A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy (7 page)

Cole looks a little tense as he takes his seat behind me. I know he's thinking about last night. I came home from my
half date
with Jeff and ended up eating most of Bree's oatmeal raisin cookies. I told her all about Jeff's sketchy phone call, all the while wanting to blurt out everything that Cole and I saw in the student kitchens. I promised Cole that we would forget about it, so I went to bed instead. I woke up about three times last night due to a very confused and very lost cricket in my room.

"Look who decided to show," Bree mutters. I look over my shoulder and see Jeff enter the classroom. He avoids looking in my direction.
Jerk.
Bree seems to be more offended than me that Jeff bailed on our date before it even got started. Maybe
she
should go out with him.

"Cut him some slack," I whisper. "Maybe there really was an emergency or something."

"Like what?" She shakes her head. "His roommate lost his key?"

"Listen up," Professor Sellers announces. "I have an important announcement to make." I focus my attention on the one teacher at CPA that I'm having a hard time liking. Not only did I sicken him with my lame attempt at pie making and nearly burn down his kitchen, but I called him Mr. Sellers once on accident because that's how we address all the other teachers. He reminded me that the proper way to address him was either
Professor
or
Chef
.

"This ought to be good," I whisper to Bree.

"Mr. Dixon wants me to inform you all of a little contest we are having this year."

"
Mr. Dixon
," I murmur. "Surely that's not the appropriate way to address the school's president."

Bree giggles.

"Perhaps you would like to make the announcement, Poppy." The professor looks right at me. I shake my head. "So sorry to interrupt your little conversation."

"No biggie," I snidely reply. He narrows his eyes and glares at me for a few seconds. He's trying to intimidate me, but it isn't going to work.

"As I was saying," he continues. "The school is putting on a contest, and all students are encouraged to enter. Entries will be made after the Christmas holiday."

"What kind of entries?" Georgina asks.

"Desserts." He smiles. "The best dessert will win, and that student will receive a position interning with the one and only
Jean Pierre
." The class breaks out in whispers. "Yes, that's right. The winning student will receive a coveted internship with one of the world's top pastry chefs in Paris."

"Paris?" I whisper. "I have always wanted to go there."

"What are the requirements for each entry?" Georgina asks. She's looking calm and collected compared to the students around her.

"One entry per student," Professor Sellers answers. "And you can submit anything that can be served as a dessert. No savory entries, please. The judges are looking for originality more than anything else. The recipe must be of your own creation. No team entries."

"Excellent," I hear Georgina say.

"What are you going to make?" I whisper to Bree. She shrugs and stares off into space.

Hardly anyone is paying attention when Professor Sellers starts explaining the differences between galettes and tarts. I find myself starting to daydream about Paris too. The cobblestone streets. The fresh farmers' markets. The authentic French food and an excuse to eat carbs three times a day. I have to win that contest. It will prove to everyone and to myself that I
do
belong here, and I
am
a good chef.

Not to mention winning would be the perfect payback for Georgina.

"Red velvet," Bree mutters.

"Huh?"

"I think maybe I'll do a red velvet layered cake," she says.

"Well, you are the best cake maker here." I am happy for her, but I am also jealous, because I know she will be a top contender. I glance over at Georgina who is taking notes. I am sure she already has her entry perfectly planned out in her head.

And the judges' phone numbers on speed dial.

I doodle on my notepad and feel like it has only been minutes when Professor Sellers concludes his lecture and leaves us to do our assignment for the day. We've been tasked with making a simple fruit tart with ingredients of our choice, but this time we have to calculate our own nutrition facts.

"Remember," Professor Sellers says as he passes my desk. "There is such a thing as too sweet."

I nod and accept his advice even though inside I'm cursing at him.

"Sounds like my last boyfriend," Bree jokes.

"So red velvet, huh?" I turn to her and close my notebook. "Isn't that a southern thing? It will have to be
really
good to win."

"I have an old school recipe with beet juice and everything," she comments. "I only break it out for special occasions, because it's
amazing
."

"Wow."

"What about you?" she asks. "What are you going to submit?"

I've been wondering the same thing myself. My mind is moving at a million miles a minute trying to decide. I want to perfect something that takes a lot of skill. If I do that, the judges will know that I mean business. I am not just an average woman about to turn thirty who thinks that Betty Crocker counts as being made from scratch because you have to mix it.

"What do you think of a napoleon?"

"Whoa." Her eyes go wide. "Aren't those kind of tricky to make?"

"But they're good."

"There's a ton of ways to mess it up," she goes on. "First there's the consistency of the cream, and then there's the puff pastry that can go soggy on you. Not to mention you have to make the design on top look artistic and professional, and—"

"Okay," I interrupt. "I get it. It's risky, and I've never made one before."

"You better get practicing."

I was afraid she might say that.

"I'm going to have my serving platter handmade and flown in from New York City," I hear Georgina say. She is talking to one of her friends as she cuts kiwis. She's purposely talking loud enough for the entire classroom to hear. Georgina lifts her chin and continues to talk about how she has this secret family recipe that has won all kinds of awards in the past. She thinks she's the winner already.

"I don't care who wins," Bree mutters under her breath. "As long as someone beats
her
."

I laugh and get to work on my tart. I start by mixing my crust, but I stop when the strong scent of cologne fills my nose. I sniff my strawberries again to make sure I'm not going crazy. A hand touches my shoulder, and makes my chest start pounding.

