopping you. I just wonder if you've really thought this through. Movies are forever.” Someone tapped on my shoulder. “I thought it was you!” I turned to find Chloe, clapping her hands and jumping. She'd gotten her hair highlighted, so it was even more dazzlingly blond, and looked lovely against her surprisingly understated, simple jersey dress. Zoe stood just behind her, hands jammed in her pockets. Zoe gave me a little nod. “My girls!” Jaslene said, sweet as pecan pie, fresh from the oven.

“Parker's skydiving today,” Chloe said. “We came to get something cold. There should be an ice cream place around here. Or gelati. Why am I not seeing any gelati?” Nobody said anything. Zoe pushed her hands even further into her pockets and gave me a look that said she was keenly aware this was the first time I'd seen Chloe since she started dating my ex, even though nobody else was talking about it. “Parker was wondering what you'd been up to,” Chloe NoLonger-Poker-Face said. She tilted her head and furrowed her brow, which would be a minor gesture for anyone else, but seemed disconcerting on a person whose face I hadn't seen do more than twitch in years. “What I've been up to?” I stupidly repeated, even though I had so many things I wanted to say. No. Wanted to yell. “You guys can still be friends, you know,” Chloe said. “I'm totally cool with that.” “I'm kinda busy right now,” I said. Jaslene used her most sarcastic tone to say, “Haven't you heard? Maddie's a huge reality TV star. She's bigger than all of us.” “It's not reality TV, it's a serial documentary,” I insisted. “I don't watch TV anymore,” Chloe said. “It deteriorates your brain.” “You won't even watch me in my show? Come on.” “Why? I'll just catch the highlights on YouTube,” she said. “There you have it,” Jaslene announced. She flourished one hand in front of Chloe. “It's not just me. Nobody's jealous of you, because nobody cares about your silly baking show.” The bird statues stared down in condemnation. “Chloe, want me to bring anything to your barbecue tonight?”

“What barbecue?” I asked. “Guest list alert,” Chloe said to Jaslene in a hushed tone. “Really,” I said. “Really. You're having a party and you didn't invite me.” “I thought we all might be uncomfortable,” Chloe said. “Uncomfortable? Come on guys, we're not in high school anymore,” I said. The three of them looked at each other, their expressions saying it all: Maddie's the crazy one. We

were right to not invite me. Just look how crazy she's acting right now. I pointed to each of them. “Eff you, and you, and you too, Zoe. You know you could get a spine and weigh in once in a while instead of following Chloe around like a little purse dog.” “Maddie,” Jaslene said. “Can you dial your bitch down, just a bit?” “No! I can't.” I turned and stormed away from the three traitors. “Hey!” Jaslene yelled after me. “How am I supposed to get the bicycle back? It's for two. It's a bicycle built for two.” With my pulse pounding in my ears, I could just barely hear her. I gave her the finger, but didn't turn back to see if she was looking. It was not one of my finer moments. I hoped they'd all get food poisoning at Chloe's party and recreate the dress-shop scene from Bridesmaids.

When I got to the Skytrain station at the foot of Cambie Street, my numb legs took me to the ticket dispenser. Sure, I'd take a ride to clear my head. The train kicked butt on the bus, because going nowhere fast is better than going anywhere slow. I descended the escalator, past cold tiled surfaces, and boarded the train headed out. Away. I grew lighter as the train engaged and whooshed out of the station. The train howled like a ghost there, with its noise echoing in the tunnel. All around me, people were reading and texting on their phones. Not so long ago, people yakking away on their phones had been unavoidable, with their half-sided conversations, seducing your brain into paying attention to their inane post-party gossip and pharmacy-related errands. Thanks to texting, the world had gone quiet and polite again, as it should be. Eventually, four stations later, the train slowed as it rose from the underground segment, and the metallic sound turned down from a nine to a two as our Skytrain emerged from the tunnel and into the clear, blue sky it was named for. I heard the distinctive crackle of gum being popped out of its tight foil and plastic packaging, and then being offered to a seat mate. I wished someone would offer gum to me. My mouth watered at the thought, and my heart ached with loneliness. It's all right, I told myself. You don't need

anyone. We crossed SW Marine Drive, over traffic that seemed so ordered and civilized from up high, like a miniature model set. This must be how birds feel, I thought. Birds were above everything. I imagined Jaslene, far behind me now, riding the twoseater bicycle by herself. I got a guilty twinge of satisfaction. Served her right for not telling me about the party. Not that I wanted to go. Someone in the seat behind me tapped me on the

shoulder. “Excuse me, you dropped this.” A silver-haired man with thick glasses handed me a folded-up, twentydollar bill. “It's not mine, must be somebody else's.” We both looked around, but we were the only ones in the area. “You keep it,” he said. “I just collected my first pension check today. I have more than enough.” I thanked him, and stuffed it into my pocket, then I felt shy about making eye contact with him again. I have more than enough, he'd said. That was a good attitude, I decided. For the moment, I had a roof over my head, food to eat, and a job. I also had more than enough. So why did I feel so empty? The train pulled into the last station, in Richmond, and we all left the car. “Hey,” I said to the man. “Happy belated birthday.” His cheeks crinkled. “Thanks.” I turned away, and a trio of girls about my age waved me over to where they stood on the station platform. Two of them held signs saying Free Hugs. “Would you like a hug?” one of them asked. “Aren't you afraid of some creepy dude grabbing you?” I responded. The girl pointed to a husky guy standing behind her. “Richard's got my back,” she said. She held her arms out, and, since I couldn't leave her hanging, I stepped in and gave her the hug. I swear the sun came out from behind a cloud at that very moment, bathing us in the most wonderful gold light. “Thank you,” I said to the girl—the stranger hugging me. “Thank you.”

When I got back to the apartment, I was the stranger—a stranger breaking in with a key. This is where Maddie lives, I narrated inside my head. It's not a bad little

apartment, but could use more color, like an accent wall, or at least some Etsy art, to cover up some of the dreary, apartment-beige walls. The refrigerator clicked on with a dissatisfied hum. Once, I heard on a radio show that appliances vibrate in different musical chords, and the wrong chords can make a person depressed. Humans are so sensitive, and easily thrown off. It's amazing we ever accomplish anything at all. I turned on the kettle, then grabbed the fridge along the sides, and jiggled it until the hum changed just slightly. That's better, I thought. Armed with a big mug of chamomile tea, I went to the computer and composed an email to Brian. He needed to be told that he was way out of line. I hit send and started to tidy up the living room, for all of ten seconds, then I ran back to the computer and checked for a response. Nothing. But I didn't want a response, did I? I started to remove him as a friend, and then, I got an even better idea: I'd delete my account entirely. All I did was waste time on there; half the people weren't really my friends, and it wasn't like Farmville would wither away without me clicking on it. Well, my farm would, but it wasn't real. It was just little specks of colored light. I was out of high school, and I didn't have any interest in visiting the virtual version anymore.

Goodbye poking, goodbye endless stream of hockey score updates, and photos of red-faced girls at parties, making duckface. I tried to delete myself, but Facebook responded with a sappy plea for me to reconsider, complete with photos of my friends, and a caption saying they would miss me. Fine, Facebook, you win for now, I thought. I'd just deactivate instead. At least to the outside world, I'd be gone. My real friends, if I had any, could call me or visit me in person. I wasn't going to pour my heart out into a little box anymore. I turned off the monitor. Outside, in the real world, I noticed a pile of papers on the coffee table—torn-up photos of Melanie, and shreds of her new fiancee. At first, I figured Melanie must have been planning some sort of scrapbook project in preparation for the wedding. I sifted through the tattered pictures, and found one of Snackboy kissing some girl who was not my sister. I looked closer and saw the blue stars on his forearm—his very recent tattoo—and got a wave of nausea, as though I'd just witnessed the breaking of something expensive and oneof-a-kind. I tried phoning Melanie, but there was no answer. Of course, she'd be scraping the barnacles off someone's teeth, so she would have her cell off. I turned back to the computer and clicked the bookmark for Facebook. Slapon-head moment. Did I really think she would update her relationship status before she told me? And did I really forget I'd deactivated my account not five minutes earlier? And what was I going to do, post a sympathetic frowny face on her wall? I sipped my tea as I turned on the TV. I watched it for ten minutes before determining that, because she had not won

an Oscar, or birthed sextuplets, they were not covering my sister's heart-wrenching breakup on Entertainment Tonight. I changed channels and watched twenty minutes of a reality TV show, a serial documentary, about people who work in a tattoo shop. I could see the fakery now: The slight shifts in people's postures when they cut between shots from different takes. I shut it off. Melanie wouldn't be home for hours, but I couldn't sit around the apartment waiting. A real friend does something.

When I walked into the dental office, Lainey, the receptionist, looked up from her desk with a smile that turned from professionally polite to genuinely happy. “Great timing, we just had a cancellation,” she said. “Oh, no, I don't need a cleaning. Can I talk to Melanie for a minute, when she gets a break?” “You can, when she's giving you a long-overdue cleaning. It's been eight months for you, my dear. Don't tell me you haven't been flossing.” “Err.” “We just got some of those magazines you girls like. Have a seat and you'll be in with our girl Melanie in a jiffy.” She snapped her fingers. “Sit.” I obeyed. Lainey would have made a great lion tamer. The magazines were full of articles about accepting yourself how you are, and also dieting and exercising to get a perfect beach body.

A woman appeared at the waiting room's doorway. She wore pale blue scrubs, and a surgical mask over her mouth. She had sad eyes, the same as mine. My sister's pain struck me as if it were my own, mirrored back. I followed her through the labyrinth of halls, to the treatment room with a window overlooking the garden. “I found the ripped-up photos,” I said as I climbed into the chair. She draped the bib across my chest and told me to open wide. My mouth opened and the mirror tool jumped in, along with the other torture devices. “I suppose you came down here to gloat,” she said. “Gyoooo,” I said, the closest I could get to no with hands in my mouth. “He could have been more careful,” she said. “Those photos were online, where my friends could see them. Everyone saw them.” She finished the initial inspection and freed my mouth. “Mel, I came to ... I don't know, tell you I was sorry. Maybe we can get an ice cream cake later, and eat it with plastic forks, like we did in the hotel at West Edmonton Mall? Hey, can you take off the mask? I can't see your mouth and your eyes are screaming murder.” She pulled the mask down to her chin and deadpanned, “I can't kill you here. Too many witnesses.” “Don't be mad at me, I wasn't at those parties, throwing bimbos onto Snackboy's lap. Did he have sex with those girls?” Melanie pulled the mask up again, and got back to scraping my teeth. After what seemed like hours of thoroughly lacerating my gums, she gave me a rinse and

held the polishing tool over my lips. I shivered as the little tool whined and bullied each tooth. I sighed with relief, thinking she was done the one side, but she returned again, to the first tooth, for another round. On the other side of the wall, there was some sort of drilling happening, and I thought I smelled burning tooth. I remembered the awful hot dog smell from my laser treatment and shivered again. Melanie was focused and quiet. There was no bump on her finger under the white latex gloves; she wasn't wearing the engagement ring. She must have noticed me looking at her finger, because she rotated the hand away. She paused in her polishing and stared up at the ceiling with glistening eyes for a second, before returning to glaring at my mouth and polishing the same tooth into oblivion. Finally, blessedly, she gave me the last rinse, and I wrapped my lips around the suction thing, spitting out grit while the tube tried to give me a tongue hickey. I made a face and pretended the suction thing had gotten my tongue and wouldn't let go. Anything to put a smile on her face and brighten up those sad eyes. Melanie sighed and yanked the suction tool out of my mouth. “Enough, freakshow.” “You talk like that to all your patients? No tip for you.” She unrolled a length of dental floss and held it taut between her fingers. “Now for the bloodletting.” “Shows what you know. I've been flossing. Every day.” She cocked her head at me. I still couldn't read her mouth, because of the mask, but I got the impression, from the crinkles at the edges of her eyes, she was smiling.

I reached up and grabbed one of her gloved hands. “Thank you. Not just for the free dental care, but for everything. I know how bad you must be feeling right now. It's like a dump truck is parked on your heart, right? But it'll get easier.” She squeezed my hand and closed her eyes. “If you make me cry at work, God help me, I will get the pliers and pull out one of your molars.” “I love you,” I said, and I meant it. I wasn't saying it to make her cry; despite how lonely I felt sometimes, I wasn't alone. I had Melanie. I'd always had her. She pushed back on her wheeled chair, behind the headrest, where I couldn't see her. “You're definitely not getting the nice strawberry fluoride,” she said. I heard a sniff, and the sound of a tissue being plucked from a box. Neither of us said anything. On the other side of the wall, Dr. Shoemacher, Melanie's boss, shouted for “suction, quickly!” The woman assisting him apologized, and I heard liquid splashing to the ground. “All over my new pants,” he said, sounding annoyed. “Now I have to go around all day with this patient's saliva all over my pants. Cindy, when I say suction, quickly, I mean now.”

