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I glanced over at Tristan. His hair was disheveled and he looked puzzled. He appeared to be having trouble with the egg whites as he looked over to see mine. He then put his head down and continued trying to get his to look the same as mine, but I knew he had added in the cream of tartar too fast and was certain his machine wasn’t on a high enough setting. It was impossible that they’d turn out because they weren’t being beaten fast enough for them to form.
I slowly began folding in the sugar and ground almonds, carefully folding the already stiffened egg whites and dry ingredients all together. I was completely pleased with the way they were turning out, and once I was happy with the consistency, I did my drop test. Sure enough, the lava-like dough dropped a figure eight perfectly without breaking, and so I began to fill my piping bag, carefully piping uniform drops on the baking sheet in front of me.
When I was finished, I looked over to the mess Tristan had in front of him. His dough was a runny mess and he looked completely frustrated. In that moment, for some reason, I felt bad for him. I didn’t know why it was I felt bad for him, to be honest. He’d never cared for anyone else, but in some weird way, as I watched him struggling, I felt bad for him.
I turned my attention back to my tray and gently tapped it on the counter, releasing any air bubbles from the dough, and then set it aside. Then I turned my attention to the filling. It would easily take me forty minutes to get that part of the recipe done, so I focused all my attention to that.
The afternoon passed fairly quickly, and before I knew it. my French macarons sat in front of me on the plate. I was so proud of the way they’d turned out and was even more pleased when Evangeline looked at my plate and picked one of them up, taking a bite.
“Very good, Brooke. These are amazing,” she said, smiling at me, “That filling is superb.
She said nothing more, then walked over to Tristan, whose macarons looked nothing like mine. She did the same thing, looking them over and taking a small bite, only she said nothing, but the raised eyebrow gave me an indication of how he’d done.
“Congratulations, class. Marks will be posted by next week. You may take what you baked with you should you want. You may start cleanup now, then once you are finished, you may head to your seats and begin the written portion of the exam.”
I glanced over to Tristan whose workspace was still a disaster. I had already cleaned mine up, since I had been finished early enough. I grabbed a small container from my bag and carefully placed my macarons inside. Then I washed up the plate they’d been sitting on, wiped down the counter, and made my way back to my desk where I began working on the last portion of the exam.
* * *
I stood outside of the classroom and looked at the marks posted. I ran my finger down the list when I heard someone clear their throat behind me.
“I don’t know why you’re even checking. You know you passed,” the familiar voice said.
“I wanted to see if for myself,” I bit out, running my finger down the list to find my name and beside it I saw a mark of ninety-six. I couldn’t help but feel amazed as I blinked, only to see the mark again.
Then I saw his hand on the paper and could feel the heat from his body behind me as he ran his finger down the list. I couldn’t help but follow it and was shocked to see he had a sixty-five. How badly did he fail that last exam, I wondered.
“You passed as well,” I said, my voice full of shock, then I cleared my throat.
“Did you have any doubt?” he asked.
I didn’t know what to say. To me, that mark was nothing to be proud of. I turned and met his eyes.
“Well, I guess I will see you next year?” he said, leaning up against the wall. “Have a good summer.”
“Yep, you too. I look forward to being neck in neck with you all year. Well, until the final exam that is.” I smirked. “I have to catch my bus,” I said, picking up my bag off the floor.
“Where are you going?” he questioned, looking at the bags.
“Home for a couple of weeks. What about you?”
“I’m heading home as well. I’ll be gone most of the summer, but I’ll see you in the fall.”
“Sounds good. Have a safe trip,” I said, picking up the rest of my bags.
“You too.”
I spent the summer back home in Willow Valley. I helped my parents with the diner, spent time with friends, and spent my weekends practicing my pastries. I wanted to be prepared for next year. Two weeks before I was supposed to return to school I’d received a text message from Tristan. I was shocked and surprised at the same time, so much so that I’d decided to text Emily instead of responding to Tristan. After I’d asked her what I should say, I replied with asking him how he was. Only, to my surprise, he never responded.
Before long I was back at the dorms and beginning the first day of class. I’d wandered into the assigned home room and took a seat. I watched with some funny sort of anticipation building as each student entered the room. As the classroom filled up, that anticipation sank, and soon the instructor stood in front of the class, giving his introduction speech.
I never laid eyes on Tristan Ryan again.
Brooke
Present Day - December
Snow was falling heavily outside, accumulating faster than the roads could be cleared. It had started off as a busy morning, but as the storm grew, it became quiet. I’d told Melinda she could have the rest of the day off if she wanted and so she took off. After she left, I’d gone back into the kitchen and pulled the chocolate chip cookies I’d been baking out of the oven when I heard the door chimes go.
