Pecan Pie Read online

  “I honestly did not expect you to respond this way, Isabella. You have always carried yourself as a much more mature young lady than this.” She tsks like I’ve forgotten to empty the dishwasher or something. This is my life! I pull away from her touch to put some space between us.

  “You’re really trying to call me immature, mother? Seriously? I feel like I’m trapped in the twilight zone!” I shout. Nervous energy pulses through my legs and I have to move to work the jitters out. Our living room is small, so I end up pacing in a small circle between their seats.

  “Peanut, New York is only a few hours away. You should be home for Christmas,” my father begins, but I can’t hear anything else. All sounds have been replaced by a high pitched squeal and my stomach hurts. My knees weaken, like a newborn baby deer, as I settle onto the floor beneath me. A little dramatic? Maybe.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Did you say New York? You’re not simply sending me off, but you want to ship me to another state? That’s not a quick trip to Baltimore, Dad! That’s what, five, six hours in the car? And you want to sit here and act like I’m being ridiculous or immature? Well, I’m not going!” I exclaim, crossing my arms over my chest like a petulant child. If they want immature, I’ll give it to them. My mother sighs from the depths of her lungs, only angering me further.

  “Of course you’re going Isabella, don’t be absurd. This is not the kind of thing you turn away. You’d have to work at that pie shop for years to make the money you will in even just a few months tutoring the Baxter boy. Remember, an Ivy League school is not cheap. Don’t be a child about this. I need you to grow up and accept a gift when it’s laid at your feet.”

  Tears prick my eyes. Every intense emotion I go through ends with me

  in tears. My mother has never yelled at me. At my father and occasionally my brother? Yes, but never at me. My words disappear at the back of my throat and I’m certain I’m about to lose it. Mom shifts her weight off the couch to sit beside me on the floor. Reaching forward, she takes my hands out of my lap and leans in close to whisper, “Honey, I’m not doing this to punish you. The last thing I want is to send you away for a bulk of the last year before you leave for college. But, I would do you wrong as your mom if I didn’t make you carry this out."

  “Why would these people even want a teenager to tutor their kid if they have all this money? Can’t they hire a retired Harvard professor or some savant to teach him? Why do they need me?” My father holds my gaze with an unblinking intensity.

  “Because they have already tried those things and none of it has worked. You’re their last shot.” Oh, good, they’re shipping me away to work with an impossible psycho.

  It would have been easy to lay my head on Mom’s shoulder and tell her I understood, completely submit. But for the first time in my life, I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to be the good girl for the sake of being the good girl. I want my parents to see me. I want them to see the hurt and the anger that they caused. I don’t want them to be able to settle into their decision with any kind of calm or resolve. I want them to know this is not okay. I pull myself out of her hold and push up to my feet.

  “And how long before I leave for Alcatraz?” I huff, moving toward the living room window. This space is far too small for the three of us. They share another psychic communication with only their eyes and it makes me want to punch them both.

  You need to be on your way in the morning.”

  Chapter Two

  Rosie shrieks, “What?!” back at me in horror from my phone’s little screen. I pull over on the side of the highway to keep talking to her. I’m bound to have an accident or get a ticket at the rate I’m going.

  “This happened yesterday? Bella, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Don’t you think I would have said something sooner if I had known? I’m pretty sure they were afraid I’d revolt if they gave me advance notice.”

  A motorcycle flies by me at the speed of light. I hate driving out amongst the non-Harpersgrove humans. I don’t know these people who drive twenty miles over the speed limit and switch lanes like it’s some well choreographed ballet to which I don’t know the steps.

  Rosie’s shoulders scrunch up to her ears. The purple rose tattoo on her left shoulder peaks out of the collar of her shirt. “You mean like when you came by the shop yesterday afternoon?”

  My cheeks flush red with embarrassment for forgetting about that point. My mind is one-tracked right now. I turn down the car heater as sweat begins pools on my upper lip. No one likes the sweaty fat girl.