Chapter 21 I found myself alone with Drew in the back of the bakery, and after ensuring no cameras were filming us, I asked him, “Is everything still cool with us?” He filled his cheeks with air and swooshed the bubble from side to side. “Because the last few days have been weird,” I said, looking not at him, but down at the pots and pans in the sink. I turned on the water, which seemed to help the words come flowing as well. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be playing some kind of game, but I don't know the rules, and basically I really value our friendship, and I wish things could be like they used to be. I mean, obviously, I kind of like you, and clearly you don't like me like that, but we're still ... cool, right?” He let the air out with a pop sound. “What game? You're funny.” He glanced around. “Did Roxzilla put you up to this?” “No, why? Did she say something to you?” I asked in a whisper, even though Roxanne wasn't around that day. She was off arranging some last-minute things for the redecorating project they were planning for the front of the bakery. Some fancy designer was coming in, and the plan

was to run with the blue and white theme. It sounded nice enough, and I hoped I hadn't screwed us over by picking a robin's egg blue. Red stimulates appetite, but blue might kill people's desires. “What was up with you the other night?” Drew asked. “When you were all like this.” He made a pouncing motion. I heard splashing and looked down to find water running on my feet from the overflowing sink. I plunged my arms down into the hot suds and grasped for the rubber plug. “Helps if you turn it off.” Drew leaned over me and twisted off the taps. My mind reeled. He thought I'd pounced on him? I did not understand, and I never would unless I asked. My voice shook as I did. “Drew, do you even like me a little bit?” The back door banged as cameraman Mitch and the crew came back from filming some exterior shots. “Did you see the new sign?” Drew asked me brightly. “It looks even better than I imagined. I'm so proud of us, especially you, kiddo.” He scooped up a handful of soapy bubbles and put them on top of my head. I frowned at him. He had not answered my question, which meant he didn't like me. Drew took another scoop and blew the bubbles all over me. At the edge of my vision, I noticed Mitch was training the shoulder-mount camera on us. “Get lost, I have dishes to wash,” I said, more bitter than joking. “Ooh, Little Miss Bossy,” Drew said. He scooped another handful of bubbles and stuck them to my face, then leaned back against the counter to admire his work. “If you've got time to lean, you've got time to clean,” I said,

repeating a phrase I'd learned at my previous job at the grocery store. He stuck his lower lip out. “All work and no play makes Drew a dull boy.” “You are a dull boy. The dullest. Leave me alone.” He clutched his hands to his chest. “Burn. You got me.” With his head hanging low, he turned to walk away. I pulled out the sink unit's sprayer attachment, cranked on the cold water tap, and squeezed the spray trigger. Water shot out and arced perfectly, all over him, as he squealed like a little girl. “How much fun are ya now?” I yelled, as I soaked him from top to bottom, with a focus on his sputtering face. Mitch filmed all of this, seemingly with pleasure.

After Drew changed into dry clothes, he spent the rest of the day helping customers at the front and finding things to tidy up there. I ventured up with a tray of baklava for the display cooler, and found Drew leaning forward over the counter with his thumb under his shell necklace, saying to a pretty darkhaired girl in short shorts, “It's candy, do you wanna take a bite?” She giggled and dug around in her knock-off designer handbag for something—maybe her phone number. She wore those freaky contact lenses that make your irises appear impossibly large, and I wondered if anything about her was authentic. Bet that's his type, I thought bitterly.

I felt sick to my bones as I shoved the baklava into the cooler. Drew carried on flirting with the girl; I was the human equivalent of wallpaper. “Let me know if you get hungry again,” he said to the girl. She coyly chewed on the corner of her giant sunglasses. Back in the kitchen, where the lights were unbearably bright, I asked Echo if I could go home early. She pulled me into a corner, away from the cameras and crew, and said, “If anyone asks, I'm meeting you tonight to give you career advice.” “I don't know, I've got some other plans,” I lied. “No, silly. Not for real. Probably nobody will ask anyways, but just in case.” Echo pouted out her lips. “Please? I know. You can decorate the Finnegan cake, all on your own. With the lacework and all the tiny little pink flowers, while I do the boring Nanaimo bars for you.” “Hmm, lacework,” I said, forgetting all about my desire to go home early. Echo handed me a page torn out of a bridal magazine. It was a glorious cake, designed by some fancy New York bakery, and fit for a princess. I agreed, and so I spent the next three hours blissfully piping on tiny, perfect flowers, while the film crew and everyone else went about their business around me. My hand ached and my back yelled for a break, but I pressed on, one wonderful flower after another. Amidst all the chaos of the bakery, I was a lotus blossom, floating on a pond. As I was putting on the final petals, Angelo stopped by. “Madeleine.” I jumped and yanked my hands back, smushing the piping bag against my chest. “What?”

“Guilty conscience?” Angelo asked. I giggled nervously. “Good job,” he said. And he patted me on the shoulder. It was the first time he'd used a positive adjective in relation to my work, and the pressure of his esteem nearly made me crack and tell him about Echo's fib. As I was searching for a cloth to wipe the pink icing off my shirt, Drew came over, looked at the cake, then at the icing on my chest, and said, grinning, “Nice look. Does it also come in chocolate?” “Nice pants,” I said, looking over his tight-fitting bakery white uniform. “Do they also come in grown-up sizes?” “Ow. Cold,” he said.

The next day, Drew kept well away from me, especially whenever I was near the sink. At noon, Roxanne announced that the front of the bakery was ready for the big reveal. We'd been banned to the back all day, and even though I was dying to sneak a peek at the renovation, I'd resisted. Roxanne had brought in John-Franko, a superstar interior designer from the Baking Network's sister channel, Makeover TV. His appearance would be a crossover, and our show, Bakery Confidential, would get a plug on John-Franko's show, Glamover Doover. Angelo was wearing down the soles of his shoes with his endless pacing. He reminded me of an expectant father from an old black and white movie. “This nervous energy is good,” Roxanne said. “Keep acting

like that, so we can capture the tension.” “Who's acting?” He scowled at Roxanne, but the corners of his mouth, turning up, betrayed him. He was excited too. Echo returned from her tenth visit to apply more makeup. “You used the waterproof mascara, right?” Roxanne asked. Echo nodded, and Roxanne crossed off something on her clipboard. “You can always try thinking of something sad. A three-legged puppy. That always does it for me. Or maybe a two-legged dog who drags his hindquarters around on a little wagon.” Echo nodded obediently and ran her hands over her torso, which was covered by a pink stretchy dress that clung to her like glaze on a doughnut. Roxanne clapped her hands to get everyone's attention. We lined up, with Angelo in front. The lights and camera were set up and ready to capture our faces when we came through the makeshift curtain from the kitchen side. Roxanne gave us our cue, and we began heading through the curtain, the owners first. “Wow,” I heard Angelo say. “Am I in the right place? Where am I?” “Really? 'Am I in the right place'?” Echo asked. “Real original.” “Cut!” Roxanne yelled from behind us. “C'mon, people, time's a-wasting. Let's go over the game plan.” The three of them huddled for a talk, before rolling sound and cameras again. Drew grabbed the bow of my apron strings and untied it. It was the first time he'd acknowledged my existence that day.

“Nice uniform,” he said. We both wore the brand-new uniforms, designed for the bakery's new branding. To say the new look was a bit better than the white uniforms, with the pit stains and unpleasant stranger hairs, would be an understatement. Minus the red apron, I could have worn the pale blue shirt and cute, tan pants as regular clothes. “I like yours better,” I said, even though he wore the guy's version of the same thing. “It's my body,” he said, puffing out his chest. “By the way, gotta say, your body sure is wearing that apron.” My cheeks flushed with a rush of pleasure at his compliment. Would nothing dampen the unholy crush I had on the guy? He turned around and pulled back the curtain, as Roxanne waved us through. I'd half a mind to bite him on his nice shoulder, but I followed him out into the renovated space instead.

Designer John-Franko must have used black magic to stretch our modest budget so far. The front of the bakery, which had been a charming-enough space, complete with a community bulletin board and vinyl chairs patched with duct tape, now had the glamor worthy of the title boutique. A sleek chandelier sparkled over the new bakery case. The sideboard, where we kept the cream and sugar for coffee, had been professionally spray-coated in our new signature robin's egg blue. Everything, and I mean everything, had been sanded, painted, polished, or re-chromed.

Angelo shouted, “Magnificent! Spectacular!” It must have been what Roxanne was aiming for, because she wasn't cutting. Echo chattered like a horror-movie leprechaun and darted around touching everything. “It's like a dream come true! This is exactly what I've, what we have always wanted.” “The colors are so ... complementary,” Angelo said. “Hey, this display case is new. This is top-of-the-line stuff.” Echo wailed, “I'm so ha-a-a-a-a-a-appy.” Tears streaked down her cheeks, but her makeup didn't budge. She grabbed Drew and threw her arms around his neck. “I'm so happy,” she sobbed into his shoulder. “Congratulations,” I said to Angelo, who was checking out the brand names on the equipment. He was the portrait of a guy who's just found a million dollars on the sidewalk: Happy, but suspicious. Drew was still ensnared in Echo's clutches, and Mitch had the main camera trained on them. I felt embarrassed for Echo, acting that way in front of her husband, so I pointed to the ceiling to distract him. “Gosh, Angelo, amazing, huh?” “What? What am I looking at?” he asked. “It's all painted or something. Are those pot lights new?” Angelo rubbed his chin and contemplated the ceiling while I grabbed Echo's hand and tugged her over to her husband. “New lights?” he asked hesitantly. Echo sniffed and looked up. “No, same old boring ceiling. After all these years.” “People,” Roxanne said from the doorway. “Keep talking,

but could you move over here and say something about the new counter tops. They're from a sponsor, so please mention how high-quality they feel. Try to use the word 'urbane' if you can. You know, if it feels right. And Maddie, get a smile on your face. Remember, you're the one who started this whole thing.”

This whole thing. I adjusted my expression, and perched on a blue stool with a red vinyl seat, in front of a wall of blue and white checker board tile. Was this the bakery where I worked, or had I stepped out of reality and into a postcard from some fashionable European city? Mitch walked the camera over and pointed the lens straight at me. Roxanne asked me to share what I was feeling. “How I'm feeling is ... um.” Drew, sitting on the new urbane counter tops, gave me a quick wink. “I feel like ... um.” Angelo gaped at the coolers and held on to Echo. They looked like they were lost at sea, and Echo was the flotation device. “First of all,” I said, “John-Franko is an effing genius designer. I mean, obviously.” Wait, did I say effing, or did I say fucking? Can you say effing on television? It's not the same, is it? The whole scene geared down to slow-motion, and every detail came into perfect focus. The shining, gleaming surfaces. The brand-name appliances. Now that I was beyond the first impression, the space was less old Europe and more Las Vegas theme-park imitation. The bar stools, with their glossy curlicues, were beyond cute—they were twee, to the point of being tacky. “Second of all,” I said, trying to gather my thoughts. I'd had a

compliment, something positive to say, but it was gone. “Actually, why can't more things stay the same? Angelo's Bakery had character,” I said. Roxanne's eyes narrowed, but she didn't yell cut. I continued, “Angelo's was a part of the neighborhood, an institution. Now it looks, no offense, like a mall franchise.” I pointed to the checkerboard wall and floor. “This is like a cupcake with too much icing.” When I finished my tirade, everyone was completely silent. One of the pot lights fell from the ceiling and smashed to the floor, cracking a brand-new blue tile. “Cut!” Roxanne yelled. “Someone get a broom. We'll do the bit over, from the top. Maddie, we can't do effing, people know what that means. Can you try again, without the fbomb?” “That was okay?” I asked. “Do I come across like I care about the bakery, or do I seem bitchy?” “Bitchy? Don't be ridiculous!” Roxanne dismissed my worries with her expert hand wave. “You're sure? I can say how I really feel?” She turned and yelled at the crew, “Look lively, people. It's going to be a long night.”

Chapter 22 For the next several weeks, I was a baking machine. I baked, I made nice for the camera, and I deposited my pay checks in the bank. Whenever I had lustful thoughts for Drew, I distracted myself by eating another cupcake. I was starting to have some trouble doing up the button on the tan pants of my uniform, but I was really enjoying the cupcakes. In some ways, cupcakes are way better than boys, or friends. You always know where you stand with a cupcake. Jaslene hadn't called to apologize for our fight, and I certainly wasn't about to call her, even though I suspected it had been as much my fault as hers. She'd made fun of my excitement over the TV show, but I'd been less than supportive about her new movie role. Perhaps some of those times I mentioned the show, I should have been more mindful about her own feelings of rejection. Still, how was I to know, if she didn't say anything? Her being passiveaggressive had not been the best tactic, but I could understand how she felt. I'd been rejected too. But cupcakes never reject you. It was only a few dozen or so cupcakes after the reveal of the redecorated bakery, and the Baking Channel was already airing the first episode. It was P-Day, as in,

Premiere Day. The whole day, I hardly thought about Drew's muscular front or yummy shoulder-back area at all, because I had a red velvet cupcake and a chocolate cupcake with lavender icing. I was high on a sugar cloud, and in less than an hour, we'd be watching the national premiere of Bakery Confidential, at the bakery, while being filmed watching it. Our reactions to the episode would be aired in the final episode of our first, short season. It was quite meta. Echo told me she'd invited some other people to the screening, including someone I might find cute, but she wouldn't say who. I didn't know what Echo's taste in guys was like, besides Angelo, who was handsome for an older guy. I was intrigued. It had been a few weeks since I'd sworn off guys, but I hadn't exactly set a time frame, had I? Maybe I was only interested because a new guy could get my mind off Drew, like one of those less-addictive drugs they give to addicts. Cupcakes were only going to hold me off for so long. I cruised the buffet table we had set up in the kitchen and selected some vegetable sticks with dip. Dip is so underrated, I thought. Dip elevates regular old vegetables to the savory equivalent of cupcakes, in a way. To kill time, I straightened the chairs we'd set up around the flat screen TV Angelo had brought in from home. Roxanne was there, though her assistant, Candy, was strangely absent. We had a small crew that day, with just Mitch the cameraman, and the two quiet older men who did sound and something else I didn't quite understand. Of the six episodes we'd shot for our first season, we were now on episode six, the final one. Number five, wrapped the day before, was a big affair with five wedding cakes all due on the same day. I got to decorate the second-most fabulous

one, all by myself. Drew had chased me around and smeared blue icing in my hair. It was wonderful. Moving on from the vegetables, I revisited the buffet and filled my plate with high-tea-sized squares: Carrot cake with cream cheese icing, brownies, blondies, and key lime minitarts. You'd think a person would get sick of eating pastries after working with them all day, but I think it only made me appreciate them more. My face and body had filled out a bit, and I'd gotten compliments. Lainey, the receptionist at my sister's dental clinic had said, “I didn't want to say anything, but you were a bit skinny before.” I'd wondered what made it all right for her to say so then, if it hadn't been acceptable before. If someone gets a nice haircut, is it okay to say they looked like crap before? Angelo and Echo walked up to me, both of them holding doll-house-sized cups of espresso. “Show time,” Angelo said. Echo grabbed Angelo's arm, sloshing out the thick, dark coffee. “Did I take my pill?” she asked him. “I can't remember. My heart is racing. Should I take another one? I need to talk to you.” “Time for decaf,” Angelo said. “I'll make you some chamomile tea,” I offered Echo. She seemed lost, which I attributed to nerves about the premiere. I steered her over to the office, where it was quiet and somewhat tidier, and brought her a cup of herbal tea. “This is the best stuff you can get without a prescription,” I said. “The first time I had it, I sat and stared happily out a window for an hour. Even the smell is soothing, don't you think?” She tucked some highlighted blond hair behind one ear and sighed. “I wish we had some tequila right about now. Like our wild girls' night out. That was some fun.”

