From the Desk of Zoe Washington(17)

“That’s okay,” I said as I grabbed the rest of the ingredients and organized them in the order I needed to use them. I was old enough to bake by myself, just like I was old enough to write to Marcus. Not that Mom understood that.

“Are you sure? I’d like to help.”

I silently put on my apron.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. I’ll be your . . . what’s it called? Side chef?”

“Sous-chef,” I corrected as I turned the oven to preheat. “But I don’t need your help.” I got out the mixer and some utensils.

“Okay,” Mom said, sounding a little disappointed. She sat at the kitchen table with her coffee.

If Trevor and I were still friends, he could help me bake. He’d probably ask me to sneak some chocolate into the recipe. Actually, white chocolate would taste pretty good with the raspberries. Maybe I should make a white chocolate drizzle to go on top.

No. What’s the point? Trevor isn’t going to eat them. My heart sank a few inches.

I started on the raspberry preserves, rinsing off the berries and dropping them into a small pot on the stove with some water. Once it was simmering, I partially covered the pot and got to work on the crumble.

I cracked an egg into a mixing bowl and then measured two and a half cups of flour.

“Are you still mad at Trevor?” Mom suddenly asked, as if she could tell I was just thinking about him. “You haven’t been hanging out with him.”

I groaned.

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“No.”

“You should.”

I stared at the mixing bowl as the ingredients transformed into a crumbly mixture.

“I know he misses you,” Mom said.

Did he miss me? It seemed like he was doing just fine without me.

“You get it from me, you know,” Mom said. “I have a hard time letting things go, too. But think of it this way. You’re the one holding all this pain inside of you, which hurts you more than it hurts Trevor. If you can forgive him, it might help you let go of the pain. And you’ll get your friend back. It’s a win-win.”

Then Mom added, “That doesn’t mean you have to forget what he did. There’s a difference.”

Why was she lecturing me? “Can you please butt out of it?” I said. “I really don’t need your advice.”

“Okay,” Mom said quietly. She stood up from the table and grabbed her coffee. “I’ll leave you to it.”

As she left, I thought of Marcus. It didn’t seem like Mom had forgiven him—for what he did, for not being there when I was born. That was why she didn’t want me to talk to him. But then again, what he’d done was way worse than what Trevor did to me.

Maybe I’d talk to him.

All of a sudden, I smelled something funny. The preserves! I ran to the stove and pulled the lid off the pot. The raspberries inside were all burned. Either I hadn’t put in enough water or I left the heat on too high.

Great. I turned the stove off and put the pot of burnt raspberries into the sink. There were no more raspberries left, and I didn’t feel like asking Mom to get me more. I took the bowl off the mixer and dumped the insides into the trash. Then I took off my apron and threw it on the floor.

Later that week, Grandma gave me a letter from Marcus. As my parents were leaving for work, she slipped the envelope to me. I went straight to my room to read it.

To my Little Tomato,

I got your last two letters. Actually, I started responding to the first one when the next one arrived.

I remember your grandmother well. She was always nice to me back when your mom and I were dating. Her house was always like a second home to me. Does she still drink a lot of tea? She used to always love her tea.

As to your question about my crime. I promised you that I would answer all of your questions honestly. I can’t give you much from in here, but I can give you my word—I will never lie to you.

I hoped you wouldn’t ask about this, because it opens up a can of worms. There’s no easy way to put this: I didn’t do it. I’m innocent. I have an alibi and there was even a witness, but I’m in here because my lawyer couldn’t prove that I didn’t do it. Even after we appealed my conviction. It’s unfair, but nothing can be done.

I’m sorry that I’m in here instead of out there with you. I’m sorry that you’ve had to deal with a father in prison. If I could go back and somehow fix it, I would.

I want to end this letter on a happier note. You asked what else I like to do. When I was your age, besides basketball, I played a lot of video games. I was also into drawing. I would draw the characters from my favorite games and cartoons. I used to think I was pretty good, but I stopped in high school when basketball started taking up all of my free time.

You know what else? I liked to cook! I used to help my mom all the time with her recipes, which were passed down to her from her mom. Even now, I get to cook some. My job here in prison is working in the kitchen. My favorite part is chopping the vegetables. I get in the zone and it’s pretty relaxing. I never baked much, but it’s great that you love baking. When you get on that show and win, I want a signed copy of your cookbook, okay? I hope one day I get to taste one of your recipes.

As for my family, I do have one sibling—a brother who’s five years older than me. He lives in Atlanta with his wife and two daughters, and my parents moved down there to be closer to them. Unfortunately, my relationship with them isn’t the same now that I’m in prison. I really hope that changes someday.