  “Well, it happened yesterday.”

  A red pickup slows to a stop beside my car. The driver is my father’s age with salt and pepper hair that flips out from beneath his baseball cap. He mouths an exaggerated You okay? to me. I muster the best smile that I can and nod. He offers me the same back and peels away. Maybe the people outside my town aren’t all bad.

  “How did Beattie react when you told her?” Rosie asks, pulling my attention back to the little screen.

  I rest my head back against the seat and stare at the small hole in the padding above.

  “She was Beattie.”

  I stomp up to my room and pout. Planning the perfect retort to keep me cemented in place. I flip through my phone to find justification that this is some violation of child labor laws or indentured servitude. I’m not finding as much as I’d hoped for. Then I remember the pie shop and all the things I need to do there. They can’t make it work without me. Definitely not on such short notice. How on earth will Beattie take the news? She relies on me to take care of the day-to-day operations. I’d be leaving her high and dry. Why didn’t my parents think of Beattie?! I need to get as much in order at the shop as possible. I check the time: a little after eleven. I force myself to my feet and down the stairs.

  My mother is working her magic over the stove, something delicious cooking up in the assorted copper pans. She’s pushed her dark hair away from her face with a thick black headband. Around her waist she wears an ivory lace apron that is definitely more style over function. Sunshine beams from her face when she sees me. I suppose she thinks I’m finally ready to be “rational,” ready to accept her “gift” with a smile.

  “There you are!” she exclaims as she grabs the handle of one of the pots. “Are you hungry? Would you like some lunch?” I honestly think she’s going to hand me the whole pot.

  I resist the urge to give in to her tasty treats and pull my coat off the hook by the front door. “I have to go to work,” I say, my voice flat as I pull the zipper up to my chin.

  Mom’s entire face falls and regret fills me for all of a minute.

  “Izzy,” she begins, pulling a childhood nickname from her back pocket. I’m pretty sure I haven’t heard it in about ten years, around the time I found out there wasn’t a Santa Claus. I caught my parents laying the presents out under the tree late in the night on Christmas Eve. It was awful. She’d tried to soften the blow then and I know she’s trying to do it now.

  “I know you’re upset, but we have a lot to do before you leave. I want to make sure you’re ready.” My hand rests on the doorknob. I know I should walk through, but I can’t let it go.

  “I’m not going to be ready, Mom. Not in a few hours or even a few days. You guys threw out everything that makes our relationship strong. I can’t catch my balance. Right now, I’m going to do the one thing I can do. I’m going to work and try to explain to my boss that I’m abandoning her, with no notice, for months.” Her jaw hangs open and I know she has plenty to say, but I’m not willing to give her the chance. Before she can take a breath, I open the front door and step out into the brisk cold. Breathing the freezing air into my lungs sends a chill through my body.

  I slide into my car and zip away to work. Just as I’m getting out, Lucy Wilcox, head cheerleader and local meanie, emerges from Curl Free or Dye Trying Salon. Having never gone to school, I didn’t have the normal unpleasant upbringing that the other girls experienced with Lucy. But knowing me didn’t seem to be important to Lucy, she hated me anyway.

  I have never been thin, not a day in my life. My waistline is wider than it should be and my boobs never fit right in any shirt. My butt and legs look thick like tree trunks in whatever I wear on my lower half. Don’t get me started on dresses. My face is actually pretty nice, gray eyes and full pink lips, never a pimple. My hair falls in soft, light brown curls at my shoulders. I have that going for me.

  Lucy doesn’t give a damn about my face or hair, she only sees my less than desirable body. I’ve spent a significant amount of my life beating people to the punchline. I figure, if I make the fat joke first, it’ll sting a little less when other people make them. I try to take the power back. But then there’s Lucy. I’m pretty sure girls like her have a sixth sense ability to find exactly what you hate about yourself and make you feel much, much worse. I’ve never known how to fight that. She clicks towards me in her knee-high, heeled boots, outfitted in a skin tight sweater dress and expensive leather jacket. My throat closes when a grin stretches across her red glossed lips. She’s like a hungry fox and I’m a lone, scared chicken.