I sat down next to her. “Actually, I've been meaning to ask you. Did I do anything embarrassing that night?” I lowered my voice to a whisper, just in case. “How dirty was my dancing, exactly?” “You only flashed me once.” She laughed. “You had on very demure underpants, so nobody saw anything. You were on the stage and lifted up your dress during one song. It was actually pretty funny.” “Funny? I lifted my dress up?” “Yeah. You were can-can dancing. You kept falling on your butt, so we pulled you off the stage.” I had a feeling she was pulling my leg, but it did sound like the type of thing I might do. I did always enjoy a good cancan dance. “You were so cute on the ride home,” Echo said. “How you rested your head on my lap and said how much you loved me and Angelo. You're a bit of a sap when you drink.” “I said I loved you?” Echo draped an arm across my shoulders. “Yeah, sweetie, you did. You said we were like the super-awesome parents you would have picked if you could, and you're so glad to work for us.” As I heard her tell me what I'd said, I wanted to take it all back, to deny it. I felt so ashamed for having revealed those emotions to Echo. It was better to not put yourself out there for rejection. “I'm so sorry I put that all on you,” I said. “I'm just an employee, I know that.” “We love you too.” She squeezed my shoulder. “Even though I'm way too young to be your mommy. I'll be a sister or an aunt. A very young aunt.” “Thanks,” I said, my voice sounding as thick as a milkshake

as I tried to quiet my emotions. She's just being nice, I thought. She doesn't actually love you. Echo only cares about Echo. Still, I wanted to believe her. Angelo appeared at the door. “Can I have a minute?” I jumped up and left them to their privacy. On my way back to the seating, I noticed Drew was watching Angelo and Echo through the office window. When he caught my eye, he quickly turned to talk to another guy.

Ooh, who's that cutie, I thought for a second, before I realized it was just Jaslene's cousin, Hudson. Of course. He was probably there to take photos or get something for the website. He had an expensive-looking camera, and when he saw me looking his way, he waved and snapped my photo. “Great, you got me with my big mouth open,” I said. “You don't have a big mouth,” Hudson said. “Hah!” Drew shouted. “Shows what you know.” I tried to be good-natured about the big mouth remark, but I didn't like Drew making fun of me to another guy. I was used to him alternately flirting with me and ignoring me, but he'd gone too far. “Pretty cool camera,” I said to Hudson in my flirtiest voice. Drew's face clouded over and he puffed up in his chair. That was it; I'd make him jealous for once. “I always wanted to know more about photography,” I said to Hudson as I settled into a chair next to him. “I like those old cameras that make the pictures kinda dark and moody around the edges.” “Oh, the Holga,” he said, lighting up. We talked about cameras, and for a few moments, Hudson's enthusiasm

washed over me, and I believed that I was genuinely flirting with him. His knee touched mine and I didn't pull it away, but I kept sneaking peeks to check if Drew was watching. And Drew was—he kept a close eye on the knee situation. “It's almost eight,” Roxanne announced, stopping Hudson's talk about lenses. “Places, people. Maddie, can you go grab the stars of the show?” Her expression waved, and she corrected. “Not that you're not all stars, but, I mean, grab the owners, please?” Over in the office, Angelo and Echo appeared to be having an intense argument, but at a whisper-yell level, so we couldn't hear them through the thin walls. “No way am I going in there,” I said. Besides, I was comfortable sitting with the guys. Roxanne pushed back her white-blond hair, as though trying to squeeze water from it. “I do not get paid enough. Listen, we couldn't get the DVR to work, so we have to watch the show live, with the muggles at home. Yes, everyone, Roxzilla made a mistake. Feel free to make fun of me amongst yourselves.” Drew and I exchanged a look as if to say she knows about

the nickname? Hudson held up his camera and snapped a photo of her. In the frozen instant of the flash, I got a vision of Roxanne, not as the domineering taskmaster who ordered everyone around, but as a person, who was just trying to do her job despite things going wrong and running behind schedule. “I'll get them, jussec,” I said, and trotted over to the office. I opened the door to hear an awful, unmistakable word —divorce—before Angelo and Echo looked up at me in surprise. “It's starting in a couple minutes. The, uh, premiere?”

“Yes,” Angelo said. “Just give us a minute.” I closed the door, turned around, and almost ran into Drew. “Cooler, it's urgent.” His eyes were bright. I followed him into the walk-in cooler, which was private and soundproof, as far as I knew. I scanned the corners for glowing red lights and cameras, a perimeter check that was becoming automatic. “No cameras in here,” I said. Drew pulled the door shut behind him, which turned off the only light. My body instantly charged with a wave of excitement. We were alone in the cooler. In the dark. My shoulder touched the metal shelf behind me and I half-expected to see a spark. I wanted to ask what Drew was thinking, but I knew from my experience with a boyfriend that guys hated being asked that, so I smiled at him, even though it was black in there. The air was thick with blackness, and cold. Drew cleared his throat and asked, “Why do things get so complicated?” “Is that a rhetorical question, or are you looking for some sort of answer?” There was nothing but black and the sound of our breathing. “Complicated,” I repeated, mulling it over. “Well I'm easy. I mean, I'm simple. No. What?” “I liked you from the minute I met you, but I thought you were dating someone.” “At first I was, but then I wasn't.” “Damn it, why do I always want what I can't have?” “That's definitely a rhetorical question,” I said. In the darkness, he took hold of my hands. He was so

warm, and standing closer to me than I'd imagined. I worried my heart might stop. “So, I should play hard to get, then you'd like me,” I said. As I heard the words, I realized how much easier it was to talk honestly with him in the dark like that. I walked my hands up his forearms and biceps, all the way to his shoulders. He put his hands on my waist. I was shivering, but it stopped, and I swore I could hear my heart beating, even though I knew that was impossible. “Roxanne's going to yank this door open any second,” he said. “So, kiss me quick,” I said. And I waited. I wasn't going to jam my lips all over him, like some love-sick teen, even though I was. If he wanted me, he could come to me. I hoped he would. Why did it have to be so dark in there? Then his lips were touching mine. His eyelashes were brushing my cheek, and I wanted to lean into him, but I couldn't tell how much I was already leaning, and I didn't want to fall. He pulled back too soon. His voice was husky and deep. “Do you have a passport?” “A passport?” I asked. “I don't know what you mean, but it sounds dirty, and ... I like it.” I leaned in for another kiss, but got a mouthful of chin instead. “No, I mean, literally, your passport,” he said with a chuckle. “I'm going to Australia, sooner than later. Things are messed up here. You've been saving up for something, right? You should come with me.” “When? Like in a few months?” “You can't tell anyone,” he said. “Not a soul, and definitely not around here.” He pulled me in even tighter, so our bodies were touching

all down the front. Sparks shot up and down my body. There was a knock on the door. I heard Roxanne's voice, like a bucket of cold water. “Hello? You guys hiding out from the cameras? Come on, we need you for some shots.” The door opened to reveal her face, and the light clicked on above us. Her expression was neutral, but her dark eyes laughed knowingly at us. Drew quickly adjusted his shirt. We weren't wearing our uniforms that day, and he had on a black dress shirt and gray pants. Roxanne hissed, “Seriously, Drew? Maddie?” Then she said, in her regular voice, “Oh, good, you found the bottled water. Come on, the show is starting right now.” Drew grabbed a cardboard flat of sparkling water in green bottles, and exited the cooler in front of me. “Behind the eggs,” he called out. “Always the last place you expect.” We found our seats again, in front of the camera. Everyone seemed calm and composed, whereas my contents were so pressurized, my head threatened to pop right off. He did like me, at least a little bit. “Eyes on the telly, people,” Roxanne said. “And try not to let your faces go all slack-jawed-zombie. This ain't Friday night at home, with one hand in your jammies and the other in a bucket of chicken parts. You're on a million screens now, and you live so that others don't have to get all messy and live for themselves. Smiles!” The opening credits rolled—a montage of the five of us, including tiny little Robin, turning into animated versions of ourselves. The cartoon people ran around, stacking cakes and pies until they formed a big mountain, which we climbed to the top of. The cartoon Maddie was notunattractive, but they'd made me rather small—I was barely bigger than Robin. Cartoon Angelo planted a flag and everyone laughed as tiny devil horns sprouted from my animated head.

“What was that?” I asked. Off-camera, Roxanne waved for me to pay attention to the show. Up on the big screen was a shot of me and Angelo—live action, no longer cartoon—talking about a custom cake order. I remembered this conversation, but not being filmed. It had been really hot in the bakery that day, and I'd suggested a quicker way to make rose petals, using a method I'd found on YouTube the night before. Angelo had pretended he didn't know what YouTube was, and I'd teased him about being old, but in a joking way. The camera zoomed in on Angelo's face while my voice carried on, with me not visible. “You're so old,” I heard my voice saying. “Don't be such a fossil.” The scene cut to a shot of me making an exasperated face, then a shot of a foot—mine, I guess—stamping the floor. I squirmed in my seat. “That's not what happened!” I yelled out. Echo turned from her spot in the row in front of me. “Hah! You're the she-devil. There's one on every show and it's you.” The show on-screen switched to commercial, and Roxanne muted the television to ask us what we thought so far. Meanwhile, Mitch kept on filming, his little red camera light on. “Bakery looks good,” Angelo said. “Even before the renovation.” Echo and Drew agreed the bakery looked good and they were pleased. Everyone was so damn pleased with everything. “My hair looks good on TV,” Echo said. I could hardly contain myself, but I was keenly aware the evil

camera was recording, waiting for me to do something that could be edited into a joke. “Gosh, how do you all put up with me?” I said with a fake smile. “I'm beastly. I think that scene was from the day we made decaf by accident.” Hudson, who I'd almost forgotten was next to me, said, “It was funny. You're the joker, and I'm sure people at home will know you were just teasing Angelo.” I slumped down in my chair. I wished Hudson wouldn't suck up to me like that, it almost made me stop disliking him for being a snob. Look at him, with his expensive camera, I thought. And his stupid shirts. The one he wore that night was brown and had a Corner Gas logo on the front. Well, that actually was a pretty funny show, so at least Hudson had some taste, assuming he wasn't being ironic. “It's franken-biting,” Hudson said. “They take a bunch of tape of you talking and splice pieces back together to be whatever they want. But it's still funny.”

Sure, funny. At my expense. Just moments earlier, I'd received some pretty nice kisses in the walk-in, which I should have been delighted about, but it felt like a distant daydream. And who was he kidding about the Australia thing? Drew would likely rescind the offer the next day and ignore me some more. TV, unlike Drew, was both real and forever. The show came back from commercial and the next segment was Echo and Angelo seated together, talking about how the neighborhood was changing. “When I was young,” TV-Angelo said, “People used to mow their lawns on the weekends.” “The lawns still look nice though,” TV-Echo said. “Not my point. Now they get mowed on weekdays, by professional gardeners.” He looked into the camera lens and nodded meaningfully.

Echo frowned and tipped her head to one side, like a parakeet. “What's with all the foot-massage spas moving in? In the neighborhood, we have three new ones. Feet! That's not the organ people want massaged.” “Feet aren't organs,” he said. “Well what are they?” Angelo scratched his head. “Appendages?” Around me in the viewing audience, people laughed at Echo's and Angelo's antics. I relaxed a bit in my chair. Maybe it wasn't so bad. We were all being made fun of, but it felt entertaining, and most of the time it seemed like we were all in on the joke. Hudson said quietly in my ear, “I might be biased, but this is good television.” I shushed him, because I appeared on the screen right then. I held my breath and watched TV-Maddie as she appeared to be working hard, but also ordering everyone else around and acting like a b-word. They ran the clip of me asking the cameraman to “rewind his brain”—twice at regular speed and once in slow-motion with my voice monster-deep. Could it get worse? Yes. Despite leaning forward at the recommended slimming angle, I looked plump in almost every shot. Worst of all, when I blinked, one of my eyes opened before the other one. By the end of the episode, I was numb. Roxanne called us each, one by one, into the office to privately film our reactions. Everyone else cruised the tiny pastries and made small-talk while Hudson took photos for the website. I lingered near the office and listened in. Echo talked about the lighting and how much her dark roots were showing in each shot. Angelo said he had to lose ten pounds. When

Drew went in, he talked about needing more of a tan. No wonder none of them had made comments about me—they were all completely consumed with themselves. I sat for the interview last, giving brief but upbeat answers to each of Roxanne's questions. “Do I think the show will be good for business? Definitely. We might look like a wacky bunch of bakery nuts, but the food looks great, and I wish the people at home could smell it in here.” Big smile. As Mitch turned off the camera and started packing up, I asked Roxanne to stay and talk for a minute. “Are all the other episodes going to be like that?” I asked. “I thought we were making a show about a family, running a small business and triumphing over adversity. What was that?” “Entertainment,” she said. “But it was chopped up and hyped up and fake.” “You know the arguments about steroids in sports, right?” Roxanne sat down next to me and patted my knee. “Everybody has to use steroids now, just to be on a level playing field.” “Showing people acting awful is the steroids of TV?” I shook my head. The whole thing had a very bad flavor. “Listen, you don't know the half of it,” Roxanne said. Her voice and face seemed genuinely sorry, but how could I trust her? “I guess I'm just a kid, what do I know.” “I fought for you all,” she said. “There was footage, on the 24-hour camera, that Candy sent in to corporate. I nearly murdered her, which is why she didn't have the nerve to show up today. But as of tonight, I've made some deals, things I'm not proud of, and I think the footage is deleted.” “What footage? Worse than ... Frankenstein-style editing?”

