From the Desk of Zoe Washington: Chapters 1–10

And then there was Ari’s Cakes, with its pretty, pale-blue awning and a wooden sign above it with the store’s name written in white script.

While I kicked off my sneakers in our foyer, I flipped through the envelopes, checking to see if my great-aunt’s birthday card arrived.

I glanced at the return address and froze. “Massachusetts State Penitentiary” was typed on the upper left corner, across from a waving American flag stamp. The name Marcus Johnson was written in that same blue handwriting above the prison’s name.

I trudged behind Mom to the living room, where Dad was talking with Trevor’s mom, Patricia.

We were in the same grade and had been neighbors practically our whole lives.

"Eww!" I’d grimaced.

“What are you talking about?” I tried to keep my face even and make my voice sound casual.

He could be locked up for the rest of his life, but there was a chance he could get out early after serving twenty-five years. It was called “parole.”

In my desk drawer, there was a box of stationery that my grandmother had given me for my eleventh birthday. I didn’t usually send letters to people, so I’d never used it before.

Ruby was on the cover wearing a white chef’s coat and hat, with her blond hair in her signature side braid.

She had the biggest smile, and held up a plate with three fruit tarts on it.

The strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries looked so fresh, the vibrant colors popped off the page.

She’d gotten flustered while baking, so her pie crust design looked messy.

“That’s the show where that one kid made a brownie look like a hamburger, right?” Dad asked. He didn’t usually watch the show with us.
“Right!” The episodes where the contestants had to make “dessert impostors”—desserts that looked like savory foods—were always my favorites.

“That’s the show where that one kid made a brownie look like a hamburger, right?” Dad asked. He didn’t usually watch the show with us.
“Right!” The episodes where the contestants had to make “dessert impostors”—desserts that looked like savory foods—were always my favorites.

“But what do you think about doing an internship at a bakery this summer?”

“Listen to me. Marcus is not a good man. He lies and manipulates people. And he’s a convicted murderer. I don’t want him in your life. You have to understand.”

As we were getting out, an older white lady walked by and stared at us a little too long, her face twisting into a confused and judgmental glare. I knew exactly what that look meant.

It was less hectic than the front, but not by much.

There were fewer people back there, but they were all bustling around, getting work done.

Ariana went into a closet and pulled out another pale-blue apron that matched hers, with the Ari’s Cakes logo embroidered on it.

I could stare at the Liz and Corey assembly line for hours. It was so mesmerizing to see plain cupcakes become beautifully decorated within seconds.

I’d just mixed the batter that we’d dip the Oreos in, and now I was putting some confectioner's sugar into a shaker. We’d shake the powdered sugar on top of the fried Oreos at the end, and eat them while they were still warm and gooey, with mugs of cold milk.

It took me a while, but I eventually got my bachelor’s degree from a college that mails the coursework to inmates at my prison. I decided to study sociology—why people are the way they are.

I really want to go to the CIA. No, not the government ClA. (People always ask me that.) The Culinary Institute of America. My dream is to become a pastry chef and make desserts all day long.