The Sweetest Thing Read Online Free PDF

telling me to write, in my best curly script, You suck, Dad!
    34

    In black, of course.
    I pick up the sleeve and squeeze the icing to the top.
    Nanny’s still bopping around the kitchen like a spaz.
    “Why are you so excited?” I say, frustrated. “There’s no way I’m leaving my customers. Who am I gonna make cakes for in New York City? I’m not going.” I bend over as a delicate trail of black sweetness emerges from the bag.
    “Oh now, stop it.” She’s at the fridge again. “All that business will work itself out. I’m just goin’ to enjoy the moment. It’s a dream come true for your daddy.”
    “Dream?” I put the bag down. “What? To leave St. Mary and get all rich and famous? Great for him. What about the rest of us?”
    “Oh Sheridan, good lord, don’t get your drawers in a wad. I don’t know about the rich and famous stuff. But I understand . He wants something bigger for himself. And for you. He’s had a truckload of hurt here. Maybe he’s finally ready to let go and move on.”
    That’s it. She’s talking crazy now. “Are you kidding? He let go of Mom a long time ago. Just ask al his girlfriends.”
    Nanny laughs again. I am offended.
    “Please don’t laugh at me.”
    Suddenly, she’s at my side, her arm around my shoulder.
    “I ain’t laughin’ at you. And just because someone goes and gets himself a girlfriend don’t mean he’s moved on. That whole mess with your mother near killed him.”
    “Whatever.”
    35

    She walks to the sink with a colander full of green beans, starts snapping off the ends. “You know, most kids would be over-the-moon thrilled about their parent gettin’ a TV
    show.”
    “Well, I am not. Just because everyone thinks I should be all excited doesn’t mean that I am.”
    I put down the black and pick up the red. The colors of blood and death. Perfect. I squeeze the red now, follow the line that the icing is making beneath me, but my mind is somewhere far away.
    “Well, we’re going to talk him out of it,” I say. “People here depend on him. He has a restaurant, you, me. He has responsibilities here.”
    Nanny watches me, snaps a few beans. “Oh, we’re going to talk him out of it, are we? You think that’s the right thing to do?”
    My stomach flips. “Why not? What about me? What about my cakes? If he really cares about what I want, he’ll stay. What about you? You need us here.”
    She keeps on snapping. “Oh please, listen to that giant pity party you’re throwin’ yourself. Maybe he just wants you to see that the world is a little bigger than St. Mary.”
    “That’s not true, and you know it.” I stand back to survey my work. Very boring. “If I move to New York, I won’t see the world at all; I’ll be locked away in some tiny apartment, alone, making cakes for nobody. No trees. Gangs.
    Rats. Drug dealers right outside the door. You think that’s 36

    what I need?”
    Nanny sighs deeply. “Do me a favor and turn down the drama just a tad. And don’t make up your mind about this just yet.”
    My face is only inches from the cake as I add shadow details to the letters I’ve piped. Not my best work, that’s for certain.
    I think of the cake that I made for Libby Carman’s fifth birthday a few weeks ago. An entire barnyard complete with cows, pigs, horses, dogs, ducks—all sculpted from modeling chocolate. Now that was a masterpiece. Where in the world would St. Mary go for cakes if I lived in New York City?
    I straighten up, put down the red buttercream. This cake is so dull. As an afterthought, I add black and red polka dots to it, because, let’s face it, I don’t do boring.
    “Voilà,” I say, with little enthusiasm. I lift the cake at an angle for Nanny to see.
    “Good luck.” She reads it in her flattest drawl, and frowns. “Yes, well, that’s certainly heartfelt, isn’t it?”
    “Totally.” I push the thing to the center of the island and start cleaning up.
    Once everything is put away, I walk to the sink,