She put on her Roxanne face again and patted my hand. “You'd better get a good night's sleep tonight because tomorrow you're going to have an avalanche of new customers. And, knock wood, I'll be back to harass you all in January for the next season. Cross your fingers.” I did not cross my fingers. I started gathering my things so I could go home, crawl in bed, and get a really good night's sleep. Besides my renewed appreciation for cupcakes, without friends or a boyfriend taking up my time, I'd also been appreciating getting a good eight, nine, sometimes ten hours' sleep. “Psst, our secret,” Drew said as he handed me a piece of paper. “I wonder what the hits on the website will be like,” Hudson said. “I can't wait to get home and check those stats.” Behind him, Drew gave me a little wave and disappeared. I sighed. “You've got a fun evening planned,” I said to Hudson. I wasn't pretending to flirt with him to make Drew jealous, so sarcasm had crept back into my voice. “Going to make some of that super-cool origami, too?” His gaze dropped to the floor and he shuffled his feet. “I feel like I made a bad first impression on you,” he said. “I'm sorry about my dumb comment about McJobs, and I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. Obviously your career is way more exciting than mine, so you win.” “It's not a competition,” I said. He ran his hand through his black hair, which immediately stood straight up again. We stared at each other silently for a moment. “Hi, my name is Hudson.” He stuck out his hand and whispered, “Fresh start.” I wanted to just blow him off and go home, but he looked so

sad, so I shook his hand and said, “Hi, I'm Madeleine.” “That's a beautiful name. French?” “Oui.” “Cool,” he said. “Do you know a lot of French? I've always wanted to learn more, beyond what we learned in school.” “Just the good swear words and a few deplorable phrases.” “Awesome.” He grinned, and his eyes stopped looking sad. “I'm going to set up an account so you can post on the bakery blog,” he said. “If you want to give me your email address, I could send you the information.” “I've got a lot on my mind right now, plus I have a theory the Internet might be evil. Let me get back to you on that.” I picked up my bag, which was heavy with library books about cake decorating. I took the books out and stowed them in the office. Had Angelo and Echo been talking about divorce in there earlier, when I'd walked in? Maybe it was just my imagination. Surely everything was fine between them. They looked like the perfect couple on TV. At the door, I turned and waved goodbye to everyone. The bakery, with all its pretty signs and new equipment, did shimmer with new life. I wanted the business to be a success, for Angelo and Echo and spoiled little Robin too. If the show did drive in customers, it would all be worth it in the end. I unfolded the paper Drew had given me. He'd written a date and a flight number. He would be leaving soon, within two weeks. It was one-way, so I didn't know how long he'd been gone, but I hoped it was a good, long time. I wanted to be free of him, and the hold he had over me. Or, of course, I could go too.

Chapter 23 I woke up forty minutes before my alarm clock was supposed to go off, and couldn't get back to sleep until nanoseconds before the thing began its evil buzzing. Who invented that awful sound? You hear that MYEAH MYEAH MYEAH sometimes on radio commercials, and the noise makes you want to smash everything slightly squarish in fist-hammering range. That morning, I had flutters in my stomach, for two reasons. First, I'd been kissed by Drew the day before, and today there might be more kissing. In the walk-in cooler, perhaps. Second, I'd been on TV the previous night, and I didn't know what that meant. People didn't recognize Jaslene from her commercials, but that was different. I'd been on a thirtyminute show, playing myself. I was due to start work at eight. Angelo would already be there, baking the bread, so I phoned the bakery to ask if he wanted me to come in a bit early, just in case it was busy because of the show. I tried twice, but both times the signal went straight to voice mail. The nervous awareness in my stomach didn't go away, so, after I wolfed down some oatmeal, I ran out of the apartment. The elderly sisters who lived down the hall held

the door for me, and I heard one say to the other, “Helen, put on your glasses. It is her, the girl from the bakery. I told you she lived in our building.” There was a smile on my face as I walked to the bus stop in the sunshine. The genuine smile felt different from my forced ones—it didn't hurt. This is a touch of what being famous feels like, I thought. I wonder what else will happen

today. The bus was crammed full of more passengers than usual, and they all seemed to be making eye contact with each other. A trio of ladies in business-attire blouses and short skirts showing off their leg tattoos stared directly at me for several seconds before looking away. Maybe they had been introduced to me and the gang last night on Bakery Confidential. Maybe everyone saw, and it was the hottest new show on TV. I sat up straighter and smoothed my hair. I stared out the window with a wistful pose, until I got the skin-crawling feeling that everyone was looking at me. I coughed into my hand and spun around, but everyone looked away. They were definitely up to something. More and more people kept getting on at every stop, until it was standing room only. A big fellow said, “Three, two, one,” and hit a button on a portable stereo. I yelped in alarm as everyone threw themselves out of their seats. The music played for a few seconds, then the group began a choreographed dance. Two of the tattooed girls danced and the third one stayed seated, filming with her camera phone. This happened for about thirty very surreal seconds, the length of the average TV commercial. The bus ground to a halt and the driver yelled back, “Everybody shut up and sit down before I put you all under

citizen's arrest!” Half of them continued dancing, albeit slower. A man next to me, who was not part of the merriment, leaned over and said, “These flash mobs are a bit 2009, don't you think?” I whispered, “I'm sure they're quite delightful, for the people in them.” He said, “You can't even go to a wedding these days without the bride and groom trying to go viral with some dumb dancing spectacle or staged disaster. It's worse than community theater.” I giggled into my fist. “Bunch of artsy fartsy terrorists is what you are!” yelled the bus driver as he got out of his seat and faced the passengers. His face was red and twisted like a Halloween mask. “No planking, no horsemaning, no flash-mobbing on my bus. Who's going to pay the lawsuit when someone falls on a passenger? Get a job, all of you.” The dancing ground to a halt and the music stopped. Someone stepped on the mid-bus exit steps, the doors banged open, and the dancers filed off silently. “You too, off,” the bus driver said to me. “I swear, I'm not a flash mobber, I'm going to work,” I said. He narrowed his eyes. “You look familiar. Are you a troublemaker? Are you their leader?” “No! No, I work at a bakery. At Angelo's Bakery, except, it's called Robin's Egg Bakery now.” His contorted face relaxed as quickly as a popped balloon. “I watched you on the TV. That's some funny stuff.”

“Oh! Thanks.” The remaining passengers, all five of them, turned to me. “I saw your show,” said a woman with a lap full of grocery bags. Everyone stared, including the man seated next to me; I had just turned from human wallpaper to something else—from black and white film to full technicolor.

When I got to the bakery, a line of people stood outside, which was odd, but I guessed maybe Angelo had to run out for something and locked the door. As I got closer, I could tell the interior was packed as well. I squeezed my way in the door, reassuring the line that I was staff, not a linebudder. Some people cheered for me and someone even said my name. Angelo was laughing and running back and forth, emptying the display case into our new blue bakery boxes. “I'm in the weeds, Maddie,” he called out. “The weeds!” I grabbed my red apron, tied it on over my pale blue shirt and tan pants, and joined him behind the till. I could hardly see the blue and white tiled surfaces of the retail area, so full was it with customers. A crisp-looking woman with an icy-blond ponytail asked me for dessert recommendations for her dinner party, and I helped an endless stream of customers, non-stop, until one o'clock, when Echo and Drew arrived for the second shift. “Pretty insane,” Drew said when we crossed paths near the sink. “Wanna take a break in the walk-in cooler?” I suggested. That morning, I'd decided to enjoy the last few weeks with Drew before he left town, whatever that meant.

“Shhh,” he replied. “Ixnay. Talk elsewhere. After work.” “If we can get closed,” I said. “I don't know if the customers or Angelo will let us. Did you know today is BakeCo's opening down the street? We sure showed them.” Drew's forehead wrinkled as he looked perplexed. “It's not your business. You do know you just work here, right?” “Yeah. What's wrong with caring?” He shifted on his feet and rearranged the chocolatecoconut haystacks on the platter he was balancing. “I've got to get these out. We're really in the weeds.” “What does that even mean?” He shrugged. “It's just one of those things you say. It's a restaurant thing.” “I wish they taught us more real-world stuff in high school,” I said with a laugh. He looked around nervously, even though we were alone in the kitchen. Except for the customers out front, it was eerily quiet back there without the film crew. I almost missed them, but not the cords. “Meet me at my place tonight,” he said. “At eight? You remember where I live?” “I think so,” I said. Think so? I'd programmed his address into my cell the night we went there to work on the logo. I'd also memorized it, just in case something had happened to my phone.

I rang the doorbell at exactly 8pm, and when the English

roommate Scotty opened the door, I felt like bursting into tears. The whole thing was a setup with the roommate, wasn't it? I couldn't believe I'd thought Mr. Hot-Cold was actually into me. I didn't like Scotty. There were plenty of girls who would like a not-entirely-hot guy so long as he had a cute accent—one of them could have Scotty. I'd try to play up that fact when I let Scotty down easy. “Drew sent me,” I said, trying not to sound too disappointed. Scotty hollered over his shoulder, “Oy! Nancy Drew!” He stood aside and beckoned me to enter the basement suite, which was considerably cleaner than the last time. “You have real furniture,” I said, pointing to the low-rider footless sofa and chair with cat-scratched upholstery. “Have to spiff up so I can get another quality flatmate,” he said. Drew appeared, with his usually-curly hair slicked back with water, and wearing only a towel. Repeat: Wearing only a towel. “Scotty was just heading out,” Drew said.

How we'd gotten from small-talk in the kitchen to his bedroom was a blur. Drew may have offered to research something on the computer. We sat there in silence, side by side on the edge of his bed, him in nothing but a blue towel. I leaned my head on his shoulder and sighed. “Quite the day.” He kissed me on top of my head, and we sat there, as

casual as an old married couple. “You looked like you were having fun,” he said. “That was nothing.” I looked up and leaned in. He put his hand on my chin, lightly, and leaned in slowly, so slowly, until our lips touched. I pulled back, as though burned by a hot candle. Alarm bells had begun ringing in my head, probably when we entered the room, but I hadn't wanted to listen. My being there was not a date, and even if it had been, that didn't mean it was get-naked time. “I'm going to get a glass of water,” I said. “Why don't you slip into something pants-like before I get back?” “What about the shirt?” he asked. “Don't you dare put on a shirt,” I said.

Chapter 24 The next morning, the bus ride into work was blissfully uneventful, which afforded me time to touch my fingers to my lips and remember the previous night, with Drew. What if I did go to Australia with him? Angelo and Echo would have to put a sign in the window and hire replacements for us. Roxanne had made a second season of the show sound possible, but not guaranteed. If it did get picked up, and they wanted to shoot with us, we could do that in January. By then I would have gotten my fill doing ... whatever young Canadians did in Australia. Surfing and other nature stuff. Was Australia the place with the koala bears? Why did I know absolutely nothing about Australia? When I stepped off at the bus stop, I glimpsed another crowd gathered in front of the bakery. Awesome, I thought. The TV show was really drumming up business. We'd be sold out of everything by noon, and I could go home early, maybe with Drew back to his place again. As I got closer, I noticed the fire trucks and realized I was smelling smoke. All around me, people were talking. “It's always for the insurance,” a woman said cattily. “At the office, we have an entire department investigating fraud.

People keep trying though, especially during times like these.” “So sad,” another woman said. “I hear they had good bread.” “It is good bread,” said a man in a Tilley hat. I recognize him as Rudy, who'd always enjoyed a chat with Angelo. Behind me, a guy talked sarcastically about “what a coincidence” the fire was, and how this happening right after the TV show began airing was “totally a publicity stunt.” A piece of ash landed in my eyelashes. The air smelled of burned wood, like a campfire. The breeze changed and the crowd of people quieted as a mist from the firefighters' hoses fell on us. I closed my eyes to block the sight of our beautiful bakery, with its freshly-painted robin's egg blue walls singed black. I had library books in there. I couldn't believe I was selfishly thinking about my own stuff, but I was. I didn't know what else to think. When I opened my eyes, Angelo was in front of me. His jaw moved, but no words came out. “What happened?” I asked. “She wants a divorce,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “And now this.” “I'm sorry.” I wanted desperately to hug him; I stood with my arms limply at my sides. The people around us continued to speculate about the fire, oblivious to who might be hearing them. Someone said she saw Bakery Confidential and “quite enjoyed it.” “Was that real or were they all actors?” someone else

asked. “I don't understand TV these days. I thought it was like The Office, where you're not supposed to know if it's real or not. I do love that young couple with the baby, Pam and Jim. Are they married in real life?” A woman touched my arm—one of our regular customers, Tupperware Lady, in her wrinkly hemp pants. “At least no one was hurt,” she said to me gently. “Things are just things, they can be replaced.” I didn't know if Angelo was hearing these things or not. His face was utterly blank, broken. I asked him if he needed to use my phone, and he shook his head, no. “It all goes away so fast,” he said. My throat swelled with a massive lump and my cheeks tightened. Cars honked at the crowd of spectators blocking off the street, and I realized I was part of that crowd, standing stupidly in the middle of the street. Angelo walked away from me, waving his big hands to part the crowd. In his eyes, I'd seen the story of a man who had everything yesterday and nothing today. “It's going to be okay,” I said, though nobody was listening. The words were soothing, so I repeated them. “It's going to be okay.”

What happened next was dream-like. I must have been in shock, because the inside of my head was completely silent, yet I walked briskly, with purpose. I looked down to find my phone in my hand and a call going through.

