Page 16 of The Second Chance Year

And if a tiny part of me feels as wobbly as a perfect batch of crème caramel, well, it’s better than the alternative.

Chapter 9

March

I’m spreading ganache on a chocolate orange layer cake when Xavier comes tearing into the kitchen. “Sadie.” He points a finger at me. “I need you to help the servers in the dining room tonight. We’ve got some VIPs who need extra attention. There’s a server’s shirt hanging in the break room.”

“But”—I drop my spatula in the pot of chocolate—“I’m not a server. I don’t know the specials or the wine selection, or—”

“Oh”—Xavier waves his hand as if he’s shooing away a fly—“you’ll be fine.” And with those words, a version of this exact same conversation slowly comes back to me. I dig deep in my memory to recall what Xavier is going to say next. It dawns on me at the same moment the words come out of his mouth. “Just smile and help top off the water glasses.”

Last time around, I’d slapped my hands down on the prep table, stood up to my full height, and told him that his words were insulting to the servers.“And did you just tell me to smile? Really? Like I’m some sort of ornament?”He’d stormed out of the kitchen before I could say any more, and I went back to making my cakes.

Just like last time, I feel my palms hit the table and mymouth open, ready to tell Xavier exactly where he can shove hissmile. But as the words are forming on my lips, I manage to grab Sadie of the past and yank her back from the edge of the cliff.

Not this time around. This is my second chance, and I’m not going to risk my job over this. “Um, excuse me, Xavier? Can I have a moment?”

Xavier has already moved on to berating the dishwasher for some spots on the water glasses, and I’ve interrupted him in his happy place. He swings back around to me. “What?”

I clear my throat. “I have four cakes to decorate for the lunch event tomorrow. If you need more help in the dining room, I’m wondering if Doug wouldn’t mind.” I gesture to our newest line cook. Doug has only been on the job for about a week, so he’s mostly been training and doing a little light prep work. “It might be good experience for him to spend an evening in the front of the house.”

Xavier looks Doug up and down. “He can do the cakes.”

I can’t help myself, and I blurt out, “Dougwill do the cakes? He’s been here a week. He doesn’t have any training!”

Xavier turns to Doug. “Hey,” he calls across the kitchen. “Doug. Can you finish making these cakes?”

“Uh—” Doug’s voice cracks and he looks wildly around the room, probably for someone to save him. “Uh—Yes? I mean…” He clears his throat. “Yes. Of course.”

“There you go,” Xavier says, and then he spins on his heel and leaves the kitchen.

As soon as the door swings shut, Kasumi comes running over. “Oh my God. I can’t believe that just happened.”

“Right?” I say, pulling off my apron and slapping it on thetable in front of me. “I mean, he told me tosmile? What the hell? And I can’t wait to see this shirt I’m supposed to wear.” I stop muttering and look up to find Kasumi giving me the side-eye. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re not actually going to let Doug make your cakes so you can go work the front of the house—are you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I don’t know.” Kasumi lifts a shoulder. “Maybe? I mean…” She trails off, giving me a sly smile. “Youarethe one who unionized our entire class to get the school to pay us for our internship hours.”

I laugh at the memory. It was a culinary school requirement for students to gain experience in the school’s restaurant, and it never sat right that we were required to work for free in order to earn our degrees. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without your amazing social media campaign.”

Kasumi and I met in culinary school a decade ago. We were partnered up during the first week of pastry class and immediately bonded over our assignment to make a lemon cake with yellow buttercream flowers. Kasumi had grown up poring over the beautiful photography inFood & WineandBon Appétit, and I’d secretly dreamed of designing celebrity wedding cakes. Together, we baked batches upon batches of lemon sponge, trying half a dozen different recipes until we’d settled on just the right blend of citrus and sweet. And then we spent another two days perfecting our rosettes until we felt our work was worthy of a spread in an upscale food magazine. Our instructor, an older man who’d been teaching at the school for decades longer than we’d been alive, called our work “adequate” and gave us a B-minus.

We were crushed.

And then Kasumi posted a photo of our creation on Instagram, and it got over ten thousand likes. When a local socialite reached out and asked us to make the cakes for her daughter’s quinceañera, it was the first time I realized that maybe my parents were wrong. Maybe I reallywasgood enough.

Kasumi and I sent the Instagram link with all the comments raving about our work to our professor, and he agreed to bump our grade up to an A-minus. Emboldened by our success, we decided to tackle the unpaid labor issue. I organized the students, and Kasumi ran a social media blitz. I’m proud to say that the students at the Northeastern Culinary Institute are now paid for their internship hours, and that Kasumi and I have been inseparable ever since.

Which is why it’s so unsettling that’s she’s looking sideways at me like she doesn’t quite know who I am. “You never put up with Xavier talking to you—oranyone—like that before.”

I shrug and focus on rolling my apron in a ball, so I don’t have to meet her eyes. “I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do.”

“Well, usually you tell him off or something. But—” She stares at the industrial-grade oven behind me, shaking her head.

“Butwhat?” I’m defensive because I know she’s right. It goes against every instinct I have to stay quiet about this. But every time I’m tempted to open my mouth and tell Xavier where to shove his unreasonable demands, theGolden Girlstheme song plays in my head. I don’t want to go back there. Ican’tgo back there.

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