A dog barked somewhere in the neighborhood. Night had set in fully and I couldn’t see much.
I threw another pebble at the window. “Katy!” I hollered as loud as I dared.
I didn’t know when her shift ended or who else she’d be with. All I knew was she was working that evening and missing the pre-prom party everyone else was going to.
The front of the bakery was dark except for the dimmed security lights outside. There was a faint light at the back where I guessed the kitchen was, and that was where I was aiming my small stones.
I waited a few minutes and tried again.
“Katy! It’s me, Asha.”
Not a flicker of life inside.
I wondered if she’d finished her work and gone to the party already. I walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. Not a peep. After waiting a minute, I jiggled the handle like Ashok had done at the school an hour ago. Just like him, I had no luck.
I looked at the windows. They were similar to mine in Mrs. Rao’s home, close to the ground and large enough for someone small to sneak through. I tried the first window. It didn’t budge. I tried the second window. After some rattling, it slid open an inch.
If Katy or anyone else was inside, they’d get a fright, so I knocked gently on the pane. Not a sound from within. With my heart beating fast, I pushed the window up as silently as possible, parted the curtains, and slipped inside one leg at a time, like how Tim used to enter my basement room.
A flickering fluorescent light hummed above me. I sneezed. The place reeked of cigarette smoke and something sweet.
I waited for my eyes to adjust to the light.
It was a kitchen, but what a kitchen. A vast, industrial-sized kitchen. The counters, the stoves, the double-door fridges, the two oversized ovens, and the massive microwaves were all made of stainless steel. The biggest cake mixers I’d ever seen sat on the counter, calling out to be tried. I stepped toward them and peeked inside. Gross. They still had leftover batter in them.
I looked around. On the shelves lining the walls were rows of see-through plastic containers with all kinds of cake toppings—stars, hearts, balloons, baby shapes, glittery balls, snowflakes, and more. The containers were dusty like no one had touched them for a while. Watermarks and dirty spots made the counter look like it hadn’t been wiped in days if not weeks. I’d been so impressed by the mammoth size of this place I hadn’t noticed the fingerprints and splotches of dried goo everywhere.
I rotated slowly in one spot, careful not to touch anything. If this place got cleaned up, it could be a dream kitchen, I thought. While Mrs. Rao’s kitchen was upscale and luxurious, it didn’t compare to the industrial strength of this place. This was built to bake hundreds and hundreds of cakes and pies and puddings and breads. It made my head spin.
I put down my schoolbag on the cleanest part of the counter, walked over to the cabinets and opened them one by one. Sacks of different kinds of flour were stowed inside—white flour, brown flour, pastry flour, and all sorts of cheap cake mixes. Smaller bags containing brown sugar, cane sugar, white sugar, and icing sugar lay haphazardly, ripped apart, used, and thrown back in a hurry. I could see trails of sugar inside the cabinets.
Containers with baking powder and cocoa powder lined the top shelf in helter-skelter fashion, tossed carelessly in between bottles of vanilla and coloring. Some didn’t have lids and others were past their due date. Shouldn’t these be in the fridge?
I got on a stool to reach the row of cupboards on top of the shelves. They were filled with grungy, used things that belonged in a chemistry lab rather than a kitchen. Crammed in the cabinets were glass beakers, boxes of baking soda, and cast-iron pans that didn’t look like they’d been cleaned well. Right at the back were stacks of something in brown paper bags, which I couldn’t reach. Everything looked dirty, so I closed the cupboard doors and stepped down.
I opened the fridge, trying not to touch the gook on the handles. Other than two sticks of butter and seven eggs, there were bottles of rubbing alcohol, two half-filled bottles of wine, and twenty intact bottles of rum. Someone here was seriously using alcohol for baking.
I twisted off one of the wine toppers, sniffed the contents and nearly gagged. The wine had turned—it was worse than vinegar now. I’d taught myself how to bake with alcohol using Chef Pierre’s recipes and knew it was a myth you can cook with cheap wine. I put the bottle back and closed the fridge gently, shaking my head.
And that was when I saw it—in one corner, standing tall and proud—a white chef's hat. There was a large dab of brown something on it. On closer inspection, I saw it was a smudge of chocolate icing. On the floor nearby was an apron streaked with yellow and brown marks. It had faded lettering that said, “I’ll tell you the recipe, but then I’ll have to kill you.”
I placed the chef’s cap on my head, feeling like I was putting on a crown. I picked up the apron and tied it around my waist. I puffed out my chest, walked over to the main counter, and put my hands on the cold steel. I looked around me, imagining what it must be like to be the chef here. How come Katy never told me about this place?
Still in my chef’s hat and apron, I walked toward the front of the shop. To my left was a washroom with a mini-washer and dryer next to a large sink. To my right was an office with a view to the strip mall outside. I stepped inside and looked around. On the scratched Ikea desk sat a brass nameplate with "Domenico Benedetti Valentini" etched in a flowery print. This must be Dick’s office—Katy’s boss.
