Page 1 of The Baking Games

CHAPTER 1

SAVANNAH

I hate mornings. I have always hated mornings with the passion of a thousand suns. I remember when I was in school, I would set all my clothes out the night before, put on my deodorant before I went to bed, and put the toothpaste on my toothbrush just to give myself ten more minutes of sleep. It wasn’t very hygienic, but it got the job done. I mean, no bugs were flying around me or anything.

The snooze button was my very best friend.

Which is why it doesn’t make sense that, as a thirty-year-old woman with a brain, I am currently standing in the bakery section of my local grocery store, staring at a clock that says 4 AM. Certainly, I am having a bad dream.

But, no. This is, in fact, my life these days. While I would love to be snuggled up in my soft blanket inside my tiny bedroom in the apartment I share with my younger sister, I am instead standing in the cold, stark grocery store that hasn’t been updated since God was a child, wearing a black apron and no-slip shoes that aren’t going to win any fashion shows.

Why is my life like this? Trust me, it’s a question I ask myself hourly, if not minute-by-minute. How I got to this place is baffling, especially for someone who had much bigger dreams for herself.

Like most kids, I assumed I’d grow up to be a ballerina or a famous singer. Sadly, I have no balance and can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Taylor Swift needn’t worry. I won’t be taking her job.

As I got older, I developed a love for baking. It was something I’d done with my grandmother as a kid, and I realized I could actually do it for a job. I would go to some illustrious culinary school, graduate top of my class, and open my own bakery, which I would then franchise around the world and be interviewed by Oprah while we ate cupcakes and exchanged cell phone numbers. My delicious desserts would be featured in her “favorite things” list, and I’d watch my bank account balance soar afterward.

But here I am at the grocery store. Oprah isn’t here, and I do not know her number. She’s probably asleep in her cushy bed, which is where I’d like to be. Well, in my bed, not Oprah’s. I’m sure she’s wrapped up in a plush blanket that actually was on her “favorite things” list while I’m standing here feeling the overly zealous air conditioning beating down on my pasty white arms.

So, where did things go wrong? I guess you could say things went wrong the day I was born. Okay, maybe that’s a bit drastic, but it feels true. I was born to a young mother. When I say young, I mean she was sixteen. I loved my mother, but she always had problems. I didn’t know her any other way.

I didn’t know the kind of mother who makes you lunch and kisses your forehead before you get on the school bus. I didn’t know the kind of mother who cuddles with you on the sofa and watches a movie while you share a big bowl of popcorn.

I knew the kind of mother who passed out on the sofa for an entire day after a particularly bad bender the night before. I knew the kind of mother who regularly got arrested for writing bad checks and then missed your first elementary school talent show. I twirled the baton, by the way. Not well, but I twirled it nonetheless.

Addiction and mental health issues plagued my mother every day of her life. It was hard to be a kid with a whirlwind of dysfunction swirling around me every day. My grandmother had been my only saving grace, but when she died on my ninth birthday, I was left with my mother again. Alone.

Until she found out she was pregnant. My dad was never in the picture at all. I know his name was Axel, but that’s about it. I’ve never really wanted to know more. I’m fine living in the mystery. I guess I know that any man who was interested in my mother wasn’t there to build a family. He was there to take advantage of a broken woman.

My sister, Sadie, was born just a few days after I turned ten. I adored her. She was my baby, as far as I was concerned. Her dad stuck around for about six months, but then he went to jail, and that was the last we heard of him. As awful as it was, Sadie and I shared that in common. No dads. But we had each other, and I was determined to make sure Sadie had a normal life, even with our mother regularly getting drunk and embarrassing us at our school functions or forgetting to pick us up from school at all.

My mother had her moments when she tried to get clean, but those demons never let her out of their clutches. Watching someone you so desperately wanted to love… and were supposed to love… fight shadows you couldn’t see was painful.

After I graduated from high school, I applied to pastry chef school. I got accepted but couldn’t afford the tuition. Mom sure couldn’t help me. She hopped from one job to another when she was working at all. During high school, I had to work two jobs just so we didn’t lose our crappy little apartment.

I decided to put away the dream of pastry chef school and got into the working world. I spent years saving every penny I could just to get the chance to go to school one day. Unfortunately, my savings ended up going to pay for a funeral when I was twenty-two years old. Our mother’s heart just gave out.

That left Sadie and me alone—truly alone. I got guardianship of her, and we tried to start over together. Sadie was just twelve, but I felt like I could salvage her childhood. There was still a chance.

So, I worked two jobs—one at her school cafeteria and one at a diner at night. Our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Copeland, watched Sadie at night until I got home after one in the morning. By watch, I mean she’d fall asleep on our sofa and then go home when I arrived.

When Sadie had parent-teacher conferences, I went. When she had school plays, I was in the first row. I was the shoulder she cried on when she had breakups with boyfriends. I was determined to be everything to her that my mother never was to me.

Once she graduated from high school, I quit both jobs and got this job at the grocery store bakery department. It doesn’t pay great, but at least I get to have my hands in icing and buttercream all day. Sure, there’s no creativity, really. After all, this is a big grocery store chain, so they have their own rules.

Everything comes in bags of premade mixes. I follow the pictures of the cakes like paint by numbers. I don’t get to make up my own recipes. It’s restrictive, and I hate the hours, but it fills my soul drop by drop.

Three years ago, I could finally go to pastry chef school since Sadie was old enough to be home alone. After saving and getting a small financial hardship grant, I went to a night school about an hour away. Being with others who wanted to work in this field was wonderful. Well, mostly. Some of the students were downright horrible people, but I guess you will find that to be the case in every school.

Even though I got my certificate, I couldn’t find a job locally and needed to be there for Sadie. So, I took this job at the grocery store. Sadie says I need to think bigger, to get out of our crappy little suburb and hit the big city. She believes in me way more than I believe in myself.

“Stop daydreaming, Savannah!”

My boss, who we call Big Thelma, stands behind me with her hands on her hips. Just to be clear, she asked us to call her that. She likes it for some unknown reason. It fits her. Big Thelma is taller than most men, and her shoulders are so broad that she regularly bangs them against the doorway leading to the small office where she sits most of the day.

“Sorry,” I say, knowing that arguing with her is pointless. Her voice is booming, and I can’t form enough words at four in the morning.

“After you finish the doughnuts, you need to make the retirement cake for Dan Shoals and then the birthday cake for that little girl. The one with the unicorns.”