Prologue
Stella Bleu Lawrence
Age Seven
I’m wearing my pretty pink princess apron and chef hat while doing my most favoritest thing in the world–baking chocolate chip cookies with my mama. I inspect the shiny plastic roll of dough, studying the picture of the white fluffy pastry boy on the package before turning it around for her to see. “Mama, look. He’s wearing a puffy hat just like mine. Except mine’s prettier.” Everything is prettier when it’s pink.
My mama sprays the pan we’re using for our cookies. “He sure is, Bleubird. And I think you’re right. Yours is much prettier. Did you know only the best chefs in the world wear hats like yours?”
Wow. This hat makes me one of the best chefs in the world so that means these cookies are going to be the most delicious I’ve ever baked.
“It’s your favorite song,” I squeal when “Amanda” begins to play. Mama says Boston sings that song just for her. I think she could be right since Amanda is her name.
We always listen to music when we’re cooking so I’ve heard this song a million times. I know every word by heart but I don’t understand what it means. Mama says it’s all about grown-up stuff and I’ll understand one day. I’m not sure I ever want to understand. Grown-up stuff makes my mama cry. A lot.
I’m singing my guts out because it always makes her crack up. I love seeing her laugh because it means she isn’t crying. She’s too pretty to cry so much.
She holds the plastic roll of dough to her mouth and pretends it’s a microphone. She sings so pretty. Everything about Mama is pretty. I hope I grow up to be just like her.
The song gets to the part where there are no words, only guitars, so she puts her pretend microphone on the counter and slices into it with a sharp knife. She always does that part because she says I’m still too little to use knives. My job is to roll the dough into little balls. I’m not always great at it, though. Some come out big, some little. But she always tells me I’ve done a great job–even when I know I haven’t.
“Can I have a bite of dough?” She’s making her “no” face. “Please … with lots and lots of sugar on top.”
I can’t remember why she said it’s okay to eat the cookie dough after it comes out of the oven, but not before. “Hailey’s mama lets her have cookie dough.”
“Maybe one little bite will be okay, but we’re not going to make a habit of this, little lady.” She pinches off a tiny ball and I almost jump up and down because I’m so happy. I’ve always wanted to taste it because Hailey says it’s delicious.
I miss cooking with Mama. We used to do it all the time but that was before she started her new job. She works at night so she has to leave me with our neighbor. Amelia’s nice to me but she’s old, smells funny, and never wants to play. All she does is sit in her chair with her feet up and watch that news show where the same stories repeat over and over. It’s sooo boring.
I finish my tiny ball of cookie dough and immediately want more. “Another? Please, with sugar on top.” That worked the first time.
“No, Stella. I said one bite and that’s what I meant so don’t ask again.” I knew she’d say no but it was worth a try.
I line the balls of dough on the pan and she puts them in the preheated oven. “We’ll check them in ten minutes.” She sets the timer on the stove because we don’t want to burn them. We love our cookies gooey. “What do you want to do while we wait?”
I look at the roll of leftover dough in the roll. “Umm … eat cookie dough?” I grin and bat my eyelashes, as if that’s going to get me what I want but she doesn’t budge. I only succeed in making her laugh, which is better than making her mad since I asked again after she told me not to.
I sit at the table in our kitchen, tortured by the smell of baking cookies. “They smell sooo good. How much longer?”
I’m not sure why I asked. I can plainly see the timer counting down. “Five more minutes.”
I huff and blow my hair out of my face and prop my chin on my hands. “I wish they’d hurry up. I’m ready to taste those ooey-gooey cookies.”
“Good things come to those who wait.” She tells me that all the time but I don’t understand why good things can’t come sooner instead of later. I hate waiting. “Do you want milk with your cookies?”
“Yes!” I run to the fridge and swing the smaller side open. I hope we have mugs in the freezer. I love that milky ice that forms in the glass.
The doorbell rings and Max, our ginormous German shepherd, barks as he runs toward the door. I bounce up from the kitchen table to follow him. “I bet it’s Hailey wanting to play.”
Mama puts her hand out and catches me by the back of my shirt. “That’s not Hailey. Her mother wouldn’t let her come over this late.” She goes up on her tiptoes and spies through the peephole. She jerks back and twists to look at me before placing her finger to her lips. “Shh.” She tiptoes to me and takes my hand. She grabs Max by the collar and takes us down the hallway.
She goes to her knees so we’re face to face and holds both of my shoulders when we are in my bedroom. “Listen to me very carefully. We’re going to play a little game. I want you to hide under your bed and be very, very quiet. Stay there until I return and tell you it’s okay to come out. Do you understand, Stella?”
I nod, afraid and confused, but I do as I’m told and crawl under my bed.
“Max, stay,” she commands. I see him obey, his butt sitting on my carpet, but he doesn’t understand that he’s supposed to be quiet. He’s whining the way he does when he wants to disobey. “Don’t come out no matter what you hear,” Mama says.
I watch her feet leave my room and she pulls my bedroom door shut. I lie silently on the floor beneath my bed, waiting for her to return so I can come out. This game is not fun.
The music gets super-duper loud. Loud enough that I’m sure the neighbors will call and complain to Mr. Johnson.
It’s another song I know by Boston. “More Than a Feeling.” The guitar is screaming so I know we’re going to get in trouble with the landlord. Our neighbor, Mr. Benson, likes to turn us in every chance he gets. He doesn’t like us much and I don’t know why.
The carpet is making my cheek itch so I lift my face to scratch it. In the process, I bump the back of my head on the railing of my bed. “Oww.” I put my hand over my head and rub it where it burns.