I put my phone to my ear just as Chloe answered on her side. Behind me was nothing but fire trucks and smoke, but I was moving forward. “Maddie? I was just thinking about you,” she said. Her voice brought me back to reality. “I have the day off,” I said. I sound so festive, I thought, like

I'm playing hooky. “Ooh,” she said. “Do you want to get lunch? I guess it's a bit early. Breakfast?” Please say yes, I thought. I couldn't just go home, and I wanted to call Drew, but I didn't have his number, and it would have been awkward to show up at his house. “Sure,” Chloe said. “I want to, but Parker's coming over. We're going hiking today.” “You're joking, right? Since when does Parker go hiking? Wait, never mind, I don't want to know. Invite him, he can come.” “Really? You don't mind?” “I think it's time we were friends,” I said, and I wasn't lying. We settled on The Bagelhole at ten. To kill time, I ducked into a used book store to peruse what they had on Australia. Maybe it was finally time for me to pack all my things into my suitcase and go. The book store had a display table full of books on cars, including a big photo book called Volkswagen Beetles Then and Now and the People Who Love Them. Of course, if I went to Australia, I'd come back with a tan, but no car. I'd wanted a Beetle for so long, I'd forgotten what

it felt like to not want one. I leafed through page after page of people posing with their Beetles. One guy had his hair dyed the same lime-green as his car. A spunky-looking grandmother posed with one of the older models, a car so covered in bumper stickers, I couldn't tell what color the car once had been. On the next page was my father. My father. “Can I help you Miss?” asked the man behind the counter. He didn't get up from his chair, but I believed he'd heard me gasp and truly wanted to help. I looked at his kind eyes and wondered if he owned the bookstore and if his life revolved around it, or if he was just an employee who could pick up and move at a moment's notice. Would the world would keep on spinning without him? “I'm going to be okay,” I said. I held the book containing my father tight across my chest. “My father's a jerk, who runs away from his responsibilities, but I'm not him.” “I hear you, sister,” he said. “We are not our parents. Did you want me to show you to the self-help section?” “Nope, I'm good.” I put the book back and headed for the door. He smiled and wished me a nice day, even though I hadn't bought anything.

Parker and Chloe were sitting close to each other on the other side of the booth when I walked into the technicolor palace that was The Bagelhole. By the time I placed my order at the lime-green counter and returned to our table under the plastic-fruit chandelier, they'd pried each other apart by nearly a foot, though they still held hands under the table. They probably thought I wouldn't notice, but it was as obvious to me as the giant green pears hanging over our

heads. I sat down and grabbed a sugar packet for my matcha green tea. “I thought it would be uncomfortable seeing you two together, but it's not,” I said. “You're not mad,” Parker said. “Don't flatter yourself,” I answered. His shoulders fell in, as though he'd been shot with an invisible arrow. As insensitive as he could be to me, he certainly couldn't take jibes in the other direction. “I'm not angry now, but I have every right to be,” I said. “Parker, the way you broke up with me was beyond forgivable. You could have redeemed yourself when I phoned you that night. I was actually having a crisis, but I guess I learned two lessons that night.” Parker started to interrupt, but I held up my hand until he let me finish. “I'm not going to get into what I've been through,” I said, “but it's made me realize you are not actually the worst. Close to the worst, but not the worst. We might still be friends in the future. I don't know, but I'm not ruling it out. I think I'm due an apology. Just putting that out there.” Chloe sat silently, her eyes darting back and forth between me and Parker. “What about me?” she finally asked. “I'm uber-sorry about InvitationGate. I assumed you wouldn't want to come, but I should have checked.” Her eyes got watery. “I don't want to not be friends with you. Don't unfriend me.” “We're cool, Chloe.” I took a deep breath, feeling lighter by the second. “You guys are both cool. I'm sorta glad you're dating each other and not some random freaks.” “I am sorry,” Parker said. “The heart murmur thing gave me

temporary insanity. I'm going to try harder to be a friend to you. Call me any time, I'll be your taxi, your chauffeur. I am at your service, I swear.” I considered his offer silently. Someone back in the kitchen dropped a dish and let out a streak of colorful swear words. I started to laugh, but once I was past the giggles, I didn't stop for at least a minute. Chloe had actually used the word unfriend in a serious conversation. Eventually, Chloe and Parker joined in laughing too. I didn't know what they were thinking, but I was amused by how ridiculous dating is. People say they won't date their friends' exes, but then they always do. Maybe we should just accept our friends will scoop up our former boyfriends, and come up with an acceptable amount of time for a cooling-off period, like twenty years. I didn't mention this to Chloe and Parker. As the discomfort of my honesty faded away, we talked a bit about Parker's plans for school, Chloe's fashion column, and all the outdoor activities they were planning for the fall. Chloe's eyes widened. “Parker's taking me bungee jumping.” “Tell her it's not so scary,” Parker said. “I quite liked it,” I said. “I'm just glad I had the adult diaper on. You got your diapers already? When are you going?” “Whaaaaa?” Chloe's big blue eyes opened even wider. Parker kicked my shin under the table. Chloe leaned forward on her elbows. “Nobody told me anything about diapers. For number one or number two?” “Bit of both. Right Parker?” He put his hand over his mouth to cover his smile. “Mm

hmm.” Chloe said, “One time at a party, Zoe dared us to put on her grandpa's Depends and pee ourselves. I only did it once, but some of the guys were wearing them all night.” “That's what happened at your famous Cinqo De Mayo party two years ago? That's messed up,” I said. “Chloe, I'm kidding about the bungee jumping. You don't lose control of those functions. They kind of clamp down, actually.” Chloe rolled her eyes and squeezed her lips into a pucker. “I knew you were pulling my leg. Everybody makes fun of the blonde.” “We only teased you to try to get you to move your face,” I said. “I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings.” “Your little TV show is pretty good,” Parker said to me. “I watched the first one with my parents, and they both laughed so hard, especially at the funny stuff you do.” “I love your cartoon,” Chloe said breathlessly. “I always knew you'd make a great cartoon.” “Is Echo really like she is on the show?” Parker asked. “With the tight clothes and the pinup poses? Or is it all for the cameras?” “You'll have to keep watching and find out,” I said. Chloe said, “I love the little interviews, and the how-to segment on cake decorating.” She went on, listing all the things she loved. I thought I could detect the smell of smoke in the air, drifting all the way over from the bakery, but it seemed the news had not reached everyone yet. It was relaxing, being in that bubble with Chloe and Parker. It almost made me nostalgic for high school. Almost. I sipped my matcha and basked in their compliments as

they described their favorite parts of the first episode and tried to guess what would happen next. I knew I should have been telling them about the fire, and about my plans to leave town, but I didn't want to ruin the moment. At that particular table, in The Bagelhole, life seemed bright, colorful, and rich with promise. Parker and Chloe looked good together, like the photo that comes with a nice frame.

When I got home, I found Melanie relaxing in her pajamas in front of the computer. “Mel, can you tear yourself away from the computer for once?” She turned around slowly and gazed up at me, curious. “I love you,” I said. “What's wrong?” she asked. I told her about the fire, and Angelo saying Echo wanted a divorce, and how everything was ruined. I didn't want to seem petty by mentioning the library books, but they were probably worth a few hundred dollars, so I did. “Sorry, kiddo,” Melanie said. “Even if he has insurance, your library books may not be covered. At least nobody got hurt.” “Angelo looked pretty hurt. From the divorce, I guess.” “Poor Robin,” she said. “It's harder, the younger they are.” Melanie hadn't met Robin, but she'd already picked her as her favorite character on the TV show.

I flopped down on the couch and stared at the ceiling. I wished we were driving in a car, going somewhere. It's so much easier to talk in cars. “I'm ninety-five percent sure I'm going to go on a holiday,” I said. “Ooh, can I come?” She lifted my legs and joined me on the couch. “I might go with Drew, from my work. To Australia. Weird, huh?” Melanie didn't say anything, but I could sense her gears of disapproval turning. “He's been planning to go for ages, and trying to talk me into it,” I said, carefully editing a few details to make it sound less sudden and suspicious. “Since the bakery's out of commission, now's the perfect time. What do you think? You loved your hippie-girl backpack trip around Europe, and kept saying I should do something similar.” “I did, didn't I. Hmm. I guess you are older now than I was when I went.” She smiled crookedly and blew air out through her lips. I could see it was an effort for her to keep an open mind. “We have to go to Mom's,” I said. “Again? We just went three months ago.” “I wouldn't ask if I didn't need to. There's not enough time to apply for a new passport, and she has mine there, at her house, somewhere.” Melanie looked like a hard-working dental hygienist who's just had her relaxing day off at home ruined by her pesky little sister. “Fine,” she said begrudgingly. “I'll book the coop car. But we're both wearing haz-mat suits.” “It's not that bad,” I said. “She doesn't even have any pets.”

“Don't be so sure,” Melanie said. “I was on the support group page the other day and one of the bloggers said she got scabies at her father's house. Scabies. Bugs laying eggs under your skin.” My skin started to itch at the suggestion. “So, you're against scabies, in general, but you're for me going on the trip?” “If it gets whatever you're going through out of your system, then yes. Maybe when you get back, you can take some courses in TV production or whatever.” “Really?” “Sure. Or baking. I don't know. Don't take career advice from me, I'm not you.” “But I can't trust myself, I make terrible decisions.” We'd both been staring straight ahead, but she turned to look right at me. “I make much worse decisions. I'm a dental hygienist. I scrape stuff off people's teeth.” “I spent half my savings getting my face charred off.” She pondered the stains on the ceiling for a moment. “I bought a pair of three hundred dollar jeans.” “The night I drank tequila, I lifted my dress up and flashed people with my underpants.” “At least you were wearing underpants. I texted a guy a photo of myself topless and he showed everyone at work.” “Was that Snackboy?” I asked. “No,” she said, but I could tell she was lying. “I miss him already,” she said. “You win. You make the worst decision by liking him.”

“It's not really a choice,” she said. “He has this hold over me.” “Gross.” “It's not just the sex stuff, it's the way he makes me feel— hey!” She didn't finish the thought because I was holding a pillow over her mouth to get her to stop talking about him. She retaliated with her own pillow and we wrestled in a way we hadn't in years. Melanie had me pinned on the floor with her knee on my face when my phone rang. I begged her for my freedom, because it was the ringtone assigned to people not in my contacts list, and I hoped it was Drew. She let me up and disappeared to the kitchen, muttering something about working up an appetite for reheating lasagne. To my surprise and delight, I answered the phone and found out it actually was Drew. He'd gotten my number from Angelo, he said. We talked for a bit about the fire, and he said he hadn't heard anything new about the cause or the damage, then he asked if I'd given any thought to going to Australia with him. “Oh, right, I forgot to tell you,” I said. “I'm going, almost definitely, but I have to go on a quest for my passport.” “A quest?” he asked. I pictured him shirtless, sprawled across his bed as he asked the question. His voice sounded sexy and shirtless. “Long story. Yeah, a quest. Picture The Lord of the Rings, but not as cheerful and upbeat.” “Uh, okay,” he said. “Life's kinda weird, isn't it? I didn't think you'd go.” “I guess you don't know me very well,” I said.

Melanie and I made the hour-and-a-half drive to Langley, heading out of Vancouver over the Oak Street bridge, then through the Massey tunnel, until we were passing farm fields and grain silos. “This flat delta area reminds me of home,” I said. “If you squint and ignore the big mountains,” she said. Neither of us mentioned our mother or the problem with her. “Do you ever miss Saskatchewan?” I asked. “I don't miss the wind and snow.” “Me neither,” I said. “I can't believe people here complain about the rain. They have no idea.” I turned on the radio and we sat in easy silence. Driving in a car is the absolute best way to enjoy another person's company. I wished we could have driven for days.

Chapter 25 Too soon, we pulled into Mom's driveway. It was Mom's house, not our house, because neither of us had lived there. I'd been expected to move out of the city with her, but I hadn't wanted to change schools for the third time and risk never seeing Jaslene again. I'd spent one terrible week at the house before Mom relented and I was allowed to move back to Vancouver, into the apartment with Melanie. Mom never forgave me. The little house had peeling paint and grass growing on the mossy roof. The windows were covered from the inside with what looked like cardboard. “Maybe she's out.” Melanie turned off the car. The front door squeaked open and we both jumped in our seats. “Well if it isn't my little tooth fairy and the TV star,” said our mother. I jumped out of the car and ran to give her a hug, with Melanie shuffling along behind me. “You hungry?” Mom asked as she stroked my hair.

With my head on her chest, I felt her heart beating under my ear—the same strong, solid heartbeat that had soothed me as a baby. My mother possessed the same dark hair and round face as me and my sister, but her eyes were less round. We didn't know where the features came from. “Mystery meat,” was what her brothers and sisters called her, since she'd been adopted and never knew her genetic background. She would joke, every time we had Mexican food, that she loved tacos and salsa, and therefore must be Mexican, but she'd say the same thing about Thai food too. “Sorry we haven't been by,” Melanie said. “Come in for a cuppa,” Mom said. Melanie glanced into the house, then back at the co-op car. “We can't stay long.” She followed me inside the house. What to my mother was treasure, to other people was garbage. Seven sewing machines lurked in the front area that was once a living room. I could only visually count two at the moment, under the piles of clothing, stuffed animals, broken small appliances, and filing boxes full of smaller things, but she'd had seven when I last did an inventory and there was no way she'd have thrown any out. “Mom, it's getting worse,” Melanie said. She waved a hand in front of her mouth, as though the movement might freshen the stale cigarette-smoke odor permeating the house. “Don't be silly,” Mom said. “I threw out two big garbage bags' worth just the other day.” My sister and I exchanged a look that said we didn't believe her for a minute, but at least, underneath the heavy odor of cigarettes, the house didn't smell of anything else. She was still throwing out food-waste, and the kitchen seemed somewhat usable. She was holding it together. At the real estate office where Mom worked part-time, her co-workers probably didn't know there was a problem at all.

