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“It’s a scone.” She says scone like she’s saying diamond.
I frown at her. “Looks like a biscuit.”
She presses a finger to my lips, her eyes wide with alarm “Hush, before you hurt its feelings. Taste what it’s made of, then you’ll know why it’s special.”
I cast her a skeptical look but bite the biscuit thing before she starts talking about it like it's a human being again. It’s as light as air, and practically melts on my tongue. I groan, my eyes roll heavenward. The butter, ginger, lemon and sugar are like biting into sunshine.
“I knoooow,” she croons.
I nearly choke on my biscuit. She’s smiling wide, even though she’d said she couldn’t. But yesterday when I said it, she looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. So, I keep the thought to myself and take another bite of scone, intending to play it cool this time.
But I can’t.
It’s just too delicious.
“These flavors together -this is alchemy,” I exclaim and then bite my tongue. I know how my vocabulary annoys people.
Her eyebrows raise up and she smiles down at me, something like pride shining in her eyes.
“Alchemy? That’s a great word. How does it feel to be so incredibly smart?”
My stomach knots and I don’t want to talk about this, not with her. I shrug. “I’m only kinda smart, but mainly I read a whole lot.”
She smiles “I know you don’t think it’s great now but when you’re older, you’ll be so glad--”
“Yeah, obviously.” I hate how people seem to like telling how much I’ll love being me when I’m an adult. But that doesn’t make it feel better right now. I want to be normal.
Embarrassed by attention and not wanting to say anything else, I grab the glass of milk and wash down the rest of the scone.
She hops off the stool she’s perched on and walks over to the huge cabinet and starts taking out bowls and baking sheets. “It’s not so bad to be misunderstood and ahead of your time …Jesus, Jane Austen, Malcolm X, Winnie Mandela - they were all revolutionaries who were ahead of their time. People thought they were weird, chased them, teased them, rejected them. But they didn’t stop. And neither will you.”
“I won’t?” I ask absently. I’m mesmerized by the economy and precision of her movements as she lays out her tools.
She gathers up her long, straight dark hair and ties it up on top of her head in a huge bun.
“Nope. Because we can’t stop being ourselves. Just because you’re not like everyone else, doesn’t mean there’s a single thing wrong with you. You’re perfectly made.”
I can’t speak around the tears clogging my throat, my heart feels too big for my chest. No one has ever spoken to me like this.
“Okay, you go to do your homework while I get to work. I’ll have tons of clean up for you by the time you’re done.” She points me in the direction of a dark corridor but doesn’t even spare me a glance as she dons her crisp white apron and gets to work.
“Are you sure you don’t mind me being here?”
She shakes her head, her bun bobs as she ties the strings around her waist. “After living with my two brothers, hanging with boys is my forte. You couldn’t possibly annoy me half as much as they do.”
She cocks her head to look at me, that half smile on her pretty mouth, and my stomach feels weird, like I’m on the Texas Cyclone at Six Flags. I’m afraid that I’m gonna fall off the stool, so I stand up and grab the counter. “Give it a couple of days. My mother says I could try a saint,” I warn her.
“Well…I’m made of sterner stuff than some old saint. Besides, you’re like me…a giver. And I’ve heard it said somewhere, that when two givers get together, it’s like…alchemy.” Her eyes twinkle and this body that's always felt too small for the s
oul inside it, relaxes and I draw in a deep lungful of air. And then she says the words that, later on, I’ll recall as the ones that made my heart hers forever. “I water you, you water me. Together, we’re going to grow.”
“You did good. Cleaning up my colossal messes just might be your calling.” It’s a few minutes past midnight and Regan just locked up the store.
“As if it takes any talent to wash dishes,” I grumble, glad the dark is hiding the blush that blooms at her praise.
She nudges my shoulder as we make our way down the main street of Rivers Wilde. “I don’t know if it takes talent, but it certainly takes determination to scrub every last burned-on crumb off those cookie sheets. I used to think spotless baking pans were the sign of a dispassionate baker. Now, I’ll think of them as fruits of a committed dishwasher’s labor.”
We walk in silence the rest of the way to her blue Mustang and she pops the trunk for me to drop my BMX inside the surprisingly roomy compartment. When she starts the car, music blares from the speakers so loud that it rattles the windows. She winces and turns the volume down to just above audible.
