Maya's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Maya carried the borrowed pan across the square before the sun was fully up. Kumo stayed at her heel. The community cookhouse glowed at the edge of the square, smoke curling from its stone hearth. Two women worked one end of the long table. A man in a stained vest stood at the other end, arms crossed, watching the fire like he owned it. Maya set her bowl and pan at the empty spot in the middle and told herself to breathe. She pulled out her notebook. Brown sugar crust, stewed pears, cardamom. She measured flour into the bowl. "That's too much flour for one crust," the man said. Maya looked up. He hadn't moved from his spot, but his eyes were on her hands. "It's my recipe," she said. "It's still too much flour." He stepped closer. He smelled like woodsmoke and onions. "And you're using cold butter wrong. You cut it, you don't smash it. Who taught you?" "Nobody." "That tracks." Her face went hot. She cut the butter in the way Martha had shown her once, but her hands shook and the pieces came out uneven. He clicked his tongue. She dropped the knife. "Move," said a voice behind her. A boy stepped up to the table beside her. Curly brown hair to his shoulders. A blue hoodie with flour already on one sleeve. He was maybe fifteen. Maya had seen him in the square but never up close. "You're in her light, sir," the boy said, easy and loud. "And her flour. Go bother someone your own size." The man's mouth opened. The boy turned his back on him and picked up Maya's knife. "Cold hands," he said to her. "Run them under the pump for a second. Butter stays firmer that way." Maya went to the pump. When she came back, the man was gone. The boy was scraping her uneven butter into a neat pile. "I'm Ethan," he said. "I bake here most mornings. He does that to everyone new. He doesn't actually cook." "Maya." "What are you making?" "Pear tart. For the festival contest." Ethan nodded like that was a normal thing an eleven-year-old said. He slid the knife back to her handle-first. "Try again. I won't watch." He moved to the far end of the table and started his own dough. Maya cut the butter. Her hands were steadier now. The pieces came out even. She pressed the crust into the fluted pan and set it near the fire. The crust baked golden at the edges. The bottom was pale and soft. Not right yet. But it held its shape, and she could taste what to fix. She wrote in her notebook: hotter fire, longer bake. Then, underneath: ask Ethan about the bottom. She had five days left. She had a first bake she could learn from. And she had one person in the cookhouse who didn't want her to fail.