While Melanie and Mom made the tea, I wandered around the piles, pulling out photo albums and other things I recognized from growing up. I stroked a stuffed rabbit and tried to figure out if it had been mine, or some other child's. The longer I held the rabbit, the stronger I got a visual of myself with it as a child. Only it looked brand new, with the tag still on, and couldn't have been mine. I stuffed it back before the bunny could mess with my memories any more. I found another sewing machine. She'd only had four sewing machines when Dad had left. We were still in Saskatchewan then. Dad had just bought his car, the Beetle, even though Mom said a little car, or anything without four-wheel-drive, was impractical for our part of the country. They'd had a big fight, and he said the car made him happy. He felt whole when he was in it. She brought home a pickup-truck full of dishes, broken dolls, and clothing from the thrift store, saying shopping made her feel whole. One day the Beetle was gone, and so was Dad. I couldn't even remember if it had been winter, though it had always felt like winter in my mind. I stood on my tiptoes to examine the treasures stacked on top of the crammed-full china cabinet. “Tea's ready,” Mom called out. I joined them in the kitchen, where we sat at a tiny 1950s table, half-covered in washed-out jars. I noticed Mom was breathing heavily from the effort, and yet, she was still smoking, puffing away on those cancer-sticks. She'd gained even more weight, maybe ten or fifteen pounds since I'd last seen her. She caught me staring at her thick arms. “It's the damn thyroid medication,” she said. “Makes me gain weight and saps my energy.” “You have to get some exercise,” Melanie said. “Pick a day

and we'll be out here, with bells on, to help you clean up this place.” Mom focused on something far away, then turned to me with a sweet smile. “I hear you're going on a trip. What a wonderful opportunity for you. First your lovely TV show, and now travel. I wish I was young again, I'd go to Paris.” “You can still go,” Melanie said. “You're not that old. Stop making excuses to hide out here and let your life pass you by.” I kicked Melanie under the table. The counselor we'd been to a few years earlier had told us people needed to decide to change for themselves. You couldn't badger them into it. I still didn't know if he'd been right, or if it was just what people wanted to hear—an excuse to abandon their friends and family to their own devices, with a clear conscience. Either way, I didn't want to dig into the issue that day. “Australia,” I said. “Just for a few months. But I need my passport, and I hoped you could find it.” Mom nodded down at her empty tea cup as she ran her finger over the chips in the rim. “I knew there had to be a reason you drove all the way out here.” “Don't get all dramatic,” Melanie said. “We've been busy and it's a long drive.” “I know,” Mom said. “It's an awfully long drive.” Behind my mother's head, wedged into a dollhouse, I spotted my old Barbie dolls, which had been Melanie's, before I gave them all haircuts. “We could stay overnight some time, if you had room,” I offered. That time, Melanie kicked my shin under the table. “Weather's good, you could pitch a tent in the yard,” Mom said. “Your room's always here for you girls, though, just let

me know ahead of time and I'll get things organized a bit better.” “I'll help with your stuff, Mom,” I said. “You know I would, right? I've got some time off before I go. We could start in one room, sort out what's garbage.” The air electrified. I'd done it. I'd said the g word. My mother was quiet as her face hardened into a mask; she'd disappeared somewhere inside herself, and my words would be falling on deaf ears, as they always did when we tried to discuss her problem. Anger flared up in my chest. I wished someone would shake her, snap her out of it. No amount of patience or talk had ever helped. She was always ready with excuses, or simply shut down, like this. “How's the garden?” Melanie asked. “Getting some big carrots out of the ground?” “Mm hmm,” Mom said, stroking the chipped rim of her cup again. I had some ideas about where my passport might be located, but I resigned myself to a long, dusty day. What happened next was what usually happened. Arguing, tears, emotional blackmail. Melanie tried to throw out some Teflon pots with scratched bottoms, which triggered a war. At least she kept my mother distracted, so I could search for what I needed. I found a folder of my personal papers, including my passport, inside a filing cabinet, which seemed logical enough, except the other drawers were filled with broken ceramics and all the decorative trimmings for a birthday party. This is sad, I thought as I looked at the streamers and pointed hats. We finished before sunset and said our goodbyes,

standing on the porch and smiling at each other, the fighting forgotten as quickly as it had started. We must have looked just like a normal family. Melanie complained the whole drive home. “Be thankful you didn't see the inside of the fridge,” Melanie said. “The lack of self-awareness is just staggering. I'm standing there, trying not to retch my guts out, and she's demanding to know when we'll be visiting again. Doesn't she get it? Nobody wants to be in that house. God.” I nodded and muttered agreement as I turned my passport over and over in my hands. In my heart, I was already gone.

I bought the plane ticket and travel insurance, and after all the taxes were added up, it was the single biggest purchase I'd ever made in my life. As a condition of being allowed to go, Melanie made me buy a return ticket, although the return date was open. At the apartment, I went over my packing lists. I felt like I was forgetting something. Jaslene. I couldn't leave the country without saying goodbye to her, but I still had a few days left. I considered inviting her to come watch the next episode of Bakery Confidential with me and Melanie, but in the end I decided my humiliation would be easier in private. I watched the first half of the episode through my fingers, but then it got interesting and I had to give it my full attention. The scenes I hadn't been involved in revolved around Echo: Echo stirring up colored icing while talking about love, and Echo squeezing out icing flowers while talking about sex appeal. She spent a good forty seconds talking about Drew, specifically, as the camera panned up and down on him. Sure, it made me pretty excited about

seeing him later that night, but it also made me uncomfortable. I didn't like him being all over the TV, served up for everyone and anyone. “Maybe I'll go to Australia,” Melanie said from her seat on the couch next to me. “Rawr!” “That's enough, Demi Moore. Go take a cold shower.” “Your guy is hot, get used to it,” she said. “Don't worry, I'm sure you have your fans too. Some dirty old perverts, I bet.” “Thanks Mel.” The idea of that made me want to fold in on myself and disappear. I was glad I'd taken down my Facebook profile at least. I'd been tempted a few times to google myself, but I decided I was better not knowing. Melanie had checked the reviews of the show and read out the nice bits to me while I stood across the room. After the show had started airing, whenever I went outside, I could have sworn people were staring at me. I didn't know if they'd watched the show and recognized me, or if it was all in my head. The season would be over in a few weeks, but I'd have to miss the next episodes, since it didn't air in Australia. Darn. “Yay, it's Robin,” Melanie said, clapping. We watched as Robin did a teapot dance while eating a cream puff. “She is pretty cute,” I said. “For a spoiled brat.” “You're just jealous. You wish you were spoiled,” Melanie said. “Duh.” Melanie did always enjoy pointing out the obvious. After the show, I spent half an hour on the phone with my biggest fans, Chloe and Parker, answering their questions about the episode. Chloe told me she was starting a fan club online and she'd been live-tweeting and live-blogging during the show. For once, all her internet talk didn't seem

so ridiculous. The hashtag stuff still had to go, but Chloe was kind of a smart cookie after all. After I finished talking to them, and changed my clothes about five times, I walked over to Drew's house for his big going-away party. The sign on his door read Bon Voyage Drew, with no mention of me. Inside, I didn't recognize a single face inside the basement suite apartment, except for Scotty. “Oy!” Scotty yelled at me over the music. “Food? What a good girl you are, bringin' us real food. The lads all showed up with bags of potato chips.” “Chips are good too.” I pulled the cling-wrap off the platter of cheese and crackers I'd spent an hour arranging. Hands descended from all directions, snatching up the expensive artisinal crackers and leaving only artisinal crumbs. Scotty grimaced. “These taste like bird seed.” “I'm glad you like them,” I said. The song blasting from unseen speakers changed to Amy Winehouse, which seemed to bring down the mood of the partygoers. Heads slung down and voices hushed. “I know it's been months, but I can't believe our sweet girl is gone,” Scotty said, his eyes closed. “Where's Drew?” I asked. Scotty was swaying, in another world. I shook him gently. “Where's Drew?” I yelled. “Huh? Oh, in his bedroom, on Skype to Australia.” I pushed my way through the crowd of tall people, mostly guys, to Drew's door, which was closed. I knocked, but the music was loud, so I tried the handle. Locked. Scotty walked by, showing a giggling girl to the bathroom.

“You have a cute accent,” she said. “I love Canada,” he said to me after she was gone. “You're sure Drew's in here?” I asked. “It's locked. He's not in there with some girl, is he?” I laughed, to show I was joking, but he didn't buy it. My left eye began to twitch. “Yeah-but-no,” Scotty said. “He's in there with Darla.” “Shut up. Don't be mean. Is he really?” “No-but-yeah-but, no, she's not in there. She's in Australia, so she's just on the computer.” “Oh. Darla. Is that his friend in Australia? We're supposed to stay with someone down there, a friend.” I put the pieces together in my head. “Darla who?” “I'm not supposed to say.” Scotty crossed his legs, still standing, and wiggled in the manner of a small child who needs to pee. “Darla's his ex-girlfriend,” he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. I knocked on the door again. “Ex-girlfriend, as in ex, over, right?” Scotty nodded. “Yes. Over. In the past. No more. Wow, those bird seed crackers made me thirsty.” The door opened and Drew emerged, wearing a green vneck shirt. I sucked in my breath and felt unattractive. Damn, he was hot. Drew could play a role on one of those fast-paced, dimly-lit teen soaps. He'd be a mysterious, ambiguously evil were-creature in skinny jeans. “Hey,” Drew said. “Hey yourself.” I went in for a hug, but he'd stuck his hands in his pockets, so I ended up squeezing his arms instead. “Jamie you bastard!” Drew yelled over my shoulder. “Come

on,” he said to me. “I'll introduce you. Hey, Jamie, this is Madison, she's coming to Australia with me.” Jamie, with short dreads and tortoiseshell glasses, shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, Madison.” “It's Madeleine,” I said. “But everyone calls me Maddie.” “What a dickfish,” Jamie said to Drew with a bright grin. “You don't even know her name.” To me, he said, “Madeleine, change your ticket and come to Ireland with me instead.” “You're the dickfish,” Drew said. He handed me his bottle of beer, then tackled Jamie. The crowd spread out, and the two of them play-wrestled in the hallway, rolling into the living room. Scotty brought me a can of Coke, unopened. “This homoerotic display of masculinity could go on all night. Hey, are you coming to Hot Box after this?” “No. I'm only eighteen, and they totally card there.” I set Drew's near-empty beer on a table and opened my can of pop. A grunting, wrestling pile of Drew and Jamie knocked over a lamp. “Maddie, don't despair,” Scotty said. “One day you'll be a grown-up. Like us.” Drew landed on top of the wooden coffee table, which creaked and collapsed, sending several drinks all over the area rug. “That rug really tied the room together,” Scotty said. “Time to get the hose.” My shoes were still on, so I followed Scotty outside, where he gathered up a roll of green garden hose. The evening air

was oppressively humid and sirens wailed off in the distance. Summer had finally arrived, but it was Fall, according to the calendar. “I'm beat,” I said. “Would you mind telling Drew I went home?” Scotty turned on the tap at the side of the house and gripped the trigger-attachment at the end of the hose like a gun. “Sure. Unless you want to come in and do the honors? I got the idea from your TV show, you know. I'm going to blast him with the hose, just like you did.” “Tell him to call me tomorrow about going to the airport.” I took two steps down the driveway before glancing back. “Do me a favor and soak him. Soak him real good.”

Chapter 26 The nagging suspicion that my former boss Angelo might be an arsonist was what caused me to delay picking up my last check until the last possible minute. In the months I'd gotten to know the man, he'd seemed nothing but honest and trustworthy, and yet, the timing of the fire had been a bit odd. We'd spoken on the phone, and he'd offered to mail the check to me, but I wanted to get it into my account before I flew out of the country. On the morning of the day of my flight, when I could put it off no longer, I took the bus to see him. Angelo was working out of his accountant's board room, and when I walked in to the office, he was pulling apart a stack of paper that was all wavy from being wet and then dried out. The room smelled like old camping equipment. “The cure that kills,” Angelo said. “Water destroyed everything.” “At least it's insured, right?” He winced. “They'll tear the building down.”

“Tear it down? Why? I went by there, and it didn't look so bad. A little singed, but couldn't they fix it?” “Look around,” he said, sounding irritated. “Condos.” He turned and looked out the window, at the two complexes under construction across the street. “I guess you'll set up the bakery in a new location then. Hey, you could get air conditioning.” He paused and his expression softened. “Ever the optimist.” He pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. My final pay check. “It'll clear,” he said. I hadn't implied it wouldn't, but the way he'd answered the unasked question made me feel guilty, all the same. “So, what are you going to do? Would you use the old name or the new name? You have all the graphics files, right? I asked Drew to email them to you.” With each of my questions, he looked more and more deflated, so finally, I stopped. Say goodbye, I thought. Just

turn around and go. A dark-skinned woman came into the boardroom and put a stack of mail in front of Angelo. “I've had Tracy open all your mail, like you asked,” she said to Angelo. “Half of it is Bakery Confidential fan mail, but never mind those. Here are some letters from people who are asking about franchising. We need to do some legal work to trademark the name, but this could be the break you've been waiting for.” Angelo said, “Maddie, Regina. My accountant.” “I know you, you're the marketing guru,” Regina said as she shook my hand. “It's a shame you're leaving town, we really could use your assistance. That is, if I can convince Angelo

to rebuild at a new location. Maybe a few locations. Angelo, you do like money, don't you?” “I like money,” he said, but his voice sounded small from where he was sitting, behind stacks of waterlogged paper. I had no idea how much work he had ahead of him, but I worried about him doing it on his own. Regina seemed smart, but pushy. “Well, good luck,” I said as I backed away. “Wait,” he called out. I stepped back into the boardroom, hoping for something. What exactly, I didn't know. For him to say he needed me? That was stupid, though. I was just an employee. “Reference letter,” he said. “In the envelope.” “Thanks,” I said. I hadn't asked for a reference, but it would be handy to have in the future. Regina was already spreading papers across the table and talking about leasing locations as I quietly let myself out. In the hallway outside the accountant's office, I nearly bumped into a person. Hudson. There for website design business, I guessed. “Hi, how are you,” he said, sticking his hand out. I shook his hand and took another look at Jaslene's second cousin. He was taller than me, but most people were. The messy hair gave him a cute-genius appeal. “What does your shirt mean?” I asked. “It says Helvetica, but it's in Comic Sans. Kind of a design joke.” “Oh, I get it. Comic Sans is horrible. So, your shirt is a brain-twister, like printing the word green with red ink.”