Like Mrs. Rao, Dick was a pack rat. Fridge parts and old stove pieces were strewn all over the floor. Brown cardboard boxes covered one wall from the floor to the ceiling. I peeked into a half-opened box at the bottom and saw bottles of cheap Jamaican rum inside. On the box was a sticker that said, “Buy ten, get two free.”
In between these boxes, were crates and crates of cigarettes with the words “USA” stamped on them. This is why the place smells so bad. Dick must be the biggest chain-smoker and rum drinker in the world.
While Mrs. Rao was a neat pack rat, Dick was a cluttered one. Papers littered his desk. On one corner, sat a sad houseplant with droopy yellow leaves, like it had been fed rum instead of water. On the other corner, sat a locked safe, one of those portable ones you can buy at the local drugstore. Coiled around the desk lamp’s base were a dozen rosary necklaces, covered in so much dust it was difficult to know their original colors.
On the shelf behind the desk was more school chemistry paraphernalia, all dusty. There was a blue suede sofa in the corner where some of Dick’s jackets had been thrown carelessly. The armrests were brown with overuse or dirt. I shuddered in disgust. I would never sit on that.
“Hello?” a garbled voice said behind me.
The hair on the back of my neck sprang up. I turned around slowly, expecting to see a stranger, but there was no one in the room. My heart sped up. With legs like jelly, I walked over to the doorway and looked out. Not a soul.
“Helloo?” the croaky voice said again.
I whirled around. Who’s that? Whoever it was had a cold, or something strange stuck in their throat.
“Goddammit!”
I jumped.
“Shoot!”
I felt goose bumps on my arm. The voice was coming from inside the office. With my heart pounding, I looked around and around. I peeked behind the shelves, under the desk, and finally looked up to the ceiling.
There.
Perched high on top of the bookshelf, next to an ivory statue of Jesus, was a multicolored parrot with a tail as long as its body. It was a beautiful bird with feathers of purples, blues, and reds. I would have thought it magnificent if I hadn’t heard it swear like a sailor a second ago.
“It’s you who’s talking,” I said, staring at it in wonder.
“Hello-o-o-o?” replied the parrot, cocking its head to one side. “Get ba-a-a-ck to work!”
This must be Dick’s unofficial watchdog. It had been quietly watching me all along. It dipped its head a few times and opened its beak again.
“Go to hell!”
I blinked. “That’s rude,” I heard myself say.
“How a-a-are you?” it replied, giving me a piercing look.
“I’m... er...” I caught myself in time. I was standing in the middle of an empty bakery, late in the evening, talking to a rude bird, while I was on my way to the airport and out of this country. If this wasn’t crazy, I didn’t know what was. I had to get out. I had to find Katy. Maybe her phone number’s here somewhere. Didn’t she say I could stay with her? She wouldn’t mind me staying over one night, would she? At least until I sort out a ticket to Goa.
With one last glance at the bird, which was now busy scratching its head and studiously ignoring me, I walked out of the room and closed the door. I didn’t want to take a chance on it flying out and following me. The main reception desk was in front. It was as messy as Dick’s office. I spotted an alcove next to the front desk and peeked inside.
This little den was the tidiest place in the entire store. A simple wooden table and chair were tightly wedged into this small space. An old laptop sat in the middle of the table next to a stack of ledger books. I opened one of the books and recognized Katy’s handwriting. So this is where Katy spends her time after school.
It was strange to imagine the red-heeled, miniskirt-wearing, party animal Katy sitting for hours doing bookkeeping. I looked through the papers on her desk and those posted on the wall, searching for her telephone number. She’d given it to me once, but in my rush, I’d left it in my room at Mrs. Rao’s house. All I had on me was a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, a change of underwear, my passport, and my purse filled with a few dollars. And Preeti’s letter.
I plopped onto Katy’s chair, touching the computer mouse as I did so. The computer came alive without asking for a password. I hesitated a few seconds, then opened a web browser and punched in Air India’s website address.
It took a minute to get flight schedules and prices. It was a good thing I was sitting. The cheapest flight from Toronto to Goa, with four stops along the way, was $1,500. That was one thousand, four hundred, and ninety-two dollars and forty-seven cents more than I had in my purse—more than I’d had in my entire life.
I swiveled around in Katy’s chair, desperately trying to think of what to do next. I needed a better plan. I also needed a good story to tell the police if they stopped me at the airport. So many questions gnawed at me. Where am I going to find the money? How am I going to get to Goa? Where am I going to sleep tonight? I sat in Katy’s chair for half an hour collecting my thoughts, too tired to be hungry, too anxious to fall asleep.
Then I made a decision.
I got up and walked back to the kitchen, ignoring the annoyed croaks coming from Dick’s office.
There was one thing I could do. I looked under the sink and pulled out a pair of oversized rubber gloves.