From the Desk of Zoe Washington(18)

Here’s another song for your playlist. I like all kinds of music, but my favorite has to be R&B. It reminds me of when I was growing up. Look up “Water Runs Dry,” by Boyz II Men. That song brings back some good memories.

Please give your grandmother a big hug for me. And tell her to give you one for me too. :)

Love,

Marcus





Chapter Twelve


I sat on the edge of my bed and clutched Marcus’s letter between my fingers.

He said he was innocent. Just thinking the words made me dizzy. He couldn’t possibly be innocent if he’d been in prison my whole life. Mom would’ve told me if he was. That meant she must’ve been right about Marcus all along. He was a liar.

If he was lying about this, he was probably lying about everything else, and I’d fallen for it. How could I let myself believe a convict I’d never met?

I scanned the letter again to make sure I hadn’t read it wrong. His a’s looked a lot like mine. I hadn’t noticed that before. But the words were the same—Marcus really said he was innocent.

A mix of disappointment and anger shot through me. I crumpled up the letter and threw it in the trash, spinning away from it in my desk chair.

But what if Mom or Dad found it when they took the garbage out? I took the letter out again and stuffed it into the bottom of my backpack instead.

It wasn’t raining when Dad and I left for Ari’s Cakes on Monday morning, but by the time he dropped me off, it was pouring. Sheets of water rolled down the cobblestone streets of Beacon Hill, and the sidewalks were filled with people holding umbrellas.

Dad frowned as he twisted around to check his back seat. “I don’t see an umbrella. I’m sorry. You want to run in?”

“Yeah, okay,” I said. “Bye, Dad.”

“Bye, kiddo.”

I jumped out of the car and sprinted to the shop. It was only a quarter of a block, but by the time I walked inside, my T-shirt had big water drops all over it, and my right sock and sneaker were drenched from accidentally stepping into a big puddle.

I stopped at the bathroom to wring the water out of my sock, and then grabbed my apron from the closet in the kitchen.

“Morning, Zoe.” Ariana waved me over. “Come see what we’re working on.”

I joined her at the metal table in the middle of the room. Vincent, Rosa, Liz, and Corey were also standing around the table, staring at six cupcake pans that looked like they’d just come out of the oven. The cupcakes were similar in color to gingerbread and had a similar spicy smell. None of them were frosted. Each pan had a small strip of blue tape on its edge with different writing in Sharpie. The pan right in front of me said “20 minutes, 1/2c fig,” and the one next to it said “18 minutes, 1c fig.”

“So, Zoe,” Ariana said. “Vincent and I have been working on a new flavor for the shop, using a new ingredient for us—figs. These are fig-spiced cupcakes. If we like how they turned out, we’ll roll them out this fall.”

“Cool!” I imagined what fig-spiced cupcakes might taste like. Tangy and sweet at the same time. “That sounds really yummy.”

“Hopefully they taste yummy, too,” Ariana said. “We baked six batches. We wanted to test out three different baking times to see which one gives us the best cupcake texture. And we also baked different amount of fig pieces into the batches, so we can see which ones taste the best.”

“Did you use a recipe?” I asked.

Vincent scoffed. “The only recipes I use are in here.” He pointed to his head, which was covered with a blue bandanna.

Ariana said, “We modified our spice cake recipe. That’s why we have to taste all of these cupcakes to see if the new flavor works.”

I nodded. I had no idea this was how pastry chefs came up with new flavors, but I liked the sound of it.

Vincent pressed down on a couple of cupcakes with the back of his finger. “I think they’re cool enough now.”

“Great.” Ariana pointed to the first pan. “We baked these for eighteen minutes, and used more fig pieces. Dig in.”

I grabbed a cupcake and took a bite. The cake itself was really good, very moist, but there was maybe too much fig. I looked around the table and everyone looked like they were chewing very seriously.

“Too much fig,” Corey said.

Liz nodded. “And the cake’s a little underbaked.”

Vincent just frowned.

“I agree,” Ariana said. “Let’s try the ones with less fig that we baked for twenty minutes.”

We each grabbed one of those. One bite and I could tell it was way better than the first one. I finished the whole thing.

“It’s very good,” Rosa said. “Right texture. Right amount of fig.”

“I’m diggin’ this one,” Corey said.

Vincent stayed quiet as he chewed, but he nodded like he was impressed with himself.

“I agree,” Ariana said, smiling. “Let’s try the others, to make sure this is our winner.”

While everyone grabbed the next cupcake, I ran to my backpack, which I’d left inside the supply closet with the aprons, to get my bottle of water. When I reached inside the bag, it felt wet from the rain. I dumped everything from my backpack onto the floor. It wasn’t a lot—my wallet, phone, journal, lip balm . . . and Marcus’s letter. It was still a crumpled ball of loose-leaf paper, now with a water stain. I stared at it for a second, and the word “innocent” popped into my head.