“Or like printing the word cake using only dog turds,” he said. I laughed. He was funny. We stood there grinning for a bit before I said, “Maybe I'll catch you around when I get back from Australia.” “You're going on a trip?” “I'll be back.” I pushed the elevator call button. “Hang on.” He opened his leather messenger bag and pulled out a gray box about the size of a bar of soap. “Jaslene told me you're saving up for one of these. Here, take it. I meant to give it to her to pass on to you, because I didn't know when I'd see you again.” “A present? Wow, thanks.” I took the box and lifted off the lid. Inside was a Volkswagen Beetle, in teal, and made of paper. I gently lifted the car out of the box and held it up in one hand. “Hudson, I don't ... I don't know what to say. This is so amazing.” I held the car away from us and darted in to give him a hug, which I didn't think he'd been expecting. He smelled nice, like sunshine. When I pulled back, his gaze was on the patterned lobby carpet, and he said with a shrug, “Thought it might help you keep on track with your goals.” He pulled out a business card and gave it to me without making eye contact. “I'm still doing websites, but I'm also getting into coaching and a bit of personal training. It's sort of the yin to the yang of sitting at a computer all day like a geek. Not that I'm not a geek, I am, but, I like ... stuff.” “I like stuff too,” I said. The elevator dinged and we both jumped. A Japanese girl with heavy eyeliner, perfect legs, and

platform shoes emerged from the elevator, giving Hudson a shy but appreciative look on her way past us and down the hall. He didn't even look at her. “I should catch this elevator,” I said, and I dove in before the doors closed. Hudson met my gaze shyly and waved goodbye. As the elevator descended, again I felt like I was forgetting something. I tucked the paper car back into the box. All the goodbyes were making me worry that leaving for Australia was the wrong move.

Melanie picked up my suitcase and quickly dropped it with a thud. “There's no way you're taking your luggage on the Skytrain.” “But the new line goes right to the airport. You're supposed to take your luggage,” I said. “Maybe for big people, who weigh more than their suitcase.” “Drew's coming to pick me up, he'll help.” “I appreciate your desire for independence. Honestly, it's cute, but to me you're still ten years old, with untied sneakers. Do you have sunscreen?” “I'm sure I can buy some there.” “That's it, we're driving you to the airport.” Melanie pulled out her phone. “Who's this we?” She wandered away without answering, which made me suspicious, but when I spotted the flash ring on her finger, I knew it could only mean one thing:

Snackboy. “No. You two are back together? He's going to give you sex-cooties. He's so gross!” Melanie disappeared into her bedroom and closed the door. I heard the click of the door locking, which meant she didn't want to discuss her love life. I should kick the door down, I thought. I should go to the other end of the hallway and take a running start and kick the door down. The intercom buzzed. How could he have gotten there so soon? I pressed the button and said, “Sorry, we didn't order any hipster douchebags. Please return to your ironically lowbrow diner hangouts.” “It's Jaslene, dummy.” I hastily apologized and buzzed her up. She arrived, out-ofbreath and glowing, with her hair wound up in a high bun and pierced with chopsticks. She wore a shimmery gray dress I didn't recognize, and the open-toed boots, which I had really started to covet. “Elevator's broken,” she said. “Everything's broken,” I said, not moving from the doorway or inviting her in. “Hudson told me you're going out of town. What the hell? I know you're mad at me, and you have every right to be, because yes, I was acting like a jealous harpy, but seriously? You'd leave the country and not even say goodbye? That's cold.” “So you admit to being a harpy?” “Here.” She handed me a purple box. “It's a cashmere scarf. Very small, lightweight, but luxurious.” She took back the box and worked the lid like a puppet as she said, “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was jealous.” Her lips didn't move. “I accept the scarf's apology. And I apologize for whatever I

did. Whatever that was.” The purple box said, “You didn't congratulate your friend for her acting gig. You stood in judgment of her for doing nudity. Then you made her ride a two-person bicycle back to the rental shack by herself. Dick move.” The box was right. “I guess it would have been easier to leave town if I wasn't leaving my best friend behind,” I said. “I'm sorry.” I invited her in and we stood, hugging, for a good minute while I blubbered embarrassingly about how much I'd missed her. I didn't have long before my flight, so we sat down and I quickly caught her up on everything to date. I omitted the detail about Drew talking to his ex-girlfriend, who happened to be in Australia. “Hold that thought.” Jaslene pulled out her phone. “I'm late for something. Chloe and Zoe invited me to go bowling and then yarn bombing.” “But you hate ironic fun and crafting fun.” “I know! I can't believe you're leaving me with those two. Chloe's such an attention-seeking missile.” I bristled at her insulting Chloe, and it took a few seconds for me to figure out why. “Jaslene, you know I like making fun of Chloe, but gosh. Is she really any worse than either of us? I'm sure you love acting as an art, and all that, but you do love the spotlight. So do I.” “Oh, you looked really good on Bakery Confidential,” she said. “Your skin looks nice, but it was always nice. You have a natural beauty, and a sweetness that shows through on film, no matter how they edit you.” I blushed at the compliments. “It's silly, but I'd trade in all the TV stuff for Drew's full attention.”

“You think you're going to get that on your trip?” she asked. “Yeah,” I said, but I didn't believe it. “Chloe's barbecue was lame anyways,” Jaslene said. “But the bike, I have to thank you for your flake-out. This nice guy with a shaved head was walking his French Bulldog and he helped me ride the bike back, after we dropped the dog off at his apartment. I got his number and everything.” “You get numbers every day. You're actually going to call this guy?” “Already did,” she said. “He's a fire fighter.” “Shut up!” I punched her in the arm. “Technically, he's actually a fire investigator. He worked on the case at the bakery. He's the one who determined it was the squirrels who caused the fire.” “No way.” So Angelo hadn't set the fire? Of course he hadn't. How could I have thought such a thing? Jaslene gave me some more details about the fire, and statistics on squirrels chewing through old electrical wires. She pulled out a tiny notebook, the cover of which had Tit for Tat written on it, and leafed through the pages. “What's that?” I asked. “Notes. For the one-woman play I'm writing. I'm using the money from the movie to finance a production.” “So, you're using cash from showing your naked body to make a play called ... Tit for Tat?” “It's meta,” she said. “Before you go, can I get some more notes about your mother's hoarding?” “She's not a hoarder,” I said. “She just has a hard time throwing things out.”

“Maybe one of those shows could help her,” Jaslene said. “Extreme Coupon-Hoarding or whatever it's called.” “Those awful shows,” I said. “You can't trust TV people. They're taking advantage of those people and after the cameras leave, the therapy and support stops. They're all 'wham bam thank you ma'am.'” “But you got paid,” Jaslene said. “Tell me you got paid and you'll buy your Beetle as soon as you get back to town. We can go on a road trip!” “Yeah! That'll be great!” She didn't know the money was all gone—gone on the face treatment, airplane tickets, and travel insurance.

After Jaslene left, I went over my packing list again. I took the reference letter Angelo had given me earlier that day and looked for a place to store it. Melanie was still in her room—perhaps napping—and I had nothing left to do, so I opened the envelope and read the letter.

To Whom It May Concern: Madeleine Bird was hired as a full-time baker's assistant, but she was not content to simply do her job. Instead, she went above and beyond her job description to help me and the bakery. I should have paid her more. I would give her a very big raise, if she would come back and work for me again. In the months we worked together, she became a part of our family. Madeleine would be an asset to any business.

Angelo Papadopoulos

Chapter 27 The front door unlocked and creaked open. I wiped my cheeks quickly and stuffed Angelo's letter of recommendation in the empty drawer where my clothes had been. “Daddy's home!” Snackboy called. “I can't believe she let you have a key,” I said to him as I came around the corner. He must have dyed his hair recently, as it was nearly blue-black, and looked clean, for once. “I'm going to miss you too,” he said. “Where's New Fancy? Fancy Two? You could have at least brought your better half.” “Getting her ears docked. Snip snip.” “WHAT?” So help me, I could have strangled him, right then and there. “I can't believe that's even legal. How could you? You're a monster.” He rolled his eyes. “Relax, PETA. She's at the dogsitter's, I'm just joshin' ya.”

As my murderous rage simmered down, he opened the fridge, grabbed the orange juice container and took a noisy drink from the carton. “Seriously? Would it kill you to use a glass?” “Yes, it would,” he said. “My diabetes. My blood sugar was low already when I walked in, and then you hit me with your usual verbal assault. I had to get some juice, stat. Besides, this is mine, I paid for it. I bought the groceries this week.” “WTF? Are you moving in?” I asked. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Moving in, moving out, whadda you care? You'll be whooping it up Down Unda, putting another shrimp on the barbie. Now be agreeable or I'll make you ride in the trunk.” Melanie finally emerged from the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. The two of them started snorgling immediately, much to my disgust. The intercom buzzed. It was Drew. “Why don't you come up, we're getting a ride,” I said, and I gave him the floor and apartment number. No sooner had he walked in the door than Melanie was peppering Drew with questions. He gave brief answers. “Hostel ... surfing ... my friend ... yup, return tickets.” “We're staying in a hostel?” I asked. “I thought you knew someone.” The four of us sat down at the little Ikea table, boy-girl, boy-girl. “I do know someone,” Drew said. “Darla works at a hostel.” “I'm sure the hostel will be fine,” I said to Melanie, though I wasn't feeling very fine about the arrangement at all. He'd said 'she works at a hostel,' which meant I'd be in Australia,

where I knew not another soul, and we'd be hanging out with Darla, Drew's ex-girlfriend. “Sick!” said Snackboy. “Those hostel places are crawling with bed bugs. I hope you sleep with your mouth closed. And your legs crossed tight.” “Eat a dick,” I said. Melanie yelled, “Children! To the car, now, no fighting. I can't believe I took a vacation day for this.” We rolled our suitcases out to the hallway. Snackboy grabbed his man-purse and Melanie reminded him to lock the door. Drew said something about Snackboy's arm tattoo, and they began having a bonding conversation about body art. I could have vomited. We got in the elevator, where I closed my eyes and pictured the warm, sandy beach, and koala bears, which I was pretty sure lived in Australia. The word hostel bothered me. It sounded like hostile. What a terrible name for a place to sleep. Shortly after we'd gotten in the elevator, it squawked to a halt. We weren't yet at the lobby, but stuck between the third and second floor. I grabbed Drew's hand. “This happens all the time,” I said. “Don't worry, it takes five minutes, maybe ten, for the caretaker to re-set the circuit or whatever and we'll be rolling again.” “I'm fine, really.” He squeezed my hand back. “I'm not claustrophobic. My phobia is only about ...” He gulped. “Blood, or needles.” “That day when the rat trap went off, what was that about?” “It's okay, Drew, we experience this at the dental clinic a fair bit,” Melanie said. “It's a puncture phobia you have, right? We've got some clients who are deathly afraid of the dentist —some of them have to be medicated, or knocked right

out. They'd probably faint if they had to dissect an animal or see one in a trap, with its little—” I clamped my hand over her mouth to get her to stop. At the mention of the dentist, Drew's face had paled, and I was worried he might faint, like he did the first day I'd met him. “Let's all stay calm,” I said. “Echo was trying to help me,” Drew said. “She read a book about phobias and was trying to desensitize me, but then, things got really weird.” “How weird?” Snackboy asked. “Yeah, how weird?” I asked. “Exactly what was she doing ... to you?” Drew looked around wildly, like the rat we'd caught in the trap at the bakery. “Should we use the emergency phone, or press a button? I don't exactly love tight spaces.” The elevator still wasn't moving, but getting hotter. I had a sudden thought, and my heart began to race until my blood was like an ocean in my ears. Some recent details began fitting together in my head, forming an unpleasant image. I turned to Snackboy and asked if he had his diabetes supplies in his man-purse, and if I could borrow one of his disposables. He shrugged, unzipped the murse and handed me a needle, which I pulled out of its plastic wrapper. “How does this make you feel?” I asked Drew, holding up the needle. “Not funny,” Drew said. “Come on, put it away. I could throw up, or faint, and hit my head.” “Let's play truth or dare,” I said. “No, truth or poke.” I put my fingertips on the little red cap covering the needle. “Tell me

what was going on with you and Echo.” My throat got tighter until I was croaking, “What happened between you two?” Drew's knuckles turned white as he gripped the handrail. Snackboy pulled a bag of Cheezies from his man-purse. “Snack, anyone? I have granola bars, I have Fruit Rollups. Anyone? Snack?” “Shush with the snacks,” Melanie said as Snackboy, also known as, but rarely called, Jason, ripped open the bag of orange cheesy treats. I pulled the red plastic tip off the needle. “I'm going to poke you in the arm in three ... ” Snackboy said to Melanie, “Why don't we do kinky stuff like this?” “Two ...” Drew squeezed his eyes shut. “Stuff happened okay? It wasn't my idea. People make mistakes. I wasn't planning to, you know, have sex with her.” “Euch,” I said. Everyone was completely silent as I put the tip back on the needle and stuck it in my back pocket. “That woman is married, and she has a little kid,” Melanie said. “I wasn't thinking about any of those things,” he said. “She was always grabbing me at work. I think she was trying to get caught. And I know some of that was on the ceiling camera footage. Roxanne knew and she confronted Echo. She said we were going to ruin the show.” “They would have loved it,” I said. “They'd make a whole episode about it.”

“Not the show Roxanne wanted to make. She said she destroyed the footage, but I don't want to be in town when the last episode airs. Just in case. Candy might have stolen some of it and gone over Roxanne to promote her own career.” Images flashed through my mind: Echo taking down her blond pigtails and trailing her hair across Drew's chest; Drew kissing her and telling her she was beautiful, just like he'd done to me. In his corner of the elevator, Drew put his hands over his sweaty face. “This whole thing is a nightmare. People who watch the show are going to hate me.” “That's what your worried about?” I asked. “Your reputation? What about ruining someone's family?” “Uh, yeah, I guess I made an error in judgment,” he said. “But it's over now.” The elevator lurched and I stumbled forward. Drew must have mistaken this for reconciliation, because he put his arms around me in a big hug. “Luckily I came to my senses and I chose you.” He looked down into my eyes. “I chose you.” His brown-gold eyes looked different that day, and I thought of that schoolyard-taunt, You're so full of crap, your eyes

are brown. I realized Snackboy and Melanie were also talking— arguing about mistakes and forgiveness. The doors opened on the lobby floor. Everything was a blur as Drew pulled me and my suitcase along and we disembarked, pushing through a group of people waiting to get on. “Felt like we were in there for a hundred years,” Drew said, sounding relaxed again. I wanted to think about beaches and sunshine and koala bears, but all I could think of was the word cake, spelled out in dog turds.

