Page 2 of The Baking Games

“Yes, I know,” I say, a little edge to my voice. Big Thelma seems to think I can’t read. She tells me everything I need to do even though I have an exhaustive list right beside me. I get the job done. I’m a good worker, although she never recognizes that. After all these years of working together, she still treats me like I just got hired.

I’m pretty used to working hard and not getting any praise for it. Honestly, it feels more comfortable that way. I don’t know what to do if someone compliments me.

“Did you make the scones?” Big Thelma asks, interrupting my daydreaming again.

“Not yet,” I say, wanting to let out a groan but worrying that Big Thelma will take one of her giant hands and smoosh me into the ground.

“Get on it, girl!” she says, her voice reverberating around the empty grocery store. Big Thelma does very little work besides ordering me around. Most of the time, she sits in the little rolling chair in the office and plays games on her phone. But she’s worked here for almost twenty years, and since everyone is scared of her, she gets away with murder. I’m convinced she could set the whole place on fire, and the manager would give her Employee of the Month.

After I finish the doughnuts, I decide to make the scones before moving on to the first cake of the day. We still have three hours before the store opens, and the cakes aren’t picked up until ten, so I have plenty of time.

Big Thelma enters the office and shuts the door, a sure sign she will take a cat nap in that poor little chair. I keep waiting for it to crack and crumble to pieces, throwing her onto the hard, industrial tile floor, but no such luck yet. I imagine one of the screws holding it together, flying out, ricocheting off the wall, and poking her eye out, and it makes me smile. I might be delirious from the exhaustion that is my life.

I take the chance to look at my phone, which I have tucked in the back pocket of my horrible-looking black work pants. By the time I get home, they will be covered in all manner of things. My dog sniffs me down like I’m carrying a kilo of cocaine every time I come home.

As usual, there’s a text from Sadie, who always wakes up early for her job, too. She doesn’t have to be at the diner until six, but she simply must look good, she says. Sadie is gorgeous, with thick, curly brown hair and the biggest green eyes you’ve ever seen. I think she needs to be a model, but she poo-poos the idea every time I bring it up.

She wants to go to college, but we can’t afford it. Yet. I’ve got to come up with a way. She’s been out of high school for two years now, and working at a diner isn’t going to get her anywhere. Sadie is smart, although she didn’t have the grades to get a scholarship. She didn’t test well.

I never expected to have so much weight on my shoulders at this age. I thought I’d be married, have a kid or two, work a good job, and enjoy my life after such a hard upbringing. Instead, I became a mother to my sister, and I can barely rub two nickels together. Okay, now I’m getting depressed.

But I don’t get depressed. I’m what one calls a perpetual optimist. It often drives other people crazy, but I’m hard to rattle. I’ve had so much handed to me in my life that, at some point, I just decided to put a smile on my face and get on with it. Even when I don’t feel like smiling, I smile. No matter what my internal voice is saying, my outward appearance is that of an overly positive person. I guess I’m a good actress, too.

Pastry chef school was hard. Working all day and then going to school at night, all while making sure Sadie had what she needed, just about did me in. But I still smiled. I might’ve cried in my bathroom at night while the water was running, but I didn’t let anyone see that.

There was one guy in my classes who hated me. Hated that I was happy all the time. Said it wasn’t possible to never feel down or sad or tired. The more he picked on me, the happier I appeared. I wouldn’t let that jerk make me feel bad about myself.

I’ve learned in my life that if I let myself give in to the sadness, I may never climb out. And I don’t have time to wallow. I don’t have time to let the shadows of sadness fester within me. I have Sadie counting on me. If it wasn’t for her, I may never get out of bed again. Sometimes, the ones smiling are the saddest ones of all.

But I digress.

I look back at my phone and read Sadie’s message.

Have a good day at work, sis! I appreciate all you do for me!

Sadie is the reason I do what I do. I want to see her cross that stage as a college graduate someday. That’s what I remind myself of all day as I plod through this life I’m living. After all, not everyone gets to live their dreams. Some of us have to live in reality.

I leave work just after lunchtime, go grocery shopping, and head home. While it seems like a luxurious life to get home before three o’clock, I assure you it’s not.

I run my own side business, making cookies, cakes, and other delectables for clients. Well, occasional clients. If I can ever go viral on TikTok or Instagram, maybe I can hit it big. For now, I’m making a birthday cake for a little girl in our apartment building and a batch of cookies for some lady’s baby shower. But isn’t that how empires start? I’m choosing to believe that.

I walk into our tiny, fairly crappy apartment, my arms filled with grocery bags. I’ve learned the art of shopping on a small budget. Coupons, watching the sales, and using store discount cards. These are all important for people who don’t have a lot of money.

We mostly buy things like eggs, bread, some meat, and frozen veggies. There is very little eating out around here. Sadie brings home leftovers from the diner when she can. And I sometimes sneak a few pastries home from the store, but just the ones that didn’t come out right. Big Thelma won’t let us sell those anyway, so why should they go to waste? Plus, I’ve seen her filling her giant handbag with them plenty of times.

“Let me help you with that,” Sadie says as I push the front door open with my foot. She grabs two of the bags. I refuse to make two trips up to our third-floor apartment. “One day, you’re going to fall backward down those stairs trying to carry all this stuff. Why didn’t you call me to come down?”

I follow her into our tiny galley kitchen and put the bags on the counter, letting out a huge breath. “I didn’t know you were already home. How was work?”

“A grind, as usual,” she says, starting to put the cold stuff away. “Gary fired Mario, so now our best cook is gone. Julia is cooking, and we both know she can’t even boil an egg. So, we got complaints all day about overcooked hamburgers and undercooked fries. My tips were so bad!”

“Why did Mario get fired? He’s been there for a long time, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, why was he let go?”

She looks at me, stifling a smile. “He might have taken Celia on a date.”

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