  “Well, well, well,” she begins, her voice smooth as a cat’s purr. “If it isn’t Bubble Butt Bella.” My grip on the strap of my bag tightens like I’m holding onto a security blanket. I try to channel the no nonsense attitude of my friend Goldie. She may be the one person alive who has no problem dealing with Lucy.

  “Oh, Luce,” I begin with a smile, fighting the urge to sprint to the shop or vomit. “You know the way to my heart. I love a good alliteration.” For a moment I hope my five dollar word will throw her off balance. That’s when I remembe
r that Lucy is ridiculously smart.

  “Yeah, fat ass. I know what an alliteration is, you socially awkward freak,” she spits back at me. Her words burn. My tongue feels too large for my mouth. I want to swing the moment back in my favor, throw some sharp jab back in her face, but the only word repeating in my head is “DANGER!”

  “Begone, Satan,” I hear from behind me. Goldie walks in strong strides toward us. I could have run away and lived to fight another day, but having my one girl army is better.

  Lucy is undeniably pretty, but Goldie Rust is drop dead gorgeous. Her corn colored hair hangs in straight locks down to her knees. She wears it today in a thick, long braid that must have taken at least an hour to construct. Her skinny waist expands out into perfect hips and perky boobs. She has a face so flawless that sometimes it’s hard to look at her for too long. She’s as pretty as Lucy could ever be, but Goldie’s kind and caring in a way that Lucy could never fathom. Lucy rolls her eyes and pops the gum in her mouth as she rests her weight against my car. I wince, wanting her to move, but my tongue is still paralyzed.

  “OmiGod Rust,” she says to Goldie. “Do you ever remove the cape and take a break from being the savior of your little freak friends?”

  “Sorry, Lucifer, I guess I have a problem with bullies picking on my friends. Now why don’t you get on your broomstick and fly away?” Lucy narrows her gaze at my friend, temporarily forgetting all about me.

  “Goldie, you think you’re so amazing because you’re pretty. But don’t forget that you’re stupid, poor, and a bastard child. You will never be me.”

  Goldie licks her lips, thinking for a second before she answers. Then she leans in close to Lucy’s face and hisses, “And thank God for that.”

  Beautiful face glaring into beautiful face. It’s like Clash of the Barbies. I can see the muscles work in Lucy’s throat before she shoves into Goldie’s shoulder to get past her.

  “Get out of my way, freak,” she snarls at me. I’m happy to oblige. I’ll have the perfect comeback next time. She stamps away to terrorize another village or punch a small child in the face. Once the demon girl is gone from sight, Goldie turns to me with complete disapproval.

  “You really have to learn to harness your inner power with that one, Bells,” she says, her tongue clicking like a very annoying bell. Guilt fills me. I’m sure being everyone’s knight in shining armor gets old for Goldie. I pull my arms into the sleeves of my coat, like a turtle sinking into my shell.

  “I know. I tried, but I did not succeed,” I admit with defeat and only a hint of a pout. Goldie smirks at that.

  “Yeah,” she begins, leaning her weight back against my car. It’s too cold to be having this conversation outside, but Goldie doesn’t seem bothered at all. “I saw you square your shoulders. Then you slumped forward and I figured you needed me.”

  She knows me all too well. Goldie will never be a damsel locked in a tower. She’d climb down her own hair to get away. Not only does Goldie work at the pie shop, she helps whenever she can at her grandfather’s drugstore across the street. It’s easy enough for her to bounce back and forth between the two when necessary. I know how strong Goldie is and how hard she works. That’s probably why Lucy’s comments hit me like they did.

  “She shouldn’t have said those things about you,” I say, shoving my hands into the depths of my pockets, desperate for warmth. I feel the need to impart whatever kind words I have onto my people before I have to leave them.

  Goldie shrugs and rocks her weight back on her heels. “She wasn’t completely wrong. My mom and I are pretty poor, we still live with my grandparents, and my parents weren’t married when they had me. I guess that makes me whatever the female equivalent of a bastard is. The stupid was a little mean, but Lucy is mean. What are you going to do?”

  I wrap my arms around her middle, hugging her to me when the words aren’t enough. She hugs me back, rocking back and forth with me and it feels like a goodbye.

  “I thought the shop was closed today,” Goldie continues, thrusting her chin in the direction of the door with a big, red “Closed” sign on it.

  “Yeah it is. They’re finishing up the new floor in the dining area. I need to take care of payroll.” And figure out how to tell everyone that I’m leaving.

  “Oh, well don’t let me keep you from paying me! I’ll let you get to it,” she says with a laugh.

  I have never moved faster to get inside out of the cold in my life. I’m sure there’s permanent frostbite on every surface of my body. After a few failed attempts, I get my shaky hand steady enough to slide my key into the lock and walk inside. Bombarded with the sound of Whitney Houston belting from our speakers, I smile. Rosie must be here. I see her blonde head bobbing up and down through the small kitchen window as she rocks out at the top of her lungs. Rosie’s a free spirit if I’ve ever met one and loves her work in solitude more than anything else. Our ever diligent baker, she practically lives at the shop. Rounding the corner out of the kitchen, she nearly drops dead when she sees me standing there.

  “Damn it, Bella!” she exclaims. “Announce yourself! I could’ve had a knife and killed you.”

  I smirk as I take in her traditional Rosie costume. Slutty Sandy style, she calls it. I’ll miss that familiarity. Pleather leggings and a low-cut black shirt make up her skin tight catsuit. She finishes the look with red ballet flats and a red rose nestled in her blond bun at the base of her skull. White makeup covers her olive skin and contrasts with her stark black eyeliner and flashy red lipstick. It seems like it would be too much for the everyday, but she always surprises me and pulls it off. My own leggings and tee-shirt make me feel underdressed.

  “The floors look good,” I say, taking in the finished product. To be honest, it’s pretty much the same floor. A checkered black and white linoleum. But Beattie insisted that this was a better quality and would hold up much longer. Rosie nods, already on her way back to the kitchen.

  “Yeah, they did a good job, but man they were loud,” she says with a disapproving shake of her head.

  THEY were too loud?

  “I’ll be in the back taking care of payroll if you need anything,” I say, instead of pointing out her own noisiness. There’s no reasoning with Rosie anyway. She grumbles something inaudible as I head back to the office. I know it’s a little thing. I’m the manager of a shop with seven employees, including the owner and myself. But at seventeen, I’m already in charge. That’s why I can’t figure out why my mom hates this place so much. It’s important to me; it should be important to her. Now she’s taking it from me.

  The next hour flies by as I run the payroll. I slide my black framed glasses to the top of my head to give my eyes a rest. I stand up just as the office door swings open. In walks our fearless leader, Beatrix “Beattie” Cod. True to her nature, her wild red curls stick out in every direction off her head. The hoop in her nose and lenses of her wire rimmed glasses glisten in the light coming from the desk lamp.

  “What part of ‘take the day off’ did you not understand exactly?” she asks, her voice deep and smoky.

  “Sorry. I forgot about payroll and I wasn’t sure if you’d remember.” Beattie smiles, crossing her arms over her chest, leaning her weight against the closed office door.

  “I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of these magical contraptions they make called cell phones? Revolutionary, you should think about getting one.” She closes the space between us in only a few steps, picking up the neat and orderly stack of papers that I’ve left upon her desk. “The only reason I came in was to take care of this, thank you very much.”

  “Beat. Do you have a minute?” I ask, knowing it’s now or never. Her eyes leave the papers, looking up at me from under her pale lashes. She motions to the chair across from her desk.

  “Are you all right? You look a little pale.” I force a smile to my lips, but I’m sure it comes out as some kind of twisted grimace.