I headed back toward the S62 bus stop to take me back to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal but was overwhelmed by the smell of ginger, cinnamon, and sugary goodness at a corner storefront. The store’s windows were papered over and there was a FOR LEASE sign on the door. There was no actual bakery business, but the door was open, and I couldn’t resist going in. The smell demanded it.
Inside, there were probably a dozen long metal tables, each containing gingerbread houses in various stages of preparation. Half-built churches. Castles needing roofs. Little fairy houses needing retaining walls. On the supply table, there were piles of bags of gumdrops, M&M’s, candy canes and peppermint candies, bottles of food coloring, boxes of graham crackers, bowls of icing, and architectural tools my hands ached to use: pliers, paintbrushes, cardboard cutouts. It was heaven. I have no idea what I want to do with my life, but one thing I do know is that I wouldn’t mind dedicating it to the pursuit of competitive gingerbread house–making. (The guidance counselor at my high school has informed me this is not a viable option. Dream killer. I’ll prove him wrong!)
A young woman wearing a white baker’s apron stood over a table of gingerbread cookies, holding a frosting bag with a pointed tip. She saw me and breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thank God! Career Services said they were sending somebody yesterday, but nobody showed up and they swore someone would show up today. You’re the student from Pratt?”
“Yeah,” I said. Sure, why not.
She handed me an apron. “What’s your name?”
I don’t know why, but I said, “Jana.” I paused, and then realized how much better my new false identity could be with one simple change. “With an h,” I added.
“Okay, Jahna-with-an-h,” she said. “I’m Missoula. But everyone calls me Miss.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Miss.” She scanned all the tables. “I don’t know where to start you. I only have this space till tomorrow and I have to get all these orders done by then. I’ve been working here round the clock all week, even sleeping here.” She pointed to a futon at the corner of the room. I never realized gingerbread-house makers had to be such workaholics. I reconsidered it as a career and chose it as a sideline hobby instead of a lifetime pursuit.
“What can I do?” Could I put this experience on my future college applications?
“What’s your major?”
“Food art,” I said. God, Jahna was so cool.
“Fantastic,” said Miss. “Can you do church duty first? That table over there needs its stained-glass windows painted in. I already drew the outlines, you just need to paint in the lines.”
“Yes!” I squealed, and then realized: Jahna would never squeal. “I mean, whatever. Sure.”
“Might be an all-nighter,” said Miss.
“No problem,” I said. Jahna was a starving student and could use the day’s work for her train trip back home to Vermont for the holidays. Jahna was definitely from Vermont. But she might have done a junior year abroad in France, which is why she could be so effortlessly casual and sophisticated when she wasn’t squealing like an idiot tween girl who just went to Disneyland for the first time. (Lily did that, and continues to do it every time she rewatches the video of her first time entering the Magic Kingdom.) Lily didn’t have to worry about staying for the late night Jahna promised, because surely the real Pratt student would show up and relieve Jahna of duty, and they’d all have a laugh about missed communication, and ohmygod, I didn’t realize you signed up for the job. Go ahead, you finish up, I’ll just head home now.
Miss said, “Love your outfit, bee-tee-double-u.” It took me a second to realize she meant “btw.” “Is it vintage?”
I looked down at my school uniform. Fudgsicles. “Tee-why,” said Jahna, for “ty.” “And why-ee-ess yes!”
After that, I discovered Miss was not much of a talker. She was a doer. A frosting-spreading, gumdrop-placing, gingerbread house–making work machine. The most I got out of her was that she was a freelance baker who’d gotten in over her head this year with custom gingerbread house orders. That was fine. I felt very Dash-reading-a-book about the whole experience, enjoying the feeling of aloneness while doing something I loved. An afternoon of decorating gingerbread houses was about as perfect a day as I could imagine.
The real Pratt student still hadn’t shown up by dinnertime, and I was hungry. I excused myself to get more Joe & Pat’s pizza, and considered just skipping out on the rest of the job, because my family was probably starting to wonder where I was. I finished my pizza and bought some extra slices to bring back to Miss. The pizza would help cushion the blow when Jahna announced she had to quit for the night.
Miss was sitting slumped on the floor when I returned, exhausted. I handed her the pizza box. “You’re an angel, Jahna,” she said. “You literally saved me today.” She wolfed down a slice and then said, “Wanna see the back room? That’s where I really need the help. The real moneymakers are back there.”