Andy’s head tilts. He studies Cricket for a long moment.
Cricket has returned to work, and it reminds me to return to mine. I begin mashing sweet potatoes. The repetition is actually soothing. As much as I hate losing a day off, I love my father’s business. He stumbled into it accidentally when he baked a classic cherry pie with a lattice top for a dinner party, and everyone freaked out. They’d never tasted a homemade piecrust before.
Someone there asked him to make one for another party, and then someone at that party asked him to make several for another. It was a business in the blink of an eye. Nathan jokingly called it City Pie Guy, and the name stuck. The logo is a retrolooking man with a mustache and a gingham apron, winking and holding out a steaming pie.
As the drop-off hour approaches, we talk less and less. By the time the last pies are out of the oven and into their boxes, Andy is on edge again. We’re all sweating. My dad races outside to open the car doors, and I grab two boxes and run out behind him. We’ve just tucked the pies safely inside when the front door opens.
Andy gasps.
I look up to find Cricket holding six boxes . . . in each hand. And flying down the stairs. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” Andy whispers. I grip his arm in horror, but Cricket bounds easily onto our driveway.
“Ready for these?” he asks.
The pies are still perfectly stacked.
Andy pauses for a moment. And then he bursts into laughter. “Into the car.”
“What?” Cricket asks me as my dad walks away.
“Maybe carry a few less the next time you take a jog down our stairs?”
“Oh.” He grins.
“You’d be an excellent circus juggler.”
He gestures to his legs. “Wouldn’t even have to rent the stilts.”
I notice the opening for a question I’ve had, but I hesitate. “I hope this isn’t rude—”
“Then it definitely is.”
But he’s teasing, so I continue. “Exactly how tall are you?”
“Ah, the height question.” Cricket rubs his hands together. There’s a mathematical equation written there today. “Six four.” He grins again. “Not including hair.”
I laugh.
“And being thin makes me look even taller.”
“And your tight pants,” I add.
Cricket makes a startled choking noise.
OH DEAR GOD. WHY WOULD I SAY THAT?
Andy reappears, slaps him on the back, and then we throw ourselves into the welcome distraction of loading the remainder of the pies. I climb into the backseat to keep them steady. Cricket follows in behind me, and even though he doesn’t have to be here, it feels natural that he should come along for the delivery. Our neighborhood’s traffic is predictably sluggish, but Andy speeds the rest of the way to Russian Hill, past views of Alcatraz and cable cars, and into the area of some of the city’s most expensive real estate.
We find parking at the bottom of the famous part of Lombard Street, the steep hill with switchback curves nicknamed “The Crookedest Street in America.” The narrow, zigzag road is paved with red bricks and bursting with vibrant flowers. We grab the pies—I’m amazed when Andy stacks most of them on Cricket’s arms, trusting him—and run to make the delivery two blocks away.
“You’re ten minutes late, Pie Guy.” A harsh woman with slicked-back hair opens the door for us. “Put them in there. Wipe your feet,” she adds to Cricket as he crosses the threshold, blinded by his pies.
He backs up, wipes them, and moves forward.
“Dirt,” she says. “Again.”
I look at her rug. Cricket isn’t tracking in dirt. He repeats the process one more time, and then we set down the boxes beside an array of crystal decanters in her dining room. She’s glaring at Cricket and me as if she doesn’t like what she sees. That teenagers had anything to do with her party. We stand in uneasy silence as she writes Andy a check. He folds it once and places it in his back pocket.
“Thank you.” He glances in our direction before continuing. “And never call me again. Your business isn’t welcome.”
And then he walks away.
The woman is stunned with indignation. Cricket’s eyebrows pop to his forehead, and I’m barely keeping my laughter under control as we file past her and out the door.
“Hag,” Andy adds, when we join him. “You busted your asses for her.”
Cricket examines himself. “I should have covered my gang tattoos.”
“I wouldn’t let you in my house,” Andy says.
I hug my stomach from laughing so hard.
“Speaking of appearances.” Cricket turns to me. “I’d almost forgotten what you look like.”
The laughter stops dead in my mouth. There wasn’t time for anything fun when Andy woke me up this morning, so I threw on a pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt. It’s one of Max’s. I’m not wearing makeup, and my hair is hanging loosely. I didn’t think I’d see anyone but my parents today.
“Oh.” I cross my arms. “Uh, yeah. This is me.”