"Hey, Poppy," Jeff says.

"Oh, hey." I carry on with my tart like nothing is wrong.

"About last night," he begins. "I really am sorry about how things played out."

"Don't worry about it," I respond.

He grins. He must have thought I would put up a fuss. Scold him, maybe? Instead I do what I usually do when guys act lame. I try to make them jealous.

"I am a man of my word. I'll make it up to you."

"Actually," I respond. "I am not sure I'll have time now with this contest coming up. Cole and I are going to be in here practicing every night and weekend I suspect."

"Oh." Jeff looks surprised. He folds his arms. I look up at him and his ice blue eyes glimmer in the light.

"He's a good tutor." I sigh.

"Cole?" he repeats.

I look back at Cole and wait for him to make eye contact. When he does I wink at him for Jeff to see. Cole stares at me looking confused before shaking his head.

"Maybe after midterms?"

"Sure," he replies. "Midterms."

I nod.

As he grins and walks away, I hear Bree giggle. She glares at me like I'm insane for letting Jeff get off that easy.

"If he's not your type just tell him," she whispers. "Otherwise, make him buy you a nice steak dinner."

"I don't know if I like him like that or not," I admit. "It's complicated."

"Are you sure?" Bree glances back at him with a twinkle in her eye. She tosses her strawberry blonde locks over her shoulder. "He stinks at first impressions, but I hear he drinks as much coffee as you do."

"Hang on." I raise my eyebrows. "Weren't you the one who called him a jerk earlier?"

"I can't help it. I'm unusually bitter when it comes to flaky men. He's a jerk for running off like he did, but that doesn't mean you have to turn him away." She glances over her shoulder at Georgina who is forming her tart in her specialized tart pan.

"Oh." I place a hand on my chest and sport a wide grin. "I see what you're doing. You
want
me to lead Jeff on just long enough to drive Georgina crazy."

Bree looks away and gets back to slicing peaches. She chooses a small bowl and begins measuring ingredients to mix her glaze. She arranges her fruit on her cutting board in the shape of her tart. She studies the design before shaking her head and changing it.

"So," she breathes. "It's the least you could do to get her back for what she did to you."

"This contest will take care of that," I say quietly. "Can you imagine the look on her face if
I
won?" Bree pauses for a minute and nods in agreement.

I take a deep breath, realizing that if I want to win I will have to give up all of my free time.

All
of it.

*   *   *

I bite the bullet and stay after my evening class with Miss Chester to begin practicing the art of napoleons. Cole promised his roommate that he would make dinner, so he said he would meet me later if I needed him. I reminded him that I wasn't planning on using an oven, so he had the night off.

Miss Chester cleans up her station as I turn my focus to napoleons. I look at a few pictures of this tasty dessert on my laptop for inspiration. There are so many things I have to figure out.

Do I want to use fruit?

Do I want to use chocolate?

Do I want to make a traditional vanilla napoleon or come up with my own concoction?

"Are you sure you don't want my help?" Miss Chester asks before leaving me by myself. Despite the rumors circulating about me among the staff, Miss Chester's opinion of me hasn't seemed to change. She is a patient middle-aged woman. She's short, petite, and light on her feet. She also whips together most of the recipes in my school booklet by heart. She traveled the world working for a company that organizes chocolate shows. I had no idea that things like that even existed until she shared her story with the class. Miss Chester went from event planning to entering her own confections in competitions, eventually winning a national award for her mint chocolate bonbon.

"Ask me in a week or two," I reply. "I want to try and figure it out on my own first."

"I'm rooting for you, Poppy." She takes off her glasses and picks up her purse. "You don't have as much experience as the other students but you are more creative than most."

"Thanks, Miss Chester."

"Class is over. Call me Mel." She smiles and glances at the pictures of napoleons on my laptop on her way out. "Ballsy choice."

"I am hoping it will show the judges that I belong here."

"As long as
you
believe it." She glances at the time. "Ah, I need to get home to Norman."

"So you
are
married?" I ask, feeling way more comfortable asking her personal questions that any of the other teachers. "Some of us have wondered that since you hardly ever bring up your personal life. On second thought, none of the teachers really do."

"Norman is my cat," she laughs. "And as for the lower level teachers, all you need to know is that Mr. Harris is an old grump with a hot temper, Mr. Sellers has been extra snide since his messy divorce, and
I
spend all my free time writing a baking blog."

"Really? I would never guess that you were a blogger. Do you write as well as you bake?"

"Probably not," she responds. "Oye, that sounds braggy, doesn't it? Yep. I better get going. Norman gets pissy if I'm not home by dinnertime."

She takes her time shutting the door behind her. It creaks slightly as it closes, and instantly I am left alone with my thoughts. I wander through the pantry and grab a few ingredients for my dough. I decide to start with the basics and make a classic napoleon with vanilla custard filling and cocoa dusted on top. I will perfect a pretty design later. Right now, all I care about is taste.

"Light and fluffy," I repeat out loud as I form my dough. "Light and fluffy."

I knead enough dough to make a few different flavors before setting it in the fridge to rest. I will have to leave the dough here overnight. Tomorrow I will know just how light and fluffy I made it. I take a deep breath and begin cleaning up my station.