After we were dismissed, I went to the bathroom to change while Dad went to get the car. I couldn’t get my itchy dobok off quick enough. Dad had been wrong; it hadn’t softened up that much in the laundry.
I shoved my uniform into the bag, slipped on my flip-flops, and headed out the front doors.
And there he was, standing by the curb.
He was spinning a chef’s hat around his finger in the air. The kind of chef’s hat I wanted. The chef’s hat I would have gotten if Mom and Dad didn’t think I was a quitter and had let me sign up for Cakes with Caroline.
Tony gave me a nod. “Hey, Eliza. What’s up?”
“Hi.” I tried to sound casual, even though my heart was pounding in my ears.
“So. Um. What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Taking a class,” I said. I couldn’t stop staring at the spinning chef’s hat. I wanted to do two things at the same time: 1) Ask him if I could try it on; and 2) grab it out of his hand so he’d stop spinning it.
“Cool,” Tony said. “I’m just hanging out. My mom’s running late.”
All kinds of thoughts began bumping around my brain, and every single one was trying to be the first in line: We could give you a ride. I’m sorry. I’m still mad at you. Is the cake class fun? Wait. Don’t tell me. What would you say if you I told you I’m taking taekwondo? Can I try on your chef’s hat? Have you found a new partner to open a bakery with someday?
But none of this is what I said.
“What’s new?”
“Well, I’m going to try out for the basketball team in the fall,” Tony told me.
This was news to me. I wondered if anything else had changed. “What about The Tasty Pastry?” I asked.
Tony looked confused. Then he asked, “What about it?”
“Aren’t we still going to do it?” I tried my best to keep my voice calm, but it sounded squeaky.
Tony shrugged, and then his eyes searched the parking lot. His mom still wasn’t there. “Okay,” he finally said.
Okay what? Okay he heard me? Or okay we were still going to open our own shop someday?
Dad pulled up and honked. I stared at Tony, hoping I’d find a clue about what he meant, but his face was blank as a new notebook.
Dad honked again.
“I gotta go,” I said.
“Right,” Tony said. “See ya.”
As I walked by him, I gave a little wave but kept my eyes at the ground.
“Wasn’t that Tony?” Dad asked when I got into the car. “Does he need a ride?”
“No,” I said.
Tony doesn’t need anything, I thought miserably. Including me. I turned the vent toward my face so the cool air could keep the hot tears in my eyes from spilling. When I did, I bumped a Sticky Note off the dashboard.
“What’s this one for?” I asked Dad, reattaching the note. I was desperate to change the subject.
“Oh. That,” Dad answered. “Gotta get the car in. Brakes are squealing.”
“You’re like the king of Sticky Notes, huh?”
“Do monkeys have tails?” Dad teased.
“I can never remember,” I said, forcing a smile. “Do they?”
This is an old family joke. Mom told me that when I was a toddler, Dad would hold me up in the air and pretend to look for my monkey tail because I liked to climb so much. Sam, who was six then, would laugh his head off. Dad stopped doing it when I got bigger.
Things change.