Melanie said, “Just because someone asks for your forgiveness doesn't mean you have to give it. Not unless you're a saint or something, and I am not a saint.” I thought she was talking to me, but she was looking at her boyfriend, or fiance, or whatever he was. Something red outside the building lobby's front window caught my eye. A red Beetle slowly drove by. Red means

stop. The red Beetle was followed by a blue one. Then a green one. Then white, another white, yellow, and blue, one after another. “Look,” I said, pointing. Nobody turned. Drew was offering his own opinions about morality, and the three of them were still arguing about mistakes and intentions. Snackboy talked about how attractive Echo was, from what he'd seen on the show, and how some women throw themselves at men, and the men shouldn't be blamed. Echo. With her stupid streaked blond hair in girlish pigtails, wiggling around in form-fitting dresses, giving me advice. And she'd had her hands, her lips, her body, all over Drew. Out front of the building, the Volkswagen Beetle parade ended with a rainbow-striped Beetle decked out in balloons and streamers. The honking and cheering faded away. I turned around and faced Drew. I'd bought the travel insurance, so my ticket was refundable. “Who's Darla?” I asked. He took a deep breath in and out. “We shouldn't be late, it's an international flight.” “Do I need to get out the needle and jab you a few times?” His face blanched. “Darla's this girl I used to hang out with. It was nothing.”

“Girl you used to 'hang out with,' huh? Like you hang out with me? What is this anyways, are we dating? Are we even exclusive, because I thought we were, but I guess I'm not a free spirit world traveler like you and all your friends.” “Madison, come on, we're just going on a trip, we're not getting married.” “It's Madeleine, not Madison. You dickfish.” “Come on,” he said, waving me to the exit. “Or would you rather be late and miss the flight?” My feet wouldn't move. Melanie and Snackboy and some neighbors from the building stood by, quietly watching us. “I choose the car,” I said. The statement sounded funny, like a trivia show contestant's decision. I'll have what's behind

door number two. “What are you talking about?” Drew asked me. “My car. I've wanted a Beetle for years, and I have enough to buy one if I don't go on this trip with you. I can go to Australia some other time, in the future, with someone I can actually trust.” “Come on. Haven't you ever made a mistake?” he asked me. “Yes, plenty. But I didn't know it at the time. I didn't feel the wrongness in every fiber of my body.” “Be reasonable,” he said. “I'll show you a really good time.” I straightened my posture and offered him my hand to shake. “Mr. Christopher Whatever-your-middle-name-is Drew, I wish you the best in Australia. Use sunscreen. Sleep with your mouth shut. And try to keep your troublemaker in your pants.”

He didn't shake my hand. He didn't say anything. I grabbed my suitcase and rolled it back to the elevator. I wasn't going to look back. Cool girls don't look back. A few seconds later, Melanie dashed in and joined me inside the elevator just as the doors were closing. “What took you so long?” I asked. She held up two loose keys—one for the lobby and one for the apartment door. “Had to get these back.” “When did you get so smart?” I asked. “About a minute ago.” “Pizza tonight?” “I like pizza,” she said.

Chapter 28 The sixth and final episode of the first season of Bakery Confidential aired in November. Melanie and I watched the episode at Mom's house, in her somewhat-clean living room. Along with our help, Mom had spent the previous month working with a professional organizer, and together we liberated the front room of the house for a proper living room. We still had far to go, but being able to sit together in my mother's house and watch a TV show—something many families take for granted—felt like a victory. The episode opened with Angelo telling the camera that although running a business was challenging, he'd never regretted it. Of course, the speech was taped before the fire, and before Echo had said she wanted a divorce. TVAngelo looked happy as he said, “People who work for themselves will do twice as much for half the pay, simply for the reward of being free. I have freedom, how great is that?” The next part was a montage—a series of quick cuts of us all working hard, then transitioning into some of the lighter moments: Robin on a stool, tucking her mother's hair into a hairnet after blond strands showed up on the cheesecake; Drew juggling cream puffs; me putting the final finishing touches on a practice cake, then all of us tasting a slice;

Echo and Angelo, hugging and astonished, during the redecorating reveal. It was a nice episode, and though I was on the edge of my seat worrying they'd show footage from the 24-hour cameras—some awful scene of Echo and Drew messing around inside the bakery—it never came up. I was relieved Angelo and Robin wouldn't have to see that, or face the public after everyone else saw. The show ended with an update, including photographs and newspaper clippings from the big fire that destroyed the bakery. And then, finally, text scrolled up, announcing the second season would begin shooting in the new year—a full thirteen episodes, kicking off with rebuilding in a nearby, bigger location. Three people would be returning: Angelo, his daughter Robin, and Angelo's new business partner, Maddie. The day we got the keys to the new place felt like Christmas, only two weeks early. It was in a lovely old building with real bricks, and the interior was an absolute wreck, hence the affordability. I wanted to start painting and sledge-hammering walls that day, but Angelo wisely directed me back to my budgets, spreadsheets, and business plan. Regina, our accountant, had been giving me some lessons, and I'd taken an accounting course, so I knew the difference between a balance sheet and an income statement. “It's more than most business owners know,” she'd said. We were scheduled to start work in the new year, with cameras rolling, of course.

While other people were finishing their last-minute Christmas shopping, I found myself standing at the bottom

of a mountain. Spring was many months away, but there was no rain; the sky was as clear as rolled-out blue fondant icing. Hudson slung his backpack over his shoulder and said, “You're going to get your new hiking boots all dirty today.” “That's what they're for,” I said. He took the lens cap off his camera. “Let me get one before you're all sweaty.” “I still look cute when I'm sweaty.” He gave me that sweet, embarrassed smile that made me want to do bad things to him. “The photo's for the website,” he said. “Sure it is.” I put my hands on my knees and gave him a coquettish pose. We'd been flirting for weeks, but that day was our first real date—our first time alone together that wasn't about website-related business. I was dying to kiss him, but I'd promised myself to take it slow with boys. I had nearly kissed him the day he dropped by the apartment with Jaslene, carrying a framed copy of the movie poster for Amelie. Apparently, they'd just happened upon it at a second-hand shop and he'd said it reminded him of me. The two of them helped me hang it in the dining room where the ficus tree had been, and then Jaslene had made googly eyes while he asked me out on the hiking date. Hiking was a pretty good idea for a date. Compared to life in the city, being out in the woods, surrounded by nothing but nature and birds, was inspiring. “No, really, Maddie, put the curves away,” Hudson said. “It actually is for the website.” “Oh.” I straightened up and put on my best business-like

smile. He snapped a few photos, then came to stand next to me, holding the camera with one outstretched arm. “Try not to look so sexy,” he said. “The website servers can't handle the traffic from all your fans.” I pressed my cheek next to his as he took the picture. As we climbed the mountain path, together, I tried not to think about how far I had to go, but how far I'd come. Six months earlier, I'd applied for a bakery job so I could earn money for a car and get my sister off my back about dental hygienist school. The car, I got. There was even a rumor going around that Jaslene and I had dressed all in black, like a couple of ninjas, and drove my black Beetle around a certain beachside neighborhood every night searching for a certain rusty old truck owned by a certain jerk named Brian, and when we found it, we opened the passenger-side door with the broken lock, and hid a five-pound trout inside the upholstery of the bench seat. Note to self: Never cross Jaslene. Before the summer, I thought I knew what love was. I thought I had true love with Parker, but after we broke up, the feeling shifted down to friendship so easily. I thought I loved Drew, but that was something else—lust, maybe. I wasn't using my brain. He'd wanted me to go away with him, but only because he didn't want to go alone. To Drew, I was Fancy Two, replacement companion. I was sure the minute the plane landed—no, while he was still on the plane —he found another girl to adore him. Or maybe he got back with his ex, Darla. She could have him. Maybe part of me had been desperate for an excuse to avoid going to Australia with him, so when he confessed to sleeping with our boss, I was as relieved as I was disgusted. I'd thought the nagging sense I was making the wrong decision was just my insecurity. But it was the voice

of reason. The world is full of people who are willing to use you, and they aren't always who they seem. I thought Roxanne, the producer, would do anything to get ratings, but it turned out she was protecting us all along. She knew the show, and the bakery, would benefit from a little drama, but she drew the line at exposing Echo's affair. I planned to thank Roxanne, as soon as I saw her in January for the start of filming. The day I climbed the mountain, I thought about the things I'd discovered in the previous few months. I'd learned that if you peel a banana from the bottom up, you get less of those stringy strands. Egg whites whip up best at room temperature. Family and friends are more valuable than money. And most importantly, real love takes time, and trust. Hudson grabbed my hand as I stumbled over a tree root. “You're unusually quiet today,” he said. “Do you have a fever? Have aliens replaced you with a cyborg version of yourself?” “No,” I said as I squeezed his hand. “But are you sure I can make it up this hike? The mountain looks awfully big. Isn't there a smaller one we can use as a practice hike?” Hudson stopped and took another photo of me. “This is the practice hike.” ~ the end ~

Thank you for reading! I began writing Practice Cake in the winter of 2010, when the fantasy of summer weather and a warm bakery was preferable to the rain. I have lived in Vancouver for over fifteen years, in several different neighborhoods. Some real-life events were included in Practice Cake, such as the post-Stanley Cup riots. I was safe at home when the 2011 hockey game riots began, and I feared for the safety of friends who were caught in the crowds downtown. Residents of the city, myself included, were deeply touched by the outpouring of kindness that followed that dark night. Volunteers helped clean up the downtown core, and people posted their own positive messages and spoke of their love for the city. The names of streets, neighborhoods, and beaches used in the book are all real. The Bagelhole is loosely based on a place I adore, called Benny's Bagels. The Little Shop of Horrors is not a real location, but is based on a beloved video store that closed recently: Videomatica. Angelo's Bakery is also fictional, but remarkably similar to some local businesses. An actual reality TV show (The Cupcake Girls) is shot at a cupcake bakery not far from where I live, and served as part of the inspiration for the TV show in the book. While there is no sequel, you can get another peek at Maddie Bird as she makes a brief appearance in the opening of the next book in the Life in Saltwater City series.

Smart Mouth Waitress - Book 2 in the Life in Saltwater City series - Peridot "Perry" Martin makes a strong first impression, from her white-girl dreadlocks to her uncensored opinions. When she combs out her dreads on a whim, she catches the eye of a cute guy who’s a regular at The Whistle, the

diner where she works as a waitress. He mistakes Perry for someone completely different: the girl of his dreams. Perry tries to become that girl. But it’s so hard to be normal. And eyebrow piercings are so cute.

Smart Mouth Waitress, like Practice Cake, is also set in Vancouver, BC, Canada. Read reviews or download a sample now from Amazon.com ~

Charlie Woodchuck is a Minor Niner - It’s 1988, and Charlie Woodchuck is the most minor of niners. At thirteen, she’s the youngest girl at Snowy Cove High School, and so clueless, she wore leg warmers and acid-wash jeans on her first day. Big mistake! Almost as big a mistake as signing up for a boys-only shop class. Doy. Just when she thinks the first week of high school can’t get any more weird, Charlie discovers she may be adopted. According to her Science textbook, her eyes should be blue, not brown. Now the girl with the boy’s name will have to use her detective skills to uncover the mystery of her identity. She’ll need the help of best friend Stacy, expert blackmailer, and new friend Ross, expert class clown. Before the year ends, Charlie will face down the biggest bullies of all: the all-powerful members of Snowy Cove’s School Board. The Board doesn’t like what Charlie’s been up to, and they’re all out of doughnuts. Recommended for: Middle-grade or Ages 12+; Adults enjoy it too, especially if they went to high school in the '80s. Read reviews or download a sample now from Amazon.com ~

Poke (Book 1 of The Paranormal Poke Chronicles) Zan is a teenage boy with a talent for discovering any girl's secrets. When he invites a girl to poke her finger into his navel, he gets a psychic trip to Secret Town. Zan never likes what he finds. When he meets mysterious, beautiful Austin, with her waistlength hair and mature laugh, he wants to get acquainted with her the slow way. Austin, however, can’t resist her curiosity, and when she pokes her finger into Zan’s belly button, he sees … nothing. Austin dashes out of Zan’s house and out of his life, leaving Zan heartbroken and confused. To find peace, he must unravel the secret of his power. Is it a gift, or a curse? How can Zan love someone with no future? How can he not? Poke is a fast-paced novel about Zan’s adventurous summer, as he battles witches, experiments with astral projection, and discovers the secret of his strange power, all to be with the girl he loves. Recommended for: Ages 14+; some mature content. Read reviews or download a sample now from Amazon.com ~

Swarm (Book 2 of The Paranormal Poke Chronicles) It’s Halloween, and all Zan wants to do is see his girlfriend smile when he gives her a four-month anniversary gift. Instead, he crosses paths once more with tragedy, and is pressed to solve a murder. Zan is no ordinary high school boy, though, and he believes he can use his magical power to find the killer. His unusual talent is the ability to discover any girl’s secrets, from the past, present, or future. The trick is he has to get the girl to put her finger in his belly button, a feat that is sometimes easy, but often not. Even with his visions, Zan won’t find this murder easy to

solve, especially when he can’t tell who, or what, is plotting against him. As he unravels ancient secrets, Zan gets closer to the killer, and will be forced to choose sides. If he makes the wrong choice, someone dear to him will pay the price. Read reviews or download a sample now from Amazon.com ~ If you've enjoyed this book, please consider posting a review on Amazon. Practice Cake on Amazon.com. ~ I'd love to hear from you! Check my web site for my email and twitter account. I also have an email newsletter list you can sign up for, so you'll find out about upcoming books. Dalya Moon - www.dalyamoon.com