Chapter Seven Scarlett
“You’re doing it wrong.”
I glare at my mom through the screen of my phone. “I thought you said you’re not supposed to help me.” I run my hands under cold water again, so I don’t melt the butter in the pastry I’m handling. It seems to keep happening anyway, but I have avoided many a meltdown so far.
“I can’t not help you, tesoro. You’re hopeless.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom.” I dry my hands with a kitchen towel, looking down at the mess I’ve made. “You liked the cookies I made for you the other week.”
“Your dad threw them out as soon as you left,” she says nonchalantly.
“Great.”
I knew it was a bad idea calling my mom while I attempted one of the easier things on the list.
She’s said multiple times that she or my brothers can’t help me, but no one else can help me not only read Nonna’s handwriting on the recipe card but then translate it into English.
I only got a couple of years with my nonna before she passed, and she was the best person I knew.
She was kind and smart and so funny. My dad says I get all my humor from her and that we would’ve been as thick as thieves if she was around for longer.
I just wish I’d known her long enough to understand her handwriting.
I run my finger over the handwritten recipe again, grabbing my phone and turning the camera around so my mom can see it. “Can you just tell me what this says? I feel like I’m reading it all wrong.”
“You’ll find out what you need when you need it most,” she replies, in that annoying, older-and-wiser witchy voice.
“Mom, this isn’t a Disney movie. Just tell—”
The line goes dead.
Great. This is great. This is exactly what I need to add to my already stressful plate of things I need to organize.
The entire kitchen is covered in flour, my wrists ache from kneading the dough, and I’ve never been this up close and personal to homemade ricotta in my life. I feel like I’m going to be dreaming of pistachios when I eventually close my eyes tonight.
I’ve never been a good baker or good at cooking. It’s unfortunately the one skill I don’t have. Whenever we do cook at home, Wren and Kennedy are usually the ones in charge, and I handle all the taste testing.
As I’m cleaning up as much of the mess as I can, the door swings open and the sound of Wren and Kennedy’s voices filter into our apartment. It feels like they’ve been living on campus for the last few days, and we haven’t hung out properly since the hockey game.
“It looks like a crime scene in here,” Kennedy says, standing at a safe distance in the living room, far away from the mess, as she peels off her layers of clothing.
“Don’t say anything mean or I’m going to cry,” I say, and my bottom lip juts out on instinct. I can’t even look at the pistachio paste without wanting to hurl.
“What’s going on?” Wren asks softly, sitting at the breakfast bar.
I sniffle, wiping my nose with my sleeve, which just gets more flour on my face.
“As you guys can tell, I’ve decided to face the list head-on.
I’m trying to make pistachio cannoli. It’s my nonna’s recipe, but none of it make sense.
” I lift up the paper, waving it at Wren.
“Like, what is a dash of love? I can’t add a dash of love in there. ”
Wren smiles. “Maybe it’s her way of telling you to calm down.”
“Yeah, you’re turning red,” Kennedy adds. “Ooh! Maybe you’ll get on the front page of a newspaper if you burn down the building. That’d be another thing crossed off the list.”
“That’s not helping!”
Kennedy makes her way toward me, gingerly reaching out to me so she doesn’t get covered in whatever I have on me. “Okay, I’m sorry. How about you go in the shower and freshen up. We’ll clean the kitchen, and we can start again from scratch.”
I sigh. “You guys—”
“We can’t help, we know. We’re just going to . . . guide you.”
I can tell they mean well. And they’re right. I do need to calm down. I can never get any work done when I’m like this and this isn’t any different.
“Okay, fine,” I say eventually. “Thank you, guys.”
“No problem. Just go relax,” Wren says, and I nod.
I strip my clothes off the second I get into the bathroom and run a bath.
I’ve been trying to take everything one day at a time, but there are days like today when everything catches up to me. When I realize I don’t exactly have tons of time to fuck around with this list.
I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in my life. To prove to myself and to my parents that I’ve changed. That I deserve this.
As per the list, I’ve also been working on a few designs for the winter line too, but none of them are nearly good enough for what my parents will expect of me. Trying to fit in time to sketch amid my already busy schedule isn’t exactly easy, and the more stress I’m under the worse my designs are.
I’ve got things in place for number three on the list too. A charity gala being held in Denver this weekend will be the perfect opportunity to present a speech and tick that one off.
Only problem? I haven’t written a speech since my valedictorian speech in high school, which Wren practically wrote for me.
And because I can’t ask her for help, I’ve been through ten drafts already and I hate all of them.
Writing something lighthearted but also serious isn’t one of my strengths.
I have no problem with talking in front of crowds, but stripping away my academic and professional tone is something I’m still working on.
I need the practice and I know I can do it.
Eventually. Maybe my parents are on to something with that one.
When the bath finishes running, I slip inside, covering myself with soapsuds and relaxing into the water. I trace my thumb over the Leo symbol on my arm, simultaneously proud and disappointed in my fifteen-year-old self for the random array of tattoos across my body.
Between working on the list and finalizing phase one of my class project, I’ve hardly had time to sleep this week, so I’m not surprised when I doze off for a couple minutes.
After I’ve slipped into my favorite pair of pajamas and brushed my hair, I feel more like myself, and the smell coming from the kitchen tells me that they might’ve gotten started on dinner already. It’s only when I step out of the bathroom that I realize it’s just oil and pastry that I can smell.
The kitchen is immaculate when I walk in, and eight perfectly piped pistachio cannoli sit on the kitchen counter. My jaw drops and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m surprised or if I’m salivating.
“Okay, so we got a little carried away,” Wren says, grimacing as I inch closer to them.
“The recipe was actually pretty easy once Wren deciphered your nonna’s handwriting, and my Italian lit class from high school came in clutch,” Kennedy says, and my mouth opens impossibly wider. “You can take a picture and say you made them. Job done!”
I open and close my mouth multiple times before I eventually manage, “Y-you guys, this is amazing, but I can’t use them and say I did it. That’s not how this thing works. I should’ve been able to do it on my own. It’s my nonna’s recipe.”
I run my hands through the ends of my hair and make my way to the living room, where I sink into the couch. Wren comes to my side immediately. “Hey, it’s okay that you didn’t get it on the first try.”
“But you guys did,” I whisper. “I’ve been trying all day, and I didn’t get it. Maybe my parents were right. Maybe I’m not ready.”
Wren shakes her head firmly. “We might not know everything that’s going on, but you’re the most capable person I know. You’ll be able to figure it out on your own.”
As much as I wish their words were true, maybe I need more time. Maybe my parents were right in waiting until they were sure I was ready instead of just handing it to me because I ambushed them.
Kennedy comes to my other side and squeezes my hand. “This is just a setback. I’m sure you’ll be able to do everything else on the list with no problem.”
“Maybe,” I mumble.
Kennedy drops her head back against the couch, tilting her cheek slightly to face me. “And, hey, Wren’s right. You never tell us anything about your family, and you’re like . . . part of the mafia.”
Wren snorts and I turn back to our very dramatic friend with a blank look. “I’m not part of the mafia, Ken.”
She lifts her shoulder like she’s weighing her options. As if this is even something to debate. “All the secret meetings, the very little information we know about them, this secret list we can’t look at . . . It sounds like you are.”
“We’re not—” I huff out a growling sound, furiously tucking away my hair behind my ears. Kennedy smiles even harder, and I frown. “For the last time, we are not part of the mafia, Ken.” She hums, but I can tell she’s still not convinced.
I lean forward to grab my phone from the coffee table. “Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, dropping it onto the ground as if it’s burned me. “I’m late. Jesus fucking Christ, I’m late.”
“For what?”
“I had a study session planned with Evan this evening to work on our project,” I say, grabbing my school bag from where I abandoned it after class this morning, shoving whatever I can inside and slinging it over my shoulder. “Thanks for the pep talk, but I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t you want to change?” Kennedy calls after me, but I’m already out the door.