From the Desk of Zoe Washington(11)

That was it? I was going to help put together boxes?

“Are you sure you don’t need help with mixing red velvet batter, or decorating the cupcakes?” I asked. “I can help Corey with those sprinkles. I’m really good at sprinkles.”

Ariana saw the expression on my face. “I know this isn’t what you expected to do on your first day, but I could really use your help here,” she said.

“But—” I started.

“Ariana!”

We both looked toward the voice coming from the other side of the room. It was one of the employees from the front. “Phone call for you.”

“I have to grab that.” As she started walking away, she added, “Go ahead and get started on these boxes. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

I sighed and looked at the pile of pale-blue cardboard on the table. Was this all I’d get to do all summer? Make boxes and stare at everyone else while they actually baked? At least I got to see what it was like back there, in a real bakery kitchen. But I’d seen that on TV. I wanted to use the mixer and ovens myself. I wanted to learn how to pipe the icing on the cupcakes like Liz.

But Mom said I could audition for Kids Bake Challenge! if Ariana gave me a good review. I had to get to work on the boxes. It was so easy, I probably lost brain cells while doing it.

Pick up a box.

Fold up the sides.

Tuck in the flaps.

Repeat.

While I worked, my mind wandered and I started thinking about Marcus. He had to have gotten my letter by now. What did he think when he read it?

Would he write back? Did I really want him to?

I thought of everything Mom had said about Marcus.

Was I really about to become pen pals with a murderer?

Panic shot through me like icing out of Liz’s piping bag. Maybe it was a mistake to write Marcus back.

It was too late to get my letter back now. Focus on the boxes, I told myself.

Across the room, Ariana stood next to Vincent, talking to him about something as he scooped batter into large cupcake trays. I could do that. I was really good at scooping batter.

Ariana spotted me and the huge pile of folded blue boxes on the table and gave me a thumbs-up. I made myself smile.





Chapter Eight


If I couldn’t bake at Ari’s Cakes, at least I could do it at home. On Thursday, Grandma and I were in the kitchen getting ready to make fried Oreos, one of the recipes from Ruby Willow’s cookbook. I’d just mixed the batter that we’d dip the Oreos in, and now I was putting some confectioner’s sugar into a shaker. We’d shake the powdered sugar on top of the fried Oreos at the end, and eat them while they were still warm and gooey, with mugs of cold milk. Meanwhile, Grandma was busy pouring oil into a pot that was heating up on the stove. She was wearing my mom’s red apron over her white T-shirt and jeans. My apron, which my parents gave me for Christmas, had pastel macarons all over it.

My phone was connected to Bluetooth speakers on the kitchen table. I’d opened the music app and shuffled all of my songs. I was twisting the top back onto the shaker right as a Stevie Wonder song came on—“Superstition.” I had downloaded it after reading Marcus’s first letter.

“You like Stevie Wonder?” Grandma started bopping her head as she finished pouring the oil, making her turquoise beaded earrings jiggle. She loved fun earrings.

“I heard this song at Jasmine’s house once,” I lied. “Her dad was playing it. I liked it, so I added some of his songs to my playlist.”

“You’ve got soul. I love it.” Grandma wiggled her body as she sang along with the chorus. I started dancing, too.

Then my phone chimed, interrupting the song. It was my alarm set for noon. I practically jumped to turn off the alarm, before Stevie Wonder’s voice filled the kitchen again.

“What was that for?” Grandma asked.

“Nothing.” I wiped my hands off on a towel and grabbed my phone. “I’ll be right back. Don’t start without me!”

I bolted down the hall to the foyer and peeked out at our street from the storm door. A minute later, like clockwork, the mail carrier walked up the porch steps. He saw me standing there and gave a quick wave. I opened the door and he handed the mail to me.

“Thanks!” I said.

“Enjoy your day,” he said and turned to go.

I let the door close behind me and quickly flipped through the stack. There it was at the bottom, with the same prison return address, the same flag stamp, and my name and address handwritten again. But this time, Marcus had written with black ink instead of blue. The envelope was a little thicker, like there was more than one sheet of paper inside.

My heart raced. I left the rest of the mail on the foyer table and went straight to my room to read it.

To my Little Tomato,

I can’t tell you how happy I was to get your letter. I actually shed a few tears and people here thought someone must’ve died. I can count the number of times I’ve cried as an adult on one hand. Getting your letter was one of them. Want to know another time? When I first found out your mother was pregnant with you. When she told me, I burst into tears and actually fell down to my knees. I always wanted to be a father, since my dad was always such a great one to me. I wish I’d had the chance to be a better dad to you. When I found out I was going to prison, well, that was another time I cried. I hate that I’m missing out on your life, and so many other things.