3 tablespoons x 32 batches = 96 tablespoons
But how many boxes of cocoa was that? I slid the rolly chair across the floor to the computer.
“How many tablespoons are in a box of cocoa powder,” I typed into Google and hit Return.
I crossed my fingers as I read through the results. There it was—fourth from the top. “There are thirty-five tablespoons in one eight-ounce carton of cocoa powder.”
I rolled back across the desk and wrote:
8 oz. box of cocoa = 35 tablespoons
This was like the problem I’d done to figure out how many batches of doughnuts I’d need to make to get 320 doughnuts, only instead of batches I was looking for boxes.
? boxes x 35 tablespoons = 96 tablespoons
? = 96 ÷ 35
? = 2 with 26 left over
Since I couldn’t buy part of a box, I’d have to round up.
Finally, I could fill in a square on the order sheet I’d made. Under Cocoa, I wrote: three boxes.
Done. I’d reached my new and improved (easier) goal. It was definitely break time.
Down in the kitchen, something sweet-and-spicy smelling was cooking on the stove. I was so hungry, I didn’t care enough to ask what it was. I just spooned out a big bowl and ate it standing up.
Then I grabbed my skates and ran out the door without even putting on a jacket or gloves.
When I got on the pond, I didn’t practice hockey stops or skating backward. I just skated as fast as I could. In circles. Without thinking. And it wasn’t boring. It was awesome. And when my legs burned and my ears stung and my fingers were numb and I couldn’t take it anymore, I went back inside.
I actually couldn’t wait to get back to work, maybe because now I had a plan. I’d get the budget done one small goal at a time. As I ran up the stairs, I decided I’d tackle the butter next.
Then I got to the office, and all that good feeling zapped right out of me.
Jeanine was in there. She had the budget in one hand and a red pencil in the other. “I think if you turned the mixed numbers into improper fractions, you’d make fewer mistakes,” she said as she crossed something out.
My face, which had been freezing only a second before, suddenly felt like it was on fire. I ripped the paper out from under her pencil, making a big red slash across it.
“Hey! I’m not done. You know how many mistakes there are in there?” she said.
“I don’t care!”
“You don’t care?”
“I mean…” I was so mad, it was hard to speak. “I wasn’t finished. I haven’t…checked it over yet.”
“Why don’t you just let me do it?”
“Because…” I started, but then nothing else came out. I couldn’t think of what I wanted to say or how to say it in a way that wouldn’t make me feel even worse.
I grabbed the back of the rolly chair with both hands and tipped it forward till it dumped Jeanine off. Then I started pushing her out into the hall.
“Ow! You’re hurting me,” she said, shoving me back.
“Then get out!”
The next second, Mom was at the door, breathing like she’d run up the stairs. “What’s going on here?”
“You need to tell Jeanine to get her own life. Maybe she could start by leaving the house for once.”
“I was just trying to help. You need help. Look at all these mistakes.” Jeanine grabbed the budget and shook it in my mother’s face.
“I told you I wasn’t done!”
Mom stepped between us, took the budget from Jeanine, and handed it back to me. “That’s enough. Jeanine, go downstairs.”
“But—”
“Now!”
Jeanine made a face and stormed out.
I crumpled the budget into a ball and threw it after her.
Mom looked at the ball of paper, then back at me. “Don’t you need that?”
“You heard her. It’s all wrong.”
“She didn’t say it was all wrong.” She picked up the paper and smoothed it out on the desk. “Here, get back to work, and I’ll send Zoe up with some snickerdoodles in a bit.”
“I don’t feel like working on it anymore.” I dropped into the chair and looked at all the crossed-out numbers. “Maybe I should just let her do it.”
Mom frowned. “Is that what you want?”
Part of me did. The part that just wanted it done. And done by someone who wouldn’t make mistakes. But then, there was the other part of me that didn’t. And not just because Winnie told me I couldn’t trust family or even because it would feel like cheating. It was more than that.
“Everything’s so easy for her.”
“Everything?” Mom looked at me hard.
I shrugged. That’s what it felt like. I didn’t care if it were true.
Mom put her hands on my shoulders and squeezed. “I got you something. I was going to wait till you got the whole recipe, but I don’t know, now seems like the right time.” She left the room and came back a few minutes later with a cardboard box that she put down in front of me on the desk.
I picked up a pair of scissors, sliced open the box, and looked inside. Whatever was in there was covered in so much Bubble Wrap, I couldn’t even guess what it was.
“So?” she said as I uncovered the final layer.
“What is it?” I didn’t have the first clue what the thing in my hands was. It looked like something you’d use to give a giant a flu shot.
“It’s for the doughnuts. To stuff them. It’s a pastry gun. See, you fill it with cream here.” She unscrewed the back. “Then you shoot the cream out the tip. It’ll be way easier to use than those bags.” Mom uses special bags with metal tips for filling stuff like cream puffs, but they have to be twisted and squeezed in just the right way.
I picked up the gun, squeezed the plunger, and imagined a stream of chocolate cream flying out of it.
“So cool, right?” she